#and keeps trying to find ways to escape the repeating day and then to change things

[ingravinoveritas]

"If you had to live one day of your life over and over again, which day would you choose?" / "I mean, probably the day I got married. It was pretty cool."

Except in the rest of his answer, David doesn't specifically mention Georgia. He admits it's an obvious/safe answer of his, and talks about the day itself and being surrounded by friends, but never actually says what should be the most obvious thing of all: How wonderful it was to be marrying the woman he loved, to start their life together, or anything like that. The comment about friends also hits a bit differently when you realize that they went on their "honeymoon" with Jennie Fava and Christian Brassington (a honeymoon that was actually a couples' trip that David left early so he could return to work). As always with David, it's all the things he doesn't say that speak loudest, instead of what he does...

[woso-dreamzzz]

Blood Sugar III

Alessia Russo x Teen!Reader

Summary: You join Alessia's team

You were kind of lucky really.

You knew you shouldn't have been worried.

Everyone had told you not to worry but you'd still had your doubts.

You and Alessia fought like sisters so you would have accepted if she didn't want you in her space all the time. But here you were, freshly moved into Alessia's spare room and in her car on the way to training.

Brighton had been the club you'd played for since you were a kid. You loved Brighton. Your family loved Brighton but if there was one thing they knew about you, it was your competitiveness.

You had ambition. You wanted to win trophies. Maybe, one day, you'd go back but right now you were still young and you wanted trophies and medals and awards.

So, now, your release clause had been bought out by Arsenal and Alessia's hands reached over the console of her car and slapped at you.

"Stop trying to change the station."

"This station is boring," You bemoan," Can't we listen to something else?"

"My car, my rules," Alessia replies, slapping at your hands again to get you to stop," Maybe, if you actually bothered to go and get your license..."

You roll your eyes, arms crossed over your chest. "Lessons are expensive!"

"I'm not even charging you rent."

"That's not the point!"

Alessia laughs as she pulls into her parking spot, car still locked so you can't escape her.

"Now," She says and you fight the eye roll," You already know some of the girls from camp so there's no need to be nervous. Everyone else is just as nice. Just remember to-"

"Smile," You say," And speak politely and...Are you going to make me repeat the whole thing? You already told me at breakfast."

Alessia swats at you and you hear the click of the doors unlocking. "And you'll remember to check your sugar levels when you need to? We don't need you being on a first name basis with the medical staff just yet."

"Yeah, yeah. I got it. Cheese will check for me."

At the sound of his name, your spaniel stands up in the backseat, his ears perked up and tail wagging.

"He's a good boy. He'll keep an eye on me."

His wide eyes seem to convince her that he'll do his job and do it well so she picks your bag up from the footwell and practically throws it at you.

Introductions go smoothly enough. There's a lot of cameras and a lot of handshaking and Alessia hovers even though you really don't need her to.

"Not letting her out of your sight?" Lotte teases at lunch as Alessia ignores her food.

You're stood in line with your plate, squished between Kim and Lia and Alessia is just staring.

"Just making sure today goes well," She says to Lotte, leaning back in her chair to make sure her eyes are on you at all times," She's eating at a slightly different time to usual. I just want to make sure there's no hiccups."

"And you don't want her to have more of an excuse to say you hover? Because, you know that's what you're doing? Doing it from a distance means you're still doing it."

"She doesn't know that."

That shocks a laugh out of Lotte and she goes back to eating.

Alessia doesn't. She waits to eat until you've joined them at the table.

"What's up with you?" You ask, mouth full of food when you notice her staring.

"Huh?"

"You're staring."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not."

You shrug. "Okay, whatever but if the wind changes, your face will be stuck in that weird position."

Alessia pokes you with her fork. "Eat your food. And check your sugar levels."

"Yeah, yeah, let me finish first."

But in the end, you never really check your sugar levels.

You get drawn away by Kyra and Vic and their antics and Alessia finds herself in a conversation with Lotte about their plans later on in the week.

You're all relaxing in the break room together. Lotte and Alessia occupy one of the sofas while you, Kyra and Vic are all hooked up on one of the game consoles.

"Cheese, man," You groan as your dog nudges you more firmly with his nose," Stop it. I'm serious! Leave!"

Cheese nudges you again but you push him away. He tries one last time but you don't even look at him, too occupied with hitting the buttons on your controller to defeat Vic's character on the screen.

He whines a little, stomping his front paws a few times before going to stand in front of Alessia.

She doesn't notice him at first, too engrossed with the story Lotte is telling. Cheese gets impatient quickly, whining loudly and slamming his nose against her leg.

Alessia still doesn't look at him but her hand moves to gently scratch at his head.

Cheese doesn't let up though, roughly pushing his nose against Alessia until she looks down.

"What's up with you, huh?"

Cheese whines and very pointedly turns and sits, staring straight at you.

Alessia frowns but only for a moment as her brain finally catches up to what she's being told.

"Y/n!" She hollers over the noise of the game," Test your blood, please."

"Yeah, yeah," You say dismissively," In a minute."

"No, now. Cheese is alerting so you need to do it now."

"But-"

"No. We're trusting your dog, remember? So let's check your sugar levels."

You groan but go shuffling over to Alessia. You prick your finger and your face glows red in embarrassment as you read the screen.

"So...do we have any juice?"

Cheese drops a Capri-sun into your lap, tail wagging happily.

"Let's take it slow, yeah?" Alessia says as she draws you closer with an arm on your shoulder," Drink your juice and once you're stable again, we'll head home."

[heich0e]

"can i call you later?"

the wind bites at your cheeks, but the sting you feel is as much from the smile on your face as it is from the chill.

"dunno," you muse, pursing your lips as though you're contemplating the question deeply. "can you?"

rintarou groans, but the sound isn't half as plaintive as it ought to be. you watch as his head hangs down defeatedly where his frame is folded over the railing that lines the front of the train station, his body pitched forward over the barrier like he's trying to reach you on the other side.

you've been saying goodbye for the past twenty minutes—or, you've been trying to. sort of. maybe. the train you'd planned to catch has already come and gone, and the next is set to soon arrive. one more and it will be the last of the night, but not even knowing that fact seems to be moving you closer towards the door to the station—content to stay here, like this, as the wind of the late fall night nips at your cheeks and the two of you muddle through your goodbye with the inelegance of two people who couldn't be less committed to it if they tried.

rintarou lifts his head to meet your gaze.

"i mean it, though." he says. "can i call you tonight?"

your stomach flips when he looks at you this way. when he keeps looking at you this way.

"we just spent hours together," you remind him, but your words are too breathy to make impact. too elated to be reproachful.

you've been on three dates with rintarou now. you think they're dates anyway, though it's never explicitly been stated. his invitations are always casual, sandwiched in between all the other texts he sends to you these days, so you might be reading into things too closely for your own good. but dinner doesn't just feel like dinner when rintarou has this way of looking at you like you're the only person he's ever laid his eyes on.

"i know," he answers. it's not an explanation, or an excuse, or even an apology. it's plain acceptance. a shamelessness you find wretchedly endearing.

you glance back at the station behind you, biting the inside of your cheek to temper your delight.

"my train is coming," you say.

he looks a bit crestfallen. laughably glum, considering the circumstances.

you drag the heel of your shoe back ever so slightly, not quite a step—at least not in any meaningful way—but inching in the direction of the doors at a glacial pace. continental drift seems positively hasty in comparison to your retreat.

"bye," he calls, his tone dejected. you watch as he lifts his hand weakly, still slumped over the railing, and waves at you with only a few fingers raised.

you want to laugh, but your chest is so full of something else—something syrupy and fluttering and good—that it's like there's no space for it underneath your ribs.

you call back to him just before you step into the station.

"rintarou—"

there are other people around, stepping between and around you both—rushing into the station to escape the cold, or moving briskly as they brace themselves and step out into it—but you hardly notice them when your eyes meet.

you smile.

"—call me later."

he calls you almost every night after that.

even as the cool autumn winds change with the seasons; carrying flakes of snow as winter blankets nagano, warming with the spring, turning heavy with humidity in summer, and then repeating the cycle anew.

even as your reluctant goodbyes turn from late nights outside of train stations to early morning words whispered under blankets as rintarou leaves for practice or away games.

even as the uncertainty of whether or not you're getting your hopes up—of whether those meetings were even really dates at all—melts away into nothing more than a memory.

you're not even sure what the two of you manage to spend so much time talking about on the phone. nothing, really. everything in its own right. rintarou's phone calls are something you come to look forward to at the end of a long day. something you anticipate when you have exciting news to share. a comfort when you're missing him and a relief when you need him most.

"is that the last one?" you ask, turning just in time to see your boyfriend—your live-in boyfriend now, officially—flop back on the sofa after he drops the last moving box atop the stack piled near the balcony door.

"yeah," he wheezes, evidently winded from the exertion—from the exhaustion—of moving house. you laugh a bit to yourself as you shuffle over to the sofa, leaning over the back so you can peer down at him where he lays sprawled against the cushions.

"aren't you a professional athlete?" you tease him. "shouldn't you have better stamina?"

rintarou cocks a brow, something sly swimming behind his gaze.

"i need better stamina?" he drawls. "you're usually complaining about the opposite."

you roll your eyes in the wake of his remark, grabbing a throw pillow from beneath his head and yanking it from under him unceremoniously, only to press it lightly against his face.

you shuffle back towards the kitchen where you'd left the box you were unpacking abandoned. you grab a plate from inside the cardboard and turn to place it on the shelf you'd decided would house your dinnerware.

"it's late," you tell him, reaching for the next plate in the box. "you should go wash up first."

you don't get a reply, and that surprises you. you creep over to the sofa again, only to find rintarou staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"hey," you laugh a little, leaning on your elbows against the back of the couch. "where'd you go?"

rintarou's gaze snaps back to yours. he still looks at you like he did on your first date. like he did outside the train station on your third. he smiles, bit it's a bit sheepish.

"sorry, was just thinking," he answers quietly. he reaches up from where he's lying on his back, brushing his thumb against your cheek. his smile turns a little bit giddy, then. boyishly charming. "can't believe we finally got a place together."

you lean into his touch, huffing a little breath through your nose—halfway to a laugh.

"guess you won't have to call me anymore," you joke, and rintarou's expression changes—falls slightly—but only for a moment. you realize what you've said, or at least think about the implications more, and you sort of understand the shift.

you fell in love through those phone calls.

you'll miss them—the ritual, the familiarity, the comfort—even though you know they've been replaced by something better.

you turn your face, pressing a fleeting kiss to rintarou's palm. "go wash up," you tell him again, heading back towards the kitchen and your (now twice abandoned) box of plates.

he seems to heed your advice this time, peeling himself up off the sofa and shuffling off in the direction of the washroom.

"don't use all the hot water!" you call after his retreating frame, and you hear him reply noncommittally under his breath before the door clicks closed behind him.

you've only got three dishes left to unpack before your box is emptied, but the shelf you'd been organizing doesn't seem to want to accommodate all of your bowls in the way you wanted, so you're left arranging and rearranging them as you try to find a way to get them to fit.

in the back pocket of your jeans, your phone begins to ring. with three plates balanced in one hand, you reach for it with the other—the movement muscle memory now, instinct more than volition, after all this time. you answer the call without even looking at the screen, holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you continue juggling the dishes in front of you.

"oop—hello?"

you pause after you answer the call, realizing for the first time that you shouldn't be getting a call at all. not at this time of night. not in this apartment.

the line is quiet, just the sound of breathing that you could recognize anywhere to be heard from the other end of the call.

"why are you calling me?" you ask rintarou, but the words are light. too fond to be reproachful.

you hear rintarou laugh—from the other end of the call and from the other side of the bathroom door.

"just wanted to hear your voice," he answers you (the same way he has a thousand nights before when you've asked him that same question.)

"you're ridiculous," you tell him, completely enamoured.

"i know," he replies.

it's quiet for a moment as the two of you stand on opposite sides of your apartment. on opposite ends of your call.

you shift a stack of bowls a little to the left. it all fits now. just the way you wanted it to.

"y'know, the hot water won't run out as fast if we shower together—"

you hear the bathroom door open, and when you look over your shoulder, rintarou is peeking at you from around the edge of the door—his phone held to his ear, a smile on his face you know is mirrored on your own, and a look in his eye that's never once wavered.

he tilts his head.

"—wanna join me?"

[enhani-ki]

PART-TIMERS!NI-KI X READER ʚɞ

warnings: very suggestive content, pervert reader, etc.

read part two here!

the first day working at the convenience store were terrifying. you were new, fumbling with the register, unsure of where anything was, and feeling incredibly out of place. you almost quit, but then you met him.

ni-ki.

he was leaning casually against the counter, effortlessly looking cool as he was stocking a shelf nearby. his hoodie hung loosely over his frame and the sleeves pushed up enough to reveal his forearms. you barely managed to stutter out a greeting when he turned his attention to you, his lips turning into a slight smile.

"need help with something?" he asked with his low and smooth voice.

that simple question changed everything.

over the weeks, you found yourself looking forward to every shift with him. you discovered he'd been working there for a while. long enough to know the ins and outs of the store. ni-ki moved with confidence, joked with customers, and somehow made hard tasks look effortlessly easy. and at first, you tried to keep your distance, but soon you were already looking for excuses just to talk to him.

you're holding a snack with unfamiliar Japanese writing, you approached ni-ki hesitantly. "um, ni-ki? how do you read this?"

he looked at you with a spark of amusement in his eyes as he took the package from your hands. "this? it says karē pan. curry bread."

"oh." you nodded, pretending to be deeply interested. in reality, you barely even registered his words because you were too distracted by the way his fingers brushed against yours when he handed the snack back.

"you like Japanese snacks?" he asked, leaning against the counter.

you nodded again, lies coming easily. "yeah, and i've been meaning to try more of them."

ni-ki chuckled softly.

from that day on, he started asking you to take your breaks with him. you would sit together in the cramped room, sharing quiet conversations and occasional snacks.

and at night lying in bed, your thoughts were completely consumed by him. ni-ki's face, his voice, the way his shirt clung when he removed his hoodie, revealing glimpses of his skin.

your hand drifted beneath the covers, your breath catching as you imagined how his body would feel under your hands, picturing him pinning you against the shelves in the room, his hoodie forgotten on the floor as his lips brushed against your neck...

you gasped, back arching as your fantasies left you trembling, ni-ki's name escaping your lips like a prayer, filling the quiet of your room.

you became obsessed.

and when it was over, you buried your face in your pillow, feeling both shame and the relentless ache of wanting him.

the next day at work, you did your best to act normal. you greeted him as usual and forced a casual smile as if you weren't touching yourself last night because of him.

every move ni-ki made immediately caught your attention. you bit your lip, gripping the edge of the counter for support.

"are you okay?" ni-ki's voice startled you.

you looked up to find him staring, one brow raised in curiosity. his hoodie hung over his shoulder, exposing his collarbone. your heartbeat quickened.

"yeah, i'm good." you muttered, hoping he wouldn't notice the heat rising to your cheeks.

ni-ki patted your head. "don't work too hard, okay?"

you managed a weak nod and offered a small smile. inside, you were silently begging for mercy... from him and the overwhelming desire threatening to consume you whole.

later, ni-ki noticed you examining a snack tag. he wiped his hands on his apron and walked closer. "that..." he tilted his head, squinting. "'umeboshi.' it's pickled plum."

"pickled plum?" you repeated, pretending to be curious again, though your eyes were fixed on the faint line of his jaw and the way his lips moved when he spoke.

"yeah. it's sour. you've never tried it?"

you shook your head no.

"you should." he said, flashing you a small smile. "but don't blame me if you didn't liked it."

during your break, you joined him in the small room. ni-ki was already there, leaning back in his chair with his one leg propped up. hoodie clinging loosely to his frame again but the hem were lifted slightly, revealing a bit of his waist. you tried to look away, but he's so close it's impossible.

ni-ki moved, pulling his hoodie over his head and the motion raised his shirt further, exposing more of his abs making your fingers twitch with urge. you quickly turned to your drink, biting your lip hard.

"you're quiet today." he said, glancing at you.

you chuckled nervously. "am I?"

"you should rest more." he nodded, running a hand through his messy hair. "i can make you relax." ni-ki smirked.

"oh?" you laughed, nervously gripping your cup tightly. "and how?"

your thoughts were anything but calm. anything niki says to you seemed to hold a double meaning.

ni-ki raised an eyebrow at your awkwardness. "what's with you today?" he teased.

"nothing! so... what is it?"

he chuckled softly but studied you for a moment longer than usual. ni-ki shook his head, taking it back. "nah, i think it's too early to mess with you."

you wanted him to say it.

you squinted your eyes in annoyance. "what are you even saying?" you asked while shaking your head.

ni-ki laughed again at your reaction.

that night, the two of you walked home together, and when you stopped to say goodbye, ni-ki bent slightly to meet your eyes. "you better stop staring at me all the time, or i'll assume something's up with you."

"i-i wasn't sta- staring at you!" you stuttered, cheeks flushing bright red.

ni-ki turned and walked away, chuckling softly. "yeah, you weren't."

you closed the door and hurried to your room, you hugged the pillow and covered your face to let out a muffled scream.

and just as you thought you had survived the day, you received a text.

nishimura riki: let me know if you need help with anything… you know, with anything.

your heart pounded and before you could reply, another message popped up.

nishimura riki: or if you want to talk. or… whatever.

the ellipsis felt deliberate, your mind wandering into dangerous territory as you clenched your phone tightly, trying to make sense of his texts, literally torn between panic and excitement.

you: what does that even mean?

you hit send before you could overthink it. ni-ki's reply came quickly.

nishimura riki: whatever you want it to mean.

you took a deep breath as you stared at the screen. teasing is one thing, but this felt different. more intentional.

nishimura riki: see you tomorrow. sleep well.

and then, another message followed:

nishimura riki: "don't think too hard about it

but of course, that's all you could do. think too hard about it.

read part two HERE<3

マスターリストm.list

[morose-melodies]

what ever happened to (y/n)? | reader x yandere! capitano

summary: you ran off into the woods and were never the same.

contact warning: reader has a breakdown??? I'm not sure

you were once lively. you were affection - and you were the sweetest woman the captain knew and for that very reason, he loved you.

you were so many loveable things but now, you were a shell of your former self. you were always sulking, always so silent and the captain grieved the loss of who you once were.

he still loved you but he missed you dearly.

things just haven't been the same since you ran off into the woods that one night.

it wasn't as if you had ill intent, the captain knew you, surely you were going out to enjoy yourself for the evening but perhaps you got lost and couldn't find your way back.

whatever happened during those two days alone in the woods had changed you.

the captain would forever hate himself for not finding you sooner; for not saving you in time. if only he had gone with you, perhaps things would have turned out differently.

"(y/n)," there was a knock on your door, a gentle one, so as to not startle you. you wouldn't reply, or tell him to come in but you've been so jumpy as of recently, that it only felt right to knock.

after a moment, he opened the door and stepped inside. you slept comfortably in the middle of your large bed, accompanied by many fluffy pillows to keep you comfortable.

sleeping was the only time you seemed at peace.

the captain would give anything for you to be at peace again, anything.

slowly, the captain stepped forward and sat at the edge of your bed, watching as you rested.

and everything the quiet.

and it was peaceful. the captain wondered what you dreamt of. the beast? him? of your old life?

not that any of it mattered, no, not when you arose abruptly, screaming, throwing yourself off of the bed, trying to escape, as if he were some beast.

the captain stood, "(y/n)," the captain called out, "it's me, I'm no beast," he tried to talk sense into but you seemed out of him, blinded by your terror.

you ran to the door without hesitation, screaming for help as you ran through the dark halls and down the stairs. the captain remained where he stood - he did not want to make matters worse.

oh (y/n), the captain grieved, he missed you dearly.

there was no one to help you, no, all the staff had gone home for the weekend but you were unaware of that.

"please! help me!" you wailed, stumbling down the staircase and to the front door, grabbing the door knob you were met with resistance, "help! there's a monster! it's here, it's here! it'll-"

the captain slowly stepped down the staircase and watched as your face contorted into a look of absolute horror, the screams that came from you pierced his ears.

perhaps if he had done things differently, this wouldn't have happened. perhaps if he had done things differently, you wouldn't have felt the need to run off into the woods.

oh (y/n).

"(y/n)," he repeated once more, remaining at the bottom of the staircase, refusing to step closer, refusing to make matters worse, "you're safe."

you slumped down against the door, cowering. you tried to guard yourself, protect yourself from what was soon to happen. surely the beast would eat you this time.

"please. please don't-"

"I'm not going to hurt. I would not do that to you," the captain tried to assure you but he doubted his words held any weight.

"please... please... don't."

"do you not recognize me, (y/n)? I'm no beast, I am capitano."

that caught your attention. lifting your head, you looked at him, acknowledged you, and saw him. it was capitano, no beast.

slowly, with trembling legs, you stood and and approached the captain, collapsing in his arms and the captain held you.

he missed you.

he missed this.

and he wanted you back.

you, who you once were.

[meadowfics]

keep your eyes on me

berlin (song jung-ho) x f!reader

based off of this request here

warnings: threats, mentions of injury, jealousy

you've never been the jealous type, or at least that's what you tell yourself.

however, there's something about the way tokyo looks at berlin, something about the way they exchange glances in silence, the way they seem to understand each other without words even in their arguments and fury.

it's been poking at you since the heist began. it's probably nothing. berlin has been yours for years now, since the moment he crossed into south korea, bloody and half-dead, desperate for escape.

tokyo has a thing with rio anyways. however, you've stood by berlin through everything, watched him rise again, rebuild himself into something terrifyingly magnificent. y

ou've seen every inch of him, every flaw, every secret...so why does tokyo make you feel like you're missing something?

maybe it's the stress. maybe it's just the paranoia that comes with a job this big. every time you see them lock angry eyes across the mint’s floor, your stomach knots up, and your hands clench into fists.

so, you decide to do something about it.

it starts small.

you stop standing at berlin's side, opting to linger near denver instead. denver, who is easy to get along with, who doesn't have the same unreadable expressions and complicated histories as berlin. denver, who laughs with that ridiculous hyena-like cackle, who doesn't take everything so damn seriously.

he flirts easily, and you let him. even though the both of you know damn well that you guys do not like each other. denver has a thing with that beautiful hostage, and you support it.

however, denver seems to notice that you're using him and he wants to piss off berlin too as revenge.

you let yourself laugh a little louder with denver. you touch his arm when you talk, lean into him when you're standing close. it’s harmless...at first.

then you start choosing denver’s side over berlin’s.

when a small argument breaks out over how to handle a hostage trying to make a run for it, berlin says to use fear. denver says to use charm. you agree with denver.

you make a point of siding with him, nodding along as he grins. berlin’s face barely changes, but you know him. you know the tension in his jaw, the slight twitch in his fingers.

so you push further.

when denver struggles to move a heavy stack of cash pallets, you rush to help, grinning as you brace against the weight with him. berlin watches from the other side of the mint, his arms crossed over his chest.

he doesn’t say anything, but you feel the weight of his stare, burning into you like a brand.

it’s working. god, it feels good.

you don’t speak to berlin unless necessary. if he gives you an order, you act like you don’t hear him the first time. you only respond when he repeats himself, your tone clipped and indifferent.

he isn’t used to this. he’s used to controlling you, to knowing where you stand, to having you in his orbit. he doesn’t like this new distance.

by the second day, berlin has had enough.

the professor is gone, caught up in his careful dance with the inspector. the others are preoccupied. the moment he finds you alone in the office, berlin shuts the door behind him and locks it.

the sound of the bolt sliding into place echoes in the small space, and before you can react, he’s in front of you, his hand wrapping around your neck...not tight, not enough to hurt, but enough to command your full attention.

“i know what you’re fucking doing.”

jung-ho's voice is low, controlled. the man's thumb brushes against your pulse point, and you know he can feel how fast your heart is racing.

still, you tilt your chin up, keeping your expression blank.

“what are you talking about?”

berlin lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“don’t play dumb, barcelona. i know you too well.” jung-ho's grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make his point.

“you think i don’t see the way you’ve been throwing yourself at denver? the way you go out of your way to undermine me?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you repeat, voice steady, even though your whole body is tense.

“don’t you?” he leans in, lips brushing against your ear.

“you’re trying to make me jealous. trying to piss me off.”

you scoff, trying to ignore the way your skin burns under his touch.

“get over yourself, berlin.”

berlin hums, considering you. then, his other hand trails down your side, slow and deliberate, his fingers pressing into your waist.

“you want to know how i know?” he asks, almost lazily, “ it is because i threatened denver today.”

your breath catches.

he smiles, slow and sharp, like he can taste your reaction,

“told him if he didn’t stop entertaining your little games, i’d make sure he regrets it. and the hostages? well, let’s just say they almost suffered for your little stunt.”

your stomach twists. you know berlin. you know he’s capable of anything. your anger flares, hot and sharp.

“you’re sick.”

“and you’re reckless,” he counters, “playing with fire just to get a rise out of me? you should know better more than anyone else here.”

you glare at him, hands pressing against his chest, shoving him back just enough to breathe.

“maybe if you weren’t so fucking close to tokyo and arguing with her all of the time, i wouldn’t have to.”

berlin blinks, then exhales through his nose, amused.

“so that’s what this is about.” he tilts his head, eyes searching yours, “you’re jealous.”

“i’m not—”

“yes, you are.” berlin's fingers trace patterns along your collarbone.

“you think i want her?” he leans in again, lips just barely brushing against your jaw, “when i have you?”

your breath stutters. you hate how easily he does this to you, how effortlessly he dismantles your defenses.

“tokyo means nothing to me,” he continues, voice softening, but not losing its edge, “she’s a soldier. a piece in the game. but you?” his thumb presses against your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“you are mine.”

you hate how much you love hearing it.

berlin watches you carefully, reading every flicker of emotion across your face.

“say it,” he murmurs, “say you’re mine.”

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you should fight it. you should push him away, walk out that door, keep playing your game.

you don’t.

“i’m yours.”

berlin’s lips curl into a victorious smile, “good girl.”

then, he kisses you...hard, claiming, punishing. you meet him with equal intensity, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. berlin's grip on your neck eases, sliding down to your back, pressing you flush against him.

the heat between you is undeniable, electric, all-consuming.

when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips, his hands finally leave your body.

“no more games, barcelona.”

you nod, but you both know better.

berlin may have won this round, but the game between you is far from over.

masterlist

[bestalbertcamuslover]

Plastic Surgery

↳ Masterlist

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ pairing:  Franco Colapito x GF! Reader ✯

✯ content warnings: plastic surgery mentioned✯

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Dating someone so public and admired was definitely an experience. There was a reason she wanted to keep it private, but the media found out much earlier than they had planned. One day, as he was picking her up from college, someone snapped a photo, and just like that, everyone knew.

The scrutiny was as brutal as she had expected—people dissecting every piece of information they could find online. Perhaps more hurtful, though, were the comments about her appearance. Any perceived flaw was pointed out by countless strangers. Of course, not every comment was critical, but who pays attention to the kind ones anyway?

That only aggravated her already fragile self-esteem, leaving her even more self-conscious about her appearance. She began obsessively refining her makeup, perfecting her hair, and scrutinizing every detail of her looks. But no matter how much effort she put into superficial improvements, it never felt like enough—enough to stop the criticism, enough to silence the noise.

Inevitably, her thoughts turned to a single conclusion: the only reasonable path was cosmetic surgery, wasn’t it?

Franco drove down the road with ease, the afternoon sun painting golden streaks across the dashboard. She sat beside him, phone in hand, her thumb scrolling incessantly. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed together in that way that meant she was deep in thought—or trouble.

He glanced over as they slowed for a red light, his curiosity piqued. “You know,” he teased, his accent wrapping around the words, “you look way too serious for someone who just got out of class. What’s going on, amor?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, a little too quickly, tilting her phone away from him like a guilty teenager.

Franco smirked, his instincts kicking in. “Oh, come on. ‘Nothing’ with that face? Let me see,” he teased, leaning slightly to sneak a look.

“Franco, watch the road!” she protested, locking her phone and shoving it into her lap, but not before he caught a glimpse of the open webpage.

His smile faltered as the word “cosmetic surgery” registered. His playful demeanor softened, replaced by quiet concern. At the next stoplight, he turned to her, his voice gentle. “Amor... what’s that about?”

“It’s nothing,” she repeated, her gaze fixed firmly out the window.

“Really?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “Because it looked a lot like ‘I think I need surgery dot com.’”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she didn’t say anything, her fingers twisting in her lap.

Franco’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he let out a small sigh. “Is this about the comments?”

Her silence was all the confirmation he needed.

“Dios mío,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Amor, why do you even read that stuff? Those people—they’re bored, miserable, and lack a life.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, but he caught the tiniest twitch of her lips.

“I’m serious!” he continued, his voice animated now, trying to coax a smile out of her. “You think someone with their life together is online talking about you? No. They’re too busy living. The ones who leave those comments? They’re jealous. Of your talent, your looks, and—” he grinned, throwing her a quick, cheeky look—“the fact that you get to date me.”

She couldn’t help it; a small laugh escaped, though she quickly stifled it. 

“I’ll take that laugh as an agreement” he said, triumphant. “So why are you letting ridiculous people get to you?”

Her smile faded, replaced by a vulnerable look she rarely showed. “It’s not just them, Franco. It’s... everything. I just... I don’t feel good enough.”

He softened immediately, his teasing giving way to something more sincere. “Amor,” he said, reaching over to rest his hand on hers. “You don’t need surgery. You don’t need to change anything. Not for them, not for anyone.”

She looked at him, her eyes doubtful. “You really think that?”

“I know that,” he said firmly. Then, in true his fashion, he couldn’t resist adding, “But if you’re still not convinced, I could always pull up other fan pages. The comments about my hair after races alone will make you feel like a queen.”

That earned him a real chuckle.

“See? Much better,” he said with a grin. “No more websites like that, okay?”

She nodded, her heart lighter, and when his fingers gave hers a reassuring squeeze, she squeezed back.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ authors note: English is not my first language, and I hope you liked it <3

[pyschosoda]

Please, Lord

Lord!Osferth x Servant!Reader

a/n: omg!! sorry this took so long I had crazy writers block all the sudden but I hope you enjoy it!!! (o^^o) I’m going to try to write the first chapter to my OsferthxOC fic before starting my other requests so be on the lookout for that!! :3c

requested by - @slytherincursebreaker

It was no secret that Osferth was a kind lord, often treating his servants fairly and giving them generous pay. 

Some might be shocked to find out that the ex-monk had taken one of his sweet little servants to be his bed warmer.

And what a pretty thing she was. He would often wake up first just to simply admire her before she slipped away so as not to be discovered by anyone. 

“Osferth...” a quiet, wispy voice pierces through his thoughts. 

His orbs are focusing on hers as they peak through her lashes like how the sun currently peaks over the horizon. 

“I told you to wake me if I slept too long,” his eyes never leaving her frame as she sat up with a stretch, her own eyes searching the room for her clothes. 

“You were pretty tired after last night, so I thought I’d let you sleep,” he responded as his fingertips gently glide across her back.

She rolls her eyes, a smile forming on her face as she stands up. 

“stay,” 

It wasn’t a command from her lord but rather a plea from a man who felt nothing but love for the maiden who had just left his bed. 

“I cannot,” she simply says as she begins collecting her clothes. “You know this.” 

“Surely a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt?”

His sweet little secret laughs as she slips on her clothes. “See you at breakfast, my lord.”

Osferth slumps back down against the pillow, a sigh escaping his lips as she leaves the room. 

Your day was the same as the last, and the last like the day before. You had a routine that more often than not involved waking up in your lord's bed.

Wake up, help prepare breakfast, serve breakfast, clean, occasionally keep Lord osferth company, sleep, and repeat.

That was your schedule, one that you hoped would never change. 

You were often one of the first people in the kitchen; most just assumed you to be eager to please their lord, and they were right in a sense, just not in that way. 

Occasionally, you’d break your daily routine to help the new servants with their tasks, helping them get the hang of things before going back to whatever your task was.

Some thought you were a pushover, doing whatever was asked of you, but you were simply returning the favor that was given to you by one of the older serving ladies who worked there before you; her name was Olga.

You often worked with her in the kitchen, much like you were now. 

“Lord Osferth seems to have taken a liking to you,” Olga teases as she prepares one of the dishes. Olga was a kind old lady, but she was rather nosy and loved to gossip. 

“what?” You shake your head. “No, he hasn’t,” you deny. “He’s just nice." You thought for a moment that Olga was suspecting something, that perhaps you and Osferth hadn’t been as careful as you two thought. 

“He’s nice to everyone, darling, but he doesn’t undress them with his eyes." Olga points at you with the spoon in her hand, making a suggestive face.

“Olga!” You gasp with a laugh. “Lord Osferth is a kind man; he wouldn’t do that.”

“Every man does it,” the older woman shrugs. “Look, when you go out there, watch his eyes; you’ll see they never leave you, not once!”

You don’t reply to the old maid, simply taking the plate from her and making your way out of the kitchen with Olga’s words fresh on your mind. 

Surely she wasn’t right; you were just his bed warmer, not that Olga knew that...hopefully.

You pulled yourself away from your thoughts as you approached the table.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Lord,” you say softly as you place his plate down, sparing him a glance.

He had already been looking at you; had he been looking at you the whole time, like Olga said? The thought made you smile. 

His own lips curling into a smile as you retreat into the kitchen, his eyes never once leaving you. 

You woke up with an uncomfortable tension building up in your throat, your face scrunching up as you hold back a gag. 

You clumsily wrap a thin robe around yourself as you make haste to find a bucket. 

Whether it was your harsh stumbling into the bathroom or you emptying all the food you ate that day into the bucket that woke up a few of the other servants, you weren’t sure, but you were thankful as one of the girls moved your hair out of the way as you threw up. 

This happened several times over the past week; you’d throw up just before the sun came out, then get dressed and get to work. 

You feared you came down with the sickness; you prayed that wasn't the case and your prayers would be answered. 

“I fear you may be pregnant,” Olga had said.

“what?” Your eyes move away from the bowl you had been mixing, over to the older maid.

"No, I am not," I can't be pregnant, the phrase repeated in your mind like a begging tune. 

“You’re questioning a woman who's given birth to three children; I think I would know, darling." She said more, but you weren’t listening anymore. Quickly you left the kitchen, letting Olga finish breakfast herself. 

I can't be pregnant; you prayed, and your prayers would go unanswered. 

You were pregnant. Olga was right; you were sure of it. Between the morning sickness, weird cravings, and mood swings, you were sure of it. 

oh god…You barely had the money to take care of yourself...How were you going to take care of a child—let alone the child of the man you worked for? Thoughts like those circled your brain day and night until finally you began to withdraw yourself. 

That included avoiding Osferth like the sickness himself, and he began to notice after you barely spoke a word to him when he asked you to meet him in his chambers, then failed to do so twice.  

He began to think perhaps he had done something wrong, or maybe you’d grown tired of the arrangement between you too. 

He had hoped that wasn’t the case, but you never gave him the chance to ask. 

Every time he looked for his sweet maiden, you were nowhere to be found, or you’d dash away before you could be seen. 

Osferth had enough. 

He was tired of seeing her duck around corners or flat out running away when she’d spot him in the halls; each time he had tried to speak with her, she’d find a way out.

He was sick of it. 

The thoughts of how to approach this situation plagued his mind, keeping him from sleeping. 

With an aggravated sigh, he swings his feet over the side of his bed, placing them on the floor as he prepares to venture out into the cold halls of the night to clear his head. 

‘What did I do wrong?’ He questions as he walks, ‘Why was she avoiding me?’ 

He was so lost in these thoughts he had almost missed the sound coming from the kitchen. His steps pause as he listens, and again, there was the same sound.

Slowly he creeped towards the kitchen door, peeking through the crack, looking for the intruder. 

But he didn’t find one; instead, he found the girl who plagued his mind day and night; he found you. 

He stood there for only a moment longer, not wanting to waste this authority that was given to him. 

“Why are you up so late?” He spoke up from behind her; despite his voice being gentle, he still startled her in the process. 

He watched as she hesitated to meet his gaze, settling to look at the floor beneath his feet instead as she timidly placed her fork down, so that was the noise he had heard. She had gotten up in the middle of the night to...eat?

“My Lord i-“

“Have you not been eating enough?” 

She wasn’t sure how she wanted to respond. His question caught her off guard. How was she supposed to answer his question without giving too much away? 

He picked up on her hesitation to answer his question, so he asked a different one.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

Her hesitation only grows, her appetite long gone as her eyes look for something to look at that isn't him. She missed Osferth, even if she tried to deny it, but should she tell him? It's his baby; of course she should...But she was scared; she needed the money, and in truth she had hoped to keep this secret a little longer.

“We shouldn’t talk about this here, Osferth." She whispers, meeting his gaze with a pleading one.

“To my chambers then,” he urges. 

The walk to his chambers was awkward to say the least. Your head tilted down, not daring to look at Osferth.

Osferth’s eyes were straight forward, not daring to look at you. Not a word was spoken between the two. 

Neither of you wanted to be the first to speak up; both of you were stuck in your thoughts, figuring out what to say. 

You pull yourself from the sound of your shoes hitting the ground as he opens the door to his chambers. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” he repeats as they enter. 

“I…I'm sorry, my lord.“

“Have I done something to upset you? offend you maybe?”

She pauses, mouth gaping like a fish. “No! No… My lord, you’ve done nothing of the sort.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me? please!  I wish to make this right…”

She shifts in her spot, battling with herself if she should tell him. He had the right to know, she concluded. 

“Lord,” she whispers, her gaze meeting his pleading one.

“Osferth,” she corrects louder this time.

“I’m… I'm with the child," she admits, her hands anxiously attacking each other. 

“Your child,” she clarifies.

Osferth was in shock.

pregnant.

with his child?

“And...and you’re certain?” he questions 

She nods, pinching at the skin around her nail.

“And it’s…it’s mine?”

She nods again, her pinching nails piercing the skin as her vision gets foggy, her lip quivering. 

How could he let this happen? 

A bastard.  That’s what was brewing in her belly.

his blood.

His bastard blood passed down onto another.

Thats what he was; all he had been at one point was nothing more than Alfred’s Bastard. There was a time when he was scared that’s all he ever would be; he swore he would never condemn his child to a fate like his, and yet he had grown careless.

No. 

He wouldn’t allow his child to face the same curséd life that was forced upon him; he wouldn’t make the same mistake his father had. 

Osferth must’ve been silent for longer than he thought because the girl before him began to weep. 

“P-Please Lord!” 

The cold ground left bruises on her knees as they collided. 

Osferth couldn’t tell if she had fallen to the ground in an attempt to beg or because her legs simply gave out.

“Please!” She cried out again. “I’ll leave without trouble once I’ve saved enough money! I won't ask you for anything more!” She let the words tumble from her mouth before her thoughts could catch them. 

“No one will know the babe is yours; just please don't cast me out! I need the money!” she babbles 

“Cast you out...?” He asks, "I wouldn't...I won’t do that.”

Her frantic begs stop as she looks up at him. “You…you wont?”

Shaking his head, he kneels in front of her. “Never,” he assures her as he places his gentle hands on her tear-soaked cheeks. 

"I won’t let you face this alone, not when I'm at fault for it,” he says, wiping her tears before continuing.

"I’ll do what my father could not,” he whispers, “this baby will not be a bastard.” One of his hands moves to cup the back of her neck.

"What are you saying..." She meets his gaze.

“Marry me…” His voice shakes as the words leave his lips.

“…What?”

“Marry me,” he said, with more confidence. "I’ll be a good father; give this baby what I never had,” he promises. 

“Please, I love you." He admits, “Please marry me.”

She wasn't sure what to say, too overwhelmed with emotions. She wasn't sure if she was going to smile or cry again, so she did both. 

Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she presses her lips against his in a quick and inexperienced kiss. “Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you!” she agrees.

He cups the back of her head, holding her against him as a smile of his own appears on his lips. He would be a good father, he promised; he’d give his child a life that wasn’t granted to him. 

[sushirrrry]

FRONTLINES: COMING HOME - Part Three a harry styles x original character story. word count: 17,251 content warning: explicit sexual content, mental health struggles, war-related trauma, grief

summary: after being discharged from the hospital, Harry returns to Manchester haunted by the war but grounded by the letters and quiet devotion of Clare, the nurse who helped piece him back together. their relationship, born from each reunion that they hold so dear to themselves until they’re able to see each other again—until their longing becomes impossible to deny, and love replaces what war tried to destroy.

author's note: please note that this is now PART THREE! I had to cut the second part into two to post on tumblr </3 this is the last part, but I hope you loooove it! LINKS FRONTLINES (PART 1) FRONTLINES: AWAITING (PART 2)

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Letter from Harry to Clare

June 4th, 1943 – Manchester, England. Lt. Styles, Harry E.

My dearest Clare,

I can’t decide what’s worse: waking up to silence after weeks of hearing your voice each morning or lying here knowing you're back in that hospital, and I can’t be anywhere near you.

It’s been months, but I still look over my shoulder half expecting to hear you say “Sit back, soldier,” and scold me for trying to move too quickly. I would gladly take a lecture if it meant having you near again. Even the bloody porridge here tastes duller, can you believe that?

My mother keeps fussing over me like she’s trying to make up for the months she couldn’t. She means well — you’d like her. She’s sharp as a knife and talks to me like I’m still ten. My sister, Nora, caught me reading your last letter with what she called “that lovesick look” and nearly tore it from my hands trying to read it herself.

I told her you’re mine, and I meant it.

There’s not much to say about Manchester. The streets look the same, but I don’t. I’m home, and yet not fully. I keep thinking about your fingers brushing my wrist when you changed my bandage. The sound of your laugh when I said something halfway decent. I think about what it felt like to be seen, really seen, in the worst and most fragile state of my life, and how you didn’t look away.

I need to see you, Clare. I miss you more than I thought possible, and these letters, as precious as they are, aren’t enough. Would you consider coming to Manchester? Even just for a few days. You can say you’re coming to escape the hospital. I’ll say I’m healing faster when you’re nearby. Both will be true.

All my warmth, Harry

P.S. I’ve still got the book you gave me. I read the note inside often. More than I’ll admit.

Letter from Clare to Harry

June 10th, 1943 – Babbacombe, England. Harris, Clare L.

My dear Harry,

I read your letter three times before bed and again by candlelight this morning while the other girls were still asleep. One of them asked why I was smiling like a girl just back from the dance hall, and I said something about a dream I’d had. It is true, if not the whole truth.

I miss you terribly. I didn’t expect it to ache the way it does. I see your old bed empty each shift, and I half-wonder if you’ll turn the corner holding a book and some new sarcastic remark about the broth. Instead, I still tend to John, who’s healing slowly, and hear myself repeat lines I used on you — gentler now, softer somehow. I think you made me better, without even meaning to.

The hospital feels heavier these days. More patients, more wounds, more nights I lie awake wondering how any of it makes sense. And I find myself thinking about your eyes, that shade I’ve yet to find a name for. I miss your intellectual conversation, and your optimism… while it wasn’t always there, the short bits that it was, I miss.

It’s been hard not to imagine your arms around me again. Harder still not to reach for you when I roll over in bed. I need something or someone real again. And that someone, Harry, is you.

So yes, I will come to Manchester. I’ll ask Matron for two days. She’ll protest, but I’ll wear her down. I need to breathe air that hasn’t passed through bandages and worry.

And if you’re still reading this with that ‘lovesick look,’ tell Nora she was right.

Yours, truly and entirely, Clare

P.S. I hope you’ve written something in the margins of that book. I’ll ask to see it when I arrive.

June, 1943 - Manchester

The platform bustled with energy despite the grey sky overhead, steam curling from the engine as it hissed its final protest. Harry stood near the edge, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, rocking slightly on his heels. He hadn't been able to sit still since before breakfast. The letter she'd written was folded in his breast pocket—creased and soft from how many times he'd read it.

He knew it by heart now.

Clare was coming.

He scanned the faces emerging from the train, heart thudding as his eyes darted left to right. Then, a glint of cream and dark green from the polka-dotted dress. Her hair swept neatly in a 1940s roll, and her gloved hand clutching a small leather bag. She looked elegant, even in the ordinary bustle of a station.

When she finally saw him, her face lit up like the lights of a holiday tree. Not politely. Not modestly. It bloomed like something real and personal and his.

“Clare,” he muttered to himself, unable to help the grin that broke across his face.

She picked up her pace, weaving between people until she reached him; he matched her energy, picking up the pace to make his way over to her. Once they reached one another, her hands were thrown around his neck; arms thrown around her waist in an embrace.

It felt like everything had stopped all at once. Her gloved hand touched his cheek as they pulled back, not in greeting but as if confirming he was there.

“To see you again,” she said, breathless. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s an honor,” he quipped.

She laughed and he caught her hand, their fingers fitting together like they had never stopped. He leaned down, kissing her cheek—a brush of lips that lingered a little too long, and a little too close to the corner of her mouth.

The walk from the station to the Styles’ home was brief, but enough for the air to settle some of Clare’s nerves. Harry carried her bag with ease over his shoulder, pointing out old shops and street corners with names she wouldn’t remember but listened to all the same, simply because it was his voice beside her. She kept sneaking glances at him—how relaxed he looked here, lighter somehow, like the weight of France and flames and screaming metal couldn’t follow him past the quiet streets of his childhood.

They reached a modest red-brick house with white trim and ivy crawling up the stone wall like it belonged there. The garden, though not extravagant, bloomed in disciplined rows of lavender, sweet peas, some pale yellow roses that clung to the side gate. There were two small pairs of muddy boots on the steps, a forgotten skipping rope on the lawn. Clare smiled without thinking.

Harry looked at her sideways. “Bit loud around here, innit?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “It’s perfect.”

He knocked instead of opening the door with his key, just once, then again with a rhythm she didn’t recognize—but it must have meant something, because the door flew open and a small boy launched himself at Harry’s waist.

“Uncle Harry!”

Harry laughed, catching the boy with a practiced arm while the other held her case. “Steady on, mate.”

A girl followed, quieter but with wide, curious eyes and a doll pressed to her chest. Then a woman, looking like she may be in her thirties, came to the door, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

“Nora,” Harry said. “This – this is Clare.”

Nora’s expression softened immediately as she stepped out and hugged Clare like she’d known her far longer than through the letters she had stolen from Harry to read, knowing that this was the woman who had given Harry the smug smile on his face. “Welcome to Manchester—to our family home. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Clare said, smiling as Nora ushered them inside. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about Manchester—about his family. So, it’s a pleasure to be here.”

The house smelled like roast chicken and something sweet baking. The walls were filled with photos in wooden frames—wedding portraits, old school pictures, black-and-white candids of Harry in uniform, even younger with a football under his arm, hair mussed and wild.

His parents were waiting in the sitting room. His mother stood first as her eyes drew to the woman, wrapping Clare in a warm embrace that reminded her so much of her own late mother it nearly brought tears to her eyes. His father, more reserved, shook her hand with quiet dignity and kind eyes that matched Harry’s identically.

Dinner was full of laughter—Clare hadn’t expected that. The children, Alfie and Beth, told her stories about their school and tried to sneak bites of each other’s food under the table like some kind of secret pact. Nora gently scolded them, but it was clear the children ruled the roost.

“Harry said you looked after him when he was too cross to be grateful,” Nora said, smiling at Clare from across the table.

“He wasn’t all that bad,” Clare replied, casting a glance at Harry. “Just stubborn and sarcastic, but truly, he was the one with the best conversation.”

“He gets that from his father,” his mother chimed in.

That drew a chuckle from the elder Mr. Styles, who tipped his glass. “I’ll take the blame.”

It was sometime around dessert, a dense and sticky treacle pudding Nora had made, when conversation turned more reflective.

“Were you in France long?” Clare asked Nora softly, aware the children had wandered off with dessert plates in hand, most likely making a mess elsewhere. But that was something that Clare found endearing; their family seemed to not have any boundaries, allowing there to be openness and happiness wherever each of them looked.

Nora shook her head, slowly. “I never went over. My husband—Michael—he was with the Royal Engineers.” Her voice wavered only a little, taking a bite of her dessert before she finished and made eyes with Clare. “We got word last November.”

Clare reached out and touched her hand gently across the table. “I’m so sorry.”

Nora nodded, brushing a thumb under her eye. “Thank you. But… having Harry home has helped. And hearing about the nurses, the ones writing letters, sitting with the lads through the worst of it—I think you gave my brother something to hold on to.”

Before Clare could respond, Harry’s father cut in. “He came home, yes. But he didn’t come back the same, of course.”

The table fell quiet. Clare watched Harry shift in his chair, jaw tight.

“Dad—”

“No shame in it,” his father said, calmly but firmly. “Just something to be said for being honest about what’s been lost.”

“Not tonight,” Harry murmured, but not with anger—just weariness.

Clare looked at him and reached for his hand beneath the table, squeezing once.

His father sighed, but there was something softer in it this time. “You’ve always had that fire in you. Always wanted to prove yourself. But war doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t give back what it takes.”

Harry sat straighter. “You think I don’t know that?”

“No, son. I think you know it too well.”

A silence lingered. Then Nora stood up, clearing a few plates. “Why don’t we put on some tea?”

Harry’s mum followed, murmuring something about brandy in the cupboard instead. Clare stayed beside him, her thumb tracing gently over his knuckles under the table as she turned to look at the side of his face; the scar minimizing by the day, but always a memory.

Later, when the children had gone to bed and Nora was clearing dishes with their mum, Harry and Clare slipped out to the back garden. The twilight sky hung low with stars, and the cool air clung to their skin.

They sat side by side on a wooden bench. Clare reached up and brushed a thumb across his cheekbone, where a faint shadow of a burn still lingered beneath his jaw.

“You okay?”

He nodded shortly. “He pushes often.”

“He’s worried,” Clare told him softly. “He doesn’t know how to say it without poking—my father is the same way.”

“I know.” He tilted his head back and looked up. “It’s just—being here, everything’s where I left it. But I’m not, and I think they have trouble with that since Michael.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to be changed.”

“I don’t want the kids to notice.”

“They notice that you’re home,” she whispered to him, maybe to the universe above them. “And that’s enough.”

They sat there quietly, wrapped in the hum of insects and far-off city sounds. He leaned down after a while, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“You were brave today,” she said, leaning her head back like him.

He laughed a little, turning his head to look at her. “Whatcha’ mean?”

“No,” she said, lifting her face to meet his. “More dangerous. A table full of teasing relatives is much harder to escape.”

He kissed her then, properly, gently but certain, like she was the one thing he wanted to hold onto with both hands and never let go.

“Should we go back in there?” Harry murmured against her lips, eyes flickering up to see her. “They’re going to think we’ve run away.”

Clare inhaled the scent of the rolling hills that Harry’s family home backed to, barely seeing over in the darkness but knowing that there was much to see out there. She settled in the silence for a moment before turning to look at him with a smile.

“Let’s go, then.”

Taking her hand, Harry stood up, leading Clare back into the home with certainty that she belonged there.

After an hour or two of brandy mixed with tea, the house was hushed with sleep, the kind of silence that feels sacred when you sat and listened to it; thick with the weight of rest and the softness of the late night.

Outside, the wind whispered against the windows, a calm and rhythmic rustle that made the walls feel even more like a cocoon.

Clare sat curled in bed, knees drawn beneath the quilt, a worn book limp in her lap, its pages long forgotten. Her mind had wandered far from its story—drifting back to the dinner table, to Harry’s hand that had brushed hers when she passed him the butter, to the way his eyes lingered on her as though every second he wasn't touching her was a second wasted.

The soft knock on the door startled her.

She blinked at the door. “Come in,” she whispered, voice barely a breath.

Harry eased it open without answering, stepping into the room with a quiet care that made her heart beat faster. He shut it behind him with a click, his frame a shadow in the dim lamplight.

“Have you gone completely mad?” she hissed, though she was already reaching to pull the quilt up around her chest, her mouth curled in a smirk.

“Probably,” he murmured, grinning. “I tried to sleep, I swear I did. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You, in this room. Right down the hall.”

She narrowed her eyes but couldn’t hide the blush creeping into her cheeks. “What if someone hears?”

“They won’t. They’re out cold. Besides, we’ll be quiet, won’t we?” He smirked and crossed the room to stand at her bedside, his hand brushing her ankle over the quilt. “Unless you’ve a secret habit of screaming my name.”

She kicked at him gently under the covers, laughter caught in her throat. “Harry Styles, don’t you dare—”

But she stopped, because he was sitting on the edge of the bed now, gazing at her like she was some miracle he still couldn’t quite believe had arrived on his doorstep. That look always disarmed her. It made her feel like the only girl in a war-torn world.

“You look lovely by lamplight,” he said softly, reaching up to touch a strand of her hair, fingers trailing just beneath her jaw.

“I look a mess,” she whispered back, flushed.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. “A mess—a beautiful mess.”

Before she could answer, his lips found hers—soft at first, exploratory, reverent. But it only took a second before the kiss deepened, years of unsaid things passing between them with each brush and pull. She clutched the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until he shifted properly onto the bed, hovering above her, their legs tangled in the quilt.

Her hands slipped into his hair, and his mouth dropped to her neck, leaving slow, aching kisses there as her breathing turned shallow.

The old bed gave a sharp, unceremonious creak beneath them. They froze as soon as it happened with wide eyes.

Clare pressed her hand to her mouth, eyes wide with a gasp caught behind her fingers. Harry met her gaze and then, unable to help himself, burst into a laugh, muffled quickly into her shoulder.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” she whispered, trying not to giggle, her body shaking with the effort.

“God help me if your father ever finds out I snuck into your bed,” he murmured against her skin. “Or Nora. She’d murder me twice.”

“I’d be too embarrassed to attend the funeral,” Clare whispered back, nose nuzzled into his cheek.

But the laughter faded as quickly as it came, replaced by the quiet rhythm of their breathing. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone, then her shoulder, then just above her heart. His hands roamed gently—never demanding—like he was reminding himself she was real and safe and here. She touched his back beneath his shirt, fingers dancing lightly over the faded scar near his ribs.

“Stay,” she breathed, almost inaudible.

He nodded, forehead resting against hers. “Not going anywhere.”

They shifted again, bodies curled beneath the quilt, her leg hooked over his, his arm draped over her waist, hands splayed wide against the small of her back. Their noses bumped, mouths brushing as their kisses grew slow again—lazy, lingering, and so, so sweet.

The bed gave another creak and this time they both laughed, muffled and breathless.

“I swear,” Clare muttered, “your mother will never let me in this house again.”

“Worth it,” he whispered, kissing her lips. “For you? Always worth it.”

And as the world spun on outside, in the quiet bedroom filled with candle-soft light and the scent of books and the fresh lavender put in the vase for her arrival, they finally let themselves fall into one another—with laughter in their mouths and longing in their bones.

+++

The scent of toast and warm butter greeted Clare before she even reached the bottom of the stairs.

The hallway was bright with morning light, sun pouring in through the front windows and casting a sleepy glow along the walls. Clare took a moment on the final step, smoothing her hair and running her hands down her cardigan. Her heart thudded in her chest — not with nerves exactly, but with that fizzy, tender sort of tension that came from sneaking Harry into her bed the night before and now walking into a kitchen full of his family.

She exhaled, tucked a loose curl behind her ear, and stepped into the doorway.

The kitchen was a cheerful mess of dishes, chatter, and clinking cutlery. Harry sat at the table beside his father, laughing at something Nora had just said. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair slightly damp from the bath, and he looked altogether too handsome for this early in the morning.

He noticed her first.

Their eyes met instantly, and though his expression didn’t shift much, there was a softness in the way he looked at her. Like he was seeing her for the first time again.

Clare offered a small, polite smile to the room and said, “Good morning.”

“Morning!” Nora chimed in from her seat near the window, raising a mug of tea. “We thought you’d been abducted by the mattress.”

“Or Harry,” their father added with a twinkle in his eye, eyes fixed on the newspaper though his voice was thick with mischief. “He’s known to wander, that one.”

Harry choked on his tea.

Clare blinked — then laughed, half covering her face with her hand. “I… fell asleep reading,” she said, not quite lying, not quite telling the truth either.

The two children were too busy arguing over toast to notice anything amiss, but Nora’s eyes glinted knowingly as she slid out a chair at the table.

“We saved you some eggs,” she said, and gave Harry a not-so-subtle kick under the table. “Didn’t we, Lieutenant?”

He cleared his throat, ears pink as he nodded his head. “We did. And tea.”

Clare took her seat beside him, brushing her skirt underneath her knees, careful not to meet his gaze too directly. But she could feel it — the warmth of it, the way his fingers twitched just once like he was resisting the urge to reach for her.

She thanked Nora, buttered a slice of toast, and tried not to jump when Harry’s foot nudged hers beneath the table — the lightest, most casual of touches. When she glanced up, he was already looking away, sipping from his mug, trying to suppress a grin.

“Did you manage to rest?” his mother asked, kindly, passing the milk.

Clare nodded, the tea burning her lip a bit. “Very well, thank you. It’s a lovely house.”

“Old as sin,” his father muttered. “Every board creaks.”

Another stifled cough from Harry. Nora, biting her lip, sat and gave Clare a small wink over the rim of her mug as she took the last sip.

They chatted about the train ride, about the weather turning mild again, about how hard it had been to get fresh fruit these days. Clare felt herself relaxing slowly into the rhythm of it, this familial warmth that was so unlike the sterile hallways and aching quiet of the hospital.

But then, as Harry was helping clear the plates, his father leaned back and said lightly, “So, son — thinking about staying in London longer this time?”

Harry froze for half a second, just long enough for Clare to feel the ripple of tension in the air.

“I’m not sure,” he said carefully, glancing at her before busying himself with stacking dishes. “I’ve got a few things to sort. But… I’ve time still.”

Nora reached over and placed a gentle hand over his. “He’ll figure it out,” she said, her tone both light and anchored in something deeper.

Clare felt the mood shift, something that passed through the table like a shadow. There were ghosts in this house, like there were in most houses now. And though Michael’s name hadn’t come up yet this morning, Clare felt his absence hanging over them like a coat hung by the door.

But it only took a moment before Nora’s little boy, Alfie, asked Clare if she’d brought any sweets from London, and the spell broke. They all laughed. Harry touched her elbow as he passed behind her. And Clare couldn’t help the flutter that still sparked at his smallest touch.

She stayed for the rest of the morning, wrapped in soft conversation and sunlight. And though no one said anything outright, the way they glanced at her when Harry looked away, the way his mother asked if she liked lamb roast, as if inviting her back, it all told her one thing very clearly:

She was welcome here.

If she let herself believe it, this wasn’t just a visit. Maybe it was the beginning of something that finally felt like peace.

Harry had taken a seat back next to Clare before he heard Nora call from the hallway with the post, “Harry! Letter for you.”

He glanced toward Clare, who was sitting across from him in one of his mum’s hand-knitted cardigans, hair still slightly mussed from sleep. She offered him a warm, questioning smile.

“Cheers,” Harry muttered, reaching for the envelope Nora held out. It was plain and creased at the corners, addressed in a familiar, unmistakable hand.

His chest tightened, and the table watched his reaction to the letter before he practically froze on sight.

He stared at the name for a beat too long, heart thudding once—then again. For weeks, he hadn’t let himself hope too hard. The uncertainty of what happened after they’d been separated in the field had lodged itself in his ribs like shrapnel.

He opened it carefully, his fingers steady in that slow, practiced way soldiers learn when handling the fragile.

As he read to himself, the room seemed to dull around him—the murmur of his parents chatting in the kitchen, the clink of teacups, Beth and Alfie arguing over toast.

Clare noticed the shift in his expression first. His eyes had gone glassy. His jaw taut.

“Harry?” she asked gently.

“’S Bennett.” He stated gently, voice catching as he blinked hard.

Mate—still breathing. Was taken further north, little hospital outside of Leeds. Arm’s not much use but I’m upright. I asked around and they said you’d made it back. God, Harry—I thought… I really thought maybe you didn’t. I can’t tell you how glad I am to know you’re safe. Properly safe. Write me when you can. I want to see you.

By the time he reached the end, Harry was blinking hard. He set the letter down slowly, then scrubbed his palms against his thighs, like he could rub the feeling off his skin.

“He’s alive,” he said, voice quiet, tight in his throat. “Bennett’s alive.”

The table fell silent around him as he seemed to be moved by the idea that Bennett had even reached out—he was alive.

Nora was the first to react, setting down her fork with a sharp breath. “Oh, Harry…”

Clare reached next to her and placed her hand over his. He didn’t meet her eyes at first, just stared at the letter again.

“He’s still in a hospital near Leeds. Said he’s alright. Lost use of his arm, but he’s still—he’s there.”

Anne moved to sit beside him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “That’s a blessing, love.”

He nodded, though his jaw was working furiously. His hands had started to shake slightly, and he quickly balled them into fists, willing the emotion down. But the room had already seen it.

Clare squeezed his hand gently. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”

“I’m not crying,” he muttered.

“You don’t have to do that either,” she replied. “Or you can.”

He exhaled shakily and turned his head, and Clare saw the redness that collected around the edges of his eyes, and she used her hand to rest on his cheek as nodded to himself.

His father cleared his throat from the doorway, voice thick. “You’ll write him back, yeah?”

Harry nodded fervently. “Yeah, yes. I will.”

The letter lay between them on the table, already worn at the corners from how often Harry kept picking it up and down, but it carried something weightier than just ink and paper. This was closing the chapter—Harry knew what had happened to his plane, to his fellow airmen.

He knew their stories, and knowing this last part had given him so much to be thankful for.

+++

The early afternoon sun poured gold over the grassy edge of the Styles’ garden, long shadows stretching from the stone wall that bordered the back of the property. Beyond it lay a patch of field that Harry’s father had once let the neighbor’s sheep graze on, but today it served a livelier purpose.

“Go on then, Alfie!” Harry called, his voice bright and breathless as he yelled at his nephew to get the ball.

The boy darted forward with wide strides, arms pinwheeling as he chased the ball. Harry jogged behind him, a little less graceful with his limp but laughing all the same. His father stood in goal with his sleeves pushed up. Well, if the gap between two crooked garden chairs could be called the goal. Meanwhile, Beth bounced at Harry’s side, clinging to his arm and shouting gleeful advice that no one could understand.

Clare watched from the low stone bench near the kitchen door, the scent of drying laundry and lavender drifting in the warm breeze. Beside her sat Nora and Anne, a pitcher of lemonade and three mismatched glasses between them on the bench.

“They’ve been at that nearly an hour,” Anne said, taking a sip of her lemonade, her tone caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness. “Alfie won’t sleep a wink tonight.”

“He won’t want to,” Nora said, smiling faintly, watching the four of them out on the field. “He never does when Harry’s here.”

Clare tucked her skirt beneath her knees, leaning forward to better see over the small hedge. Harry was trying to keep Beth from hanging off his arm as he went in for a dramatic tackle against her brother. The whole thing ended in a gentle pile-up on the grass, and the sound of laughter carried easily back to the bench.

Anne gave a small huff, then looked over at Clare with a soft, knowing expression. “He’s always been so full of joy and so eager to be the center of attention.”

“I remember the fuss he made when they took down that climbing tree,” Nora added, her voice tinged with mischief. “Said it was the end of his boyhood. He must’ve been—what? Thirteen?”

“Thirteen going on thirty,” Anne said with a laugh. “Always thought himself older than he was. Until the war, of course. Then he came home with that face of his set so tight. Sometimes I’d catch him watching the kettle boil like he was thinking it might explode.”

Clare’s smile faded slightly at her memory of her son; she wondered if Harry would even remember a tiny detail like that. “It’s changed everyone, I suppose.”

“Aye,” Anne said softly. “But him most of all.”

They fell quiet for a moment, the silence filled with the shrill cheer of Beth proclaiming herself the goal scorer.

Anne went on, her voice low to keep the conversation between them. “He left here with his hair too long and a record in his suitcase. Came back looking like his own shadow.”

Clare turned to look at her, surprised by the bluntness, but Anne wasn’t crying. She was just watching her son in the field, brow furrowed in memory, yet steady in the present. Clare could tell that this was just something she needed to say out loud maybe something she couldn’t express to anyone that wouldn’t understand.

“He wouldn’t eat his first week back,” Anne added in. “I had to practically beg him to touch a biscuit. Kept looking at the door like someone was about to call him away.”

Clare swallowed, recalling Harry leaving the hospital – recalling him entering and the sadness that he had been caught up in.

“I think we thought he’d never laugh again,” Nora added quietly, arms folded as she leaned into her mother’s side. “He barely said ten words to Alfie or Beth the first visit home, before he was discharged. Didn’t know what to do with them.”

“But then… when he came home for good,” Anne’s eyes flicked toward Clare, one brow arched with a quiet curiosity. “He started writing to someone. We didn’t know who at first.”

Clare’s cheeks flushed at that comment, turning to glance at Harry who had been cheering in the field; laughter taking over him every few minutes.

“Oh, come on,” Nora said with a grin. “You must know how obvious it was. I’ve never seen him fuss over a letter the way he did with yours.”

Clare gave a small, shy laugh, ducking her head. “He tells me he was far too blunt. That he had no idea what he was doing.”

“He didn’t,” Nora said, laughing now. “But you must’ve said something right back, because suddenly he was Harry again. Not the same as before—no, but something more himself. Grown, I think, calmer. Like he finally knew where to put all that ache.”

Clare blinked once, her eyes stinging unexpectedly. She hadn’t known how much she needed to hear that—needed to know she hadn’t just patched a wound but helped bring someone back into the world. This world, specifically.

Anne reached out and touched Clare’s arm gently. “We don’t say it to him, of course. He’d only sulk and roll his eyes and be petrified that we even brought it up. But we’re grateful for you, Clare, truly.”

Clare opened her mouth to speak but didn’t quite find the words. Instead, she looked out at the field again, where Harry had Alfie hoisted over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes and was spinning him in lazy circles while Beth shouted for her turn.

His eyes found hers across the distance. And he grinned—wide and open and a little embarrassed, because he could tell the women on the bench were talking about him.

He dropped Alfie back onto the ground with a gentle thud and called out, “Whatever you lot are saying, I know I don’t like it!”

Anne gave a regal wave in response. “Then come and sit with us and change the subject, dear!”

But Harry only ruffled his nephew’s hair and turned back toward the field. Clare watched him for another beat, feeling the warmth of the bench beneath her and the kind, quiet presence of the women beside her.

And she knew—this wasn’t just visiting anymore. This was belonging.

+++

Later that evening, the Styles family and Clare had made a spread of dinner. The room had been warm with the scent of roast beef and potatoes, laughter curling around the corners of conversation. Plates clinked gently as Nora topped off everyone’s glasses and Alfie tried to sneak a second helping of pudding without being caught.

Anne had gone all out—setting the table with their best dishes, even pulling a jar of redcurrant jelly she’d been saving since last Christmas. Clare sat beside Harry, her skirt brushing his trousers every time she shifted. His hand would occasionally land on her knee beneath the table, grounding him, reassuring them both that they were there.

There had been jokes. Light teasing. Nora had just recounted a story about how Harry once got his arm stuck in the garden gate when he was six, and Alfie howled with laughter while Beth solemnly asked if her uncle still feared doorways.

Harry leaned in, murmuring a dry “traitors, all of them,” and Clare had laughed, cheeks a little pink from wine and the thrill of belonging at a table like this. Now that it was only her and her father, she dreaded holidays—it felt like there wasn’t anything to talk about anymore, now that her mother was gone and her brother had been taken.

It felt good. Whole, even. And then his father cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, eyes flicking to his son, the sound of forks clinking against the plates. “Going to be going back to London soon, then? To find work?”

Harry’s brows furrowed, shrugging as he wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin. “Just living,” he replied evenly. “Doing what I can.”

His father scoffed, looking up at his son. “You mean what’s easy. Some of your mates are already back in, I’m sure. That Baker kid was hurt, got his strength back and he’s back in it. Figured you’d want to do the same instead of—” he glanced at Clare, “—settling in for the quiet life. Playing house in London.”

Harry set his fork down with a gentle clink. “I—It’s not that I didn’t want that, dad. I didn’t pass the physical.”

“Because you didn’t push hard enough,” his father muttered. “You weren’t given the tools to train hard enough to get that strength back in that leg.”

Harry blinked, jaw becoming tight as he let his voice drop a bit, softer. “You think I didn’t try?”

“I think you had your mind elsewhere. You found a pretty girl, and maybe that distracted you from what you were supposed to do. Found your strengths other places, maybe.”

A stunned silence fell across the table. Clare took a sip of her wine and swallowed it before keeping her eyes diverted from the conversation.

Nora’s eyes narrowed, almost in disbelief that her father would start there. “Daddy—”

“No,” Harry said, voice cracking with sudden sharpness. “Let him talk. He seems to think he knows everything I went through.”

He turned to his father, voice rising. “You want to know what actually happened over there? What I still see when I close my eyes? Men burning alive inside twisted metal B12s. Friends who never came back. I held someone’s hand while he bled out screaming for his mum—his mum—because he was twenty and scared and dying and there was nothing I could do. So, what did I do?”

The children had gone quiet, even Beth, who had stopped mid-bite and stared wide-eyed at her uncle.

Harry’s chest heaved as he stared at his father, with intensity and a seething tone in his voice. “I fucking let him go down in that plane. I ejected—I should have been with him.”

“Then why didn’t you?” his father snapped, voice harsh with hurt he didn’t know how to name. “You didn’t finish what you started, son.”

“You sit here in this warm house and dare to talk about what I should’ve done while I was being stitched together in a field tent and wondering if I’d ever bloody walk again—I’m lucky enough to be alive, and you’re telling me I should have finished what I started? So the bloody German’s got what they wanted? Another Englishman down?”

“Harry,” his mum said gently, reaching out toward him. “Love, please—”

But he shook her off, turning away before she could touch him.

“Harry,” Nora said, standing too, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “Come on, just breathe, alright?”

Clare had gone still beside him, her heart aching.

But Harry’s eyes were shining now, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. “Don’t talk to me about finishing things. I left pieces of myself behind on that mission. And if I had the chance to go back—to trade this goddamn leg, these scars, all of it—I would. Don’t you ever think otherwise,” He blinked, “I wish Dean was in my place every single goddamned day.”

Then he was gone, striding out of the room before anyone could stop him, the back door creaking open and slamming shut behind him.

Nora sat back down slowly, exhaling a breath as she rubbed her temples.

Their mum wiped the corner of her eye with the edge of her sleeve and whispered, “George.”

Clare sat in the stunned silence, heart pounding, staring after the man she loved. She rose quietly, excusing herself, and followed.

Clare stepped carefully over the uneven stone path, following the faint outline of Harry’s footsteps in the grass. The garden was dimly lit by the spill of light from the kitchen window, and she spotted him near the fence, his back turned, hands braced on the worn wood like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

She slowed her steps as she began to approach him.

“Harry,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer at first, but she could see his shoulders rise and fall—too quickly, too tightly. The sound of his breathing wasn’t just sharp, it was uneven. Ragged.

She stepped closer, heart twisting as her voice became even softer. “Hey.”

Still no reply. But he didn’t move away when she reached out to touch his arm.

“I’m sorry he said that,” she murmured.

His jaw flexed, shaking his head. “He’s not wrong.”

Clare gently tugged at his elbow until he let go of the fence. He let her guide him to sit on the small wooden bench tucked near the hydrangeas, mostly bare now in late autumn. The silence between them wasn’t cold. Just heavy.

He ran both hands through his hair, then clasped them between his knees, shoulders hunched.

“I see Dean’s face sometimes when I close my eyes,” Harry said. “The way he looked before it all went black. The quiet of it.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “And John—I should’ve gone back. I should’ve pulled him first.”

Clare reached for one of his hands and held it between both of hers. He didn’t pull away. But he wasn’t still, either—his leg bounced slightly, his fingers twitched against hers. He was unraveling in small, silent ways.

“I know your father hurt you tonight,” she said. “But you don’t owe anyone an explanation for surviving.”

Harry’s breath hitched again. He blinked, hard. “I’m still angry.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I’m here—sitting in a garden, talking about pudding—when they’re not.”

He dropped his head into his hands.

“I feel like I cheated,” he whispered, voice thick. “Like I’m pretending to be whole. And no matter what I do, I’ll always be the man who walked away.”

Clare leaned in, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close. He let her. Let himself fold into her warmth, one hand grasping the back of her dress like he needed an anchor. She felt the shake of his breath against her neck.

They sat like that for a long moment—his face pressed into the hollow of her collarbone, her hand stroking slowly through his hair. The garden quieted around them, none of the sounds from inside the house were distracting them.

Eventually, Clare murmured, “You didn’t walk away. You were carried. And then you learned how to stand again.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. His eyes were damp, still glassy and red.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “I don’t know who I am—I don’t—” He clenched his jaw, “I don’t know what to do next.”

Clare pressed her forehead to his. “So am I—I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know that we can’t give in to it, okay?”

He exhaled shakily, and for the first time that evening, it wasn’t tight with anger. Just relief, a loosening of a knot that had been there too long.

Then, quietly, he asked, “Will you stay out here with me? Just for a little while.”

She nodded. “As long as you need.”

And they sat in the dark together, grief and love wound between their fingers, not trying to fix anything—just holding on.

+++

The house was silent, save for the ticking of the hallway clock and the faint groan of old pipes settling in the walls.

Clare’s bedroom was dark now as she tried to make herself fall into sleep. Tomorrow was her last full day in Manchester, and she tried her best to think of all that had happened – all of the love that had been grown here.

A faint breeze lifted the curtains to the window that was open next to her bed, allowing there to be a cross breeze from the warmth of the summer. She lay curled beneath the quilt in a satin slip—dusty blue, modest in cut, with lace trim that caught the light when she moved. Her hair had come undone at the nape of her neck, and the scent of orange blossom still clung to her skin from her evening bath.

She wasn’t asleep when the door creaked softly, but her eyes opened.

Harry stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling beneath his thin white undershirt. He wore only that and a pair of soft flannel boxers, his hair mussed from restless turning. The barest sheen of sweat clung to his brow, his knuckles white where they gripped the doorframe. He slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him before he started to speak.

“I couldn’t…” His voice was rough. Strained. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

Clare sat up slowly, the quilt rustling as it slid off her shoulder, hugging her waist. “Harry…” she warned, though her voice lacked bite. “Your sister is right next—”

“I know.” He stepped inside, closing in on her bed as he licked over his lips in the moonlit space. His voice softened. “We’ll be quiet.”

There was something in his eyes—not just desire, but ache. Like he’d been hollowed out and now reached blindly for the only thing that filled him. She lifted the edge of the quilt, her breath catching as he climbed in. The bed shifted with his weight, and he stilled, looking at her like she was the only safe thing left in the world.

She leaned forward and kissed him softly as a recognition; soft at first, before he kissed her back, deeper than before—hungrier. It wasn’t desperate, but it was driven by a need they’d both carried for too long. His hand slid up her side, bunching the slip as he went. She trembled, but not from fear. From knowing what was next.

He pulled away only enough to look at her—eyes shining in the half-light.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said, breathless, a whisper only held together by the two of them. “About you. About this moment. Every bloody day since the last time I could have you like this.”

Her fingers slipped beneath his undershirt, smoothing over the burns that webbed along his ribs. He flinched—not from pain, but from being touched so gently and with care that it practically burned her fingers.

And then his mouth found hers again, this time slower, deeper, more searching. Her slip slid up her thighs as he shifted above her, the silk pooling like a waterfall at her hips. They moved carefully, instinctively, with pauses between touches that made everything feel more urgent, more reverent. His hand traced up her thigh, her waist, her spine—everywhere but where she ached for him most.

When he finally settled between her legs, his forehead rested against hers, their breath mingling.

“I love you,” he whispered. It came out like a tremble, but it was a confession. It was raw and held a meaning that he hadn’t thought of before.

His father’s outburst had forced him to look at his life and understand what was missing. The thing that he needed the most, and ached to ask for, was the love and solidarity that a person could hold for him. As he sat there at the dining table, he knew Clare would hold his hand back. She had never pushed him or asked him about his future because she knew it hurt him.

She knew all the ins and outs that this war brought and the struggle that it was to feel whole in a world that was being torn apart limb for limb.

Clare didn’t look for a husband, didn’t look for a family, didn’t look for any of that in the midst of the realities they faced—she looked for someone who understood, who felt the same pains.

Harry was in love. Not with the idea of falling, but with the idea of being afraid of it.  

Clare stilled beneath him. Her heart felt like it would tear through her chest as her lip trembled softly; it was pushed away by the smile that she forced.

She cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb over his cheek. “Then don’t stop. Please, Harry.”

There was nothing rushed about it. No sharp gasps or hasty hands. Just the slow, deliberate rhythm of two people finding something sacred in each other. Her breath caught when he pressed into her—both of them stilling at the depth of it, the quiet gasp she let out, the way his mouth caught at her shoulder to keep from crying out.

Every ounce of it was full of something more than themselves; Harry didn’t let himself get caught up in the imperfections, of how messy it seemed, how his sister may hear from the next room over.

They moved like the world outside didn’t exist; like they didn’t have time to waste. Like they might never have this moment again.

She whispered his name once, maybe twice, and he kissed her through every sound she made. Her hands roamed over the scars he tried to hide, and he let her see all of him—no fear, no shame. Just skin, and heat, and want.

It was gentle, and slow, and so deeply felt it hurt. And when it was over, when his body stilled inside of her and her back arched into him, the complete ecstasy that filled their bodies with warmth—when their bodies quieted and his chest rested heavy against hers, she said it this time, quieter this time, against his collarbone.

“I love you.”

She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder, holding him like she could keep him safe there.

He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, letting her rest over his chest, her slip now tangled somewhere at her waist. The covers were barely clinging to them, and the moonlight spilled over the curve of her bare thigh as it crossed over his.

It was much louder than they probably intended, but Harry dared someone to come knock to tell them to quiet down. Harry’s hand traced slow lines up her spine, and then down again, resting at the small of her back.

“You’re bad for me,” he whispered, teasing as he stared at the ceiling.

Clare smirked against his chest. “That’s not what you said a moment ago.”

“I take it back,” he murmured, turning so she lay fully beneath him again. “You’re worse than I thought. The kind of woman a man loses sleep over. Loses his place in heaven over.”

She blushed, but her breath caught when he kissed her again—this time trailing his lips slowly down her neck, then her chest, then lower.

“Harry,” she whispered, voice catching between shock and desire as she felt the tingles on her skin every time he laid his lips down onto her. The small sound of his kiss was enough to hypnotise her.

His hands were sure as they placed themselves on her waist, his mouth finding the soft skin just below her navel. It was too much for the quiet flat, too intimate, too improper.

“Scandalous,” she breathed, half-laughing, trembling beneath his attention. She bit her lip as she continued to look down at him,

He looked up at her; spreading her thighs that she kept locked together, his cheeks flushed, hair falling into his eyes as he lowered himself downwards, anticipation allowing his

“Tell me to stop.”

Of course, she didn’t—she hadn’t known a feeling like that before. No one had shown her the pleasures of it.

Instead, her hand slid into his hair, and she whispered, “I never want you to.”

And in that moment—bare, breathless, and worshipped—Clare realized she’d never known how much of herself she’d held back before Harry. Because there was no room for modesty here. Only the kind of trust that let a woman open herself completely.

Clare gasped when his lips grazed the inside of her thigh, like he almost enjoyed teasing her more than the actual acts. His stubble scratched faintly along her skin, and her blue slip was hiked along her waist, nipples rubbing against the silk as the small, thin sleeves practically fell from her shoulders.

“Harry,” she said again, firmer this time, her breath stuttering, “you don’t have to…”

But he looked up, eyes glassy and warm with devotion. “I know,” he murmured, his voice like velvet over gravel. “I want to.”

This certainly wasn’t something women talked about—Clare barely knew if this was something that was done at all. Not in tea rooms or tucked between folded ration slips. Certainly not in the starched walls of the hospital. This sort of touch—this sort of love, was whispered about behind hands or in scandalous novels hidden in dresser drawers.

It was something she’d never even considered would be for her. And yet, here she was—pressed into the quiet mattress of her narrow bed, the low creak of the floorboard the only witness to what he was doing.

He kissed the tender crease at the top of her thigh, and she gasped, her fingers clutching at the edge of the pillow. Her knees trembled, instinctively falling open as the heat of his breath met the most secret part of her.

When his mouth found her fully, truly, she choked on the sound that wanted to escape. Her eyes flew open, and her back arched against the mattress. She had never, never felt anything like it.

It was scandalous; the way that his eyes lifted above her to look at her while performing such an act was one of complete sin.

She bit down on her bottom lip to keep quiet; the moan stuck at the base of her throat as Harry’s hands curled around her thighs, anchoring her as if she might float away. Each pass of his tongue was slow, purposeful—then, quick and needing as if he’d waited years for the chance to learn every inch of her.

“Darling,” he rasped between kisses, between laps of his tongue, “you taste like sin and summer.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that. Her body was strung tight, trembling from the inside out, her fingers digging into his hair now, urging and pleading and clutching him like salvation.

When the pleasure crested, when it finally snapped like a wave across every inch of her, she buried her face into the pillow and let it wash over her, breathless and stunned and utterly undone. Her chest lifted and exhaled with such pertinence that she could barely believe that she was still alive.

The silence afterward was sacred. Harry crawled up beside her, lips swollen, eyes soft, one hand brushing the hair from her cheek.

Clare could barely speak. She could only look at him—this man who had crawled into the deepest parts of her and lit a fire.

“I love you,” he whispered again, pressing his forehead to hers. “God help me, I do.”

And all she could manage, still shaking, still pulsing with aftershocks, was a whisper in return.

“I believe you.”

Even if the world outside tore itself to pieces, she knew it now: Harry Styles was hers. And this—this intimacy, this heat, this tenderness, was no longer something whispered about in shadowed corners.

Being in love was setting a match on fire and watching the place burn around you without a care in the world, knowing that nothing mattered but the feeling between you. If a match were to strike, a bomb was to drop, Clare and Harry knew that all that mattered was what laid there on the white sheets of the bed and listen to the other’s heartbeat until the very last one stopped.

+++

The stairs creaked under Harry’s bare feet as he crept down them with the caution of a man trained for stealth, but obviously entirely unprepared for siblings.

He wore only a wrinkled undershirt and yesterday’s trousers, hastily pulled on inside Clare’s room when the sun had begun to edge through the curtains. His hair was tousled in the way it always was after a rough night’s sleep, or something else entirely. He tried to rake a hand through it, as if that might make him look less obviously guilty of the scandalous acts that occurred behind those doors.

He’d just reached the narrow hallway near the kitchen when he heard the soft click of a door opening from the outside.

Nora walked through the door from the outside, arms crossed, still in her dressing gown, mug in hand. Her eyebrows rose slowly. “Morning.”

Harry froze. “Alright?”

“Brisk for June out there this morning,” she said casually, sipping her tea. “Bit of a chill in the air. Especially if you’re sneaking about without socks on.”

He sighed, defeated. “Can’t we just pretend you didn’t see anything?”

“Oh no,” she said brightly, pursing her lips. “Absolutely not. Because I did see something. Or rather, I saw the looks of someone leaving someone else’s room looking very rumpled and very... satisfied.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nora.”

She walked past him with a grin, bumping her shoulder into his as she did. “Relax. I’m not scandalized. Mum, maybe—glad she’s not awake yet. But I’m thrilled. Honestly, it’s about time you looked like someone who’s had more than five hours of sleep and a reason to smile.”

He glanced toward the stairs, sheepish. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” Nora turned, eyeing him. “Not even a little bit?”

Harry went to speak, to defend himself, but he found himself shrugging with cheeks pink. “Alright. Maybe a little bit.”

She laughed, soft and sincere this time. “Good. You needed her last night more than you need your pride this morning,” She gave him a long stare, exhaling before she leaned against the counter. “And dad’s criticism last night was a bit harsh. Glad it was her that chased after you.”

Then, after a pause, she added with a smirk, “But do us all a favor next time and try not to creak the floorboards so loud, yeah? Think you woke everyone in the house.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling now, too.

Harry grabbed a glass of water, taking a sip before he started to move towards the steps, then hearing his sister from the kitchen, “I’ll keep it quiet if you make me the first to know when she’s Mrs. Styles.”

Harry paused on the stairs, heart catching slightly—then shook his head and climbed the rest of the way, one hand still warm from where Clare had held it all night.

+++

Clare descended the stairs slowly, careful to smooth her dress as she moved, fingers trembling just slightly at the seams. The soft ticking of the kitchen clock reached her before the scent of fried eggs and black tea did, and she took a quiet breath to collect herself.

The house was alive in the soft, familiar chaos of morning. Anne clattered gently at the stove, Nora hummed as she flipped through the newspaper, and the children’s voices carried faintly from the garden, where their boots thudded across the early grass.

Harry sat at the table, one leg stretched out, his head turned lazily toward the doorway just as Clare entered. Their eyes met, and something shifted beneath her ribs.

He looked… changed. Not drastically, not in a way anyone else might notice. But to her, every detail stood out like bold ink on parchment. His curls were still damp from the sink, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, a smear of marmalade forgotten at the edge of his toast. But it was his expression that caught her most—relaxed, warm, and just on the verge of some private amusement.

Clare felt her cheeks flush at his sight.

“Morning,” she said, voice light but betraying the beat of her pulse. “How is everyone this morning?”

“Morning,” Harry returned, his tone low and easy, like a shared secret tucked between them.

Nora raised an eyebrow without looking up from the paper. “Sleep alright?” she asked, far too casually.

Clare moved toward the teapot, carefully avoiding Harry’s gaze now. “Like a log,” she replied, smoothing her hands over her skirt as she poured.

Nora made a sound in the back of her throat—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh—but Anne cut in before she could needle any further. “There’s still toast, love. Jam’s just there.”

“Thank you.” Clare took the seat furthest from Harry, trying to seem perfectly unaffected.

But Harry, of course, wasn’t helping.

He watched her with a softness that made her skin prickle, the corners of his mouth curving like he knew exactly what she was thinking. When she reached for the butter, his hand grazed hers, and Clare nearly dropped the knife.

“Mum,” Nora chirped suddenly, “Harry was saying he might want to go for a walk later. Clear his head.”

“Oh?” Anne turned, spatula in hand. “Thought you said you’d help your father sort out those old roof tiles.”

“I might do both,” Harry said, eyes still on Clare. Then, more gently, “Actually, I was wondering if Clare might join me. Thought we could walk out past the fields, bring something to eat.”

Clare looked up, startled. His voice had softened for her, tugging her gently toward him without laying a hand. She could feel Nora grinning beside her without looking.

“A picnic?” she asked, lips twitching.

Harry gave her a slow, crooked smile. “Unless you’ve had your fill of my company already.”

Clare pretended to consider, chewing on the inside of her cheek as if it weren’t already decided. “No,” she said finally. “I think I could manage a bit more.”

Anne turned away, hiding her pleased smile as she plated more eggs. Nora leaned back in her chair, arms folded, gaze bouncing between the two of them like a spectator at the theatre.

“You’ll want a blanket,” she said idly. “And maybe a bit of luck, considering the sky.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, tea in hand, and gave Clare a look that made her toes curl in her shoes. She could still feel his hands from the night before, the press of his chest, the soft, whispered I love you that had settled under her skin like a vow.

And now here they were—across the table, surrounded by family, pretending they hadn’t broken all the rules just hours ago. But something in Harry’s gaze told her he didn’t regret a second of it.

Neither did she.

+++

The sun was low in the sky, stretched like melted gold across the fields. The air was soft and warm, buzzing with the sleepy hum of late summer — cicadas droning in the hedgerows, the faint bleating of sheep in the far-off hills.

Clare tucked her skirt beneath her legs, perched atop a wool blanket that Harry had carried under one arm from the house. Beside her, a basket lay open with half-eaten cheese, a crusty loaf, and two glass bottles of ginger beer sweating in the heat.

It was peaceful out here, the kind of quiet she hadn’t realized she needed until it settled around her like a second skin. The war felt far away — if only for the evening — and in the breeze, in the golden hush, there was something that felt like healing.

Harry lay beside her, stretched on his back with his arms behind his head, eyes closed against the sinking sun.

“I never used to like this place much,” he said, his voice low, as if not wanting to disturb the peace. “The farm, the hills. Thought it was boring when I was young. Too quiet. Too small.”

Clare glanced over at him. “And now?”

He opened his eyes, slowly turning his head to look at her. “Now, it’s all I want. Something still. Something that doesn’t disappear in smoke—for now, I guess.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, only reached over and brushed her fingertips lightly against the back of his hand.

He turned his palm up, laced their fingers together.

“I have good days,” he said quietly. “Better than I expected, being back home. My mum makes me eat far too much, Nora’s little one’s cling to me like I’m some sort of giant. Fix things that don’t need fixing.”

Clare smiled faintly, watching him. “And the bad days?”

His throat worked, and his gaze slipped up toward the clouds that were just beginning to darken, but the blue sky still coated them.

“I wake up thinking I’m still there. Still waiting for orders or wondering if today’s the day I don’t come back. Sometimes I remember things in flashes. I’ll hear a bang, just the door closing, and my stomach drops like I’m falling through the air again.”

Clare said nothing; she didn’t need to. She just squeezed his hand.

“I don’t sleep through the night,” he admitted. “Not really. I think about the lads — Dean, Michael. About the ones who didn’t even have a name left to bury. Some mornings I feel so bloody guilty I can’t breathe. Like I’m walking around wearing someone else’s life.”

Clare leaned her head gently against his shoulder, grounding him in her softness.

“You are walking around with your life,” she said. “And I’m glad you are. I’m glad you’re here.”

He turned his face into her hair, kissed the crown of her head. “You’ve always said that so easily.”

“Because I mean it.”

A long moment passed, filled only with the chirp of crickets and the gentle breeze rustling through the tall grass.

Then Harry shifted, rolling onto his side to face her. His brow was furrowed, like he’d been turning something over and over in his mind for hours. “I had a moment the other morning,” he said. “When I watched you laugh at something Nora said, and then you bent down to help Ellie with her shoes, and it hit me like a bloody freight train.”

She tilted her chin to look up at him.

“That I want that forever. Not just for a visit. Not just for letters or weekends or borrowed time. I want it all. I want you, Clare.”

Her breath caught, and he reached up to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his touch featherlight.

“I know it’s fast,” he went on. “I know it’s only been six months, and half of that spent with ink-stained fingers writing each other from miles apart. But I also know what it’s like to lose everything in a second. I’ve spent every moment since I met you thanking God I didn’t lose the chance to know you.”

Clare blinked, her throat tight.

“I want to marry you,” Harry said softly. “I want a home. I want your laugh in the kitchen and you stealing all the blankets and waking up next to you when I can’t sleep. I want the life we thought we might not get.”

She stared at him — her Harry, his green eyes earnest and vulnerable, still carrying pieces of the boy he used to be and forged by everything he’d survived. He looked impossibly handsome in the amber light, curls tousled, freckles glowing like stardust across his nose, and yet there was something deeper in his beauty now — something bruised and brave and entirely real.

“You’re serious,” she whispered, almost afraid to believe it.

“I’ve never been more,” He bit on his bottom lip, “I think I knew it when you first sat with me through the worst night of my life,” he continued. “You didn’t flinch. And since then, I… I haven’t wanted to imagine any kind of future that doesn’t include you.”

She felt the ground tilt, just slightly. The weight of those words—not heavy but anchoring. As though everything in her had been untethered before this moment.

Clare leaned in and kissed him, slow and certain, her heart hammering as his hand came to cradle her jaw.

They broke apart just barely, foreheads resting together.

“Yes,” she whispered, eyes still closed. “Yes, Harry. I want that too.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh — part relief, part awe — and kissed her again, this time with a hunger that belied the stillness of the field around them. His arms came around her, pulling her into his chest, and she melted into him, the grass rustling beneath them, the sky stretching wide above.

They’d lingered on the edge of the blanket long after the biscuits were gone, the countryside humming with bees and swaying grass. Clare lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, watching Harry as he plucked a tall blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. His shirt had come partially untucked, and a bit of pink skin peeked from beneath, sun-warmed and freckled.

“I love you,” he said, like it had been there the whole time, waiting on his tongue.

Clare sat up straighter, her breath catching. His eyes searched hers, steady and certain.

He reached into the inside pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small box, it was quite modest, wrapped in linen twine.

“It’s not much,” he said, “but I got it just before you came here. I was waiting to get it right, but I think this is right. This mess of a field and your bare feet and me probably getting grass stains on my trousers.”

Her hand trembled slightly as he placed the box in it. Inside was a delicate gold band, a single garnet set in the middle, deep and rich like the blush that rose to her cheeks.

“Marry me, Clare.”

Her eyes shot back to him as she couldn’t feel anything in her lungs; the surprise lifting off her as she shook her head and placed a hand on her chest looking at the ring.

“Harry—I,” She took the ring out of the box and gave it a look, the smile on her lips twitching as she looked back at him again with an undeniable surprise.

The sky cracked. Thunder grumbled low, and then the clouds opened.

Clare shrieked as the rain came down in fat, summer-warm drops, soaking through her dress in seconds. Harry, undeterred, tilted his head back with a boyish grin, arms stretched to his sides.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she shouted, half-laughing at the circumstances.

“I think that’s a yes!” he called, getting up from his spot on the blanket, dancing backward into the open grass as the rain drenched them both.

Clare tried to pack the items back into the basket, but it was no use—everything was wet, the blanket a soggy heap. Clare’s hair clung to her face, rivulets running down the back of her neck. She turned to Harry, breathless, soaked through as she stood.

He glanced at the pond just a few yards off. Still, quiet, reflecting the flashes of light in the sky. Without another word, Harry begun tugging off his suspenders and peeled away his wet shirt. Clare’s jaw dropped.

“You’re not—Harry, you can’t just—”

“Oh, I can,” he said, backing toward the edge of the pond, barefoot in the grass as he kicked off his shoes and socks; working on his belt as he made his way to the edge. “And I will. Come on, live a little.”

“You’re mad!” Clare called out with a blustering scream, laughter injected inside.

“You’ve always known that.”

She hesitated, arms folded, rain dripping from her elbows as she watched him.

“Clare,” he said, lowering his voice and stepping out of his pants, “the world’s gone upside down. Everything is chaos and ration books and grief we can’t speak out loud. And here we are—in the middle of a field. You love me, I love you, sweetheart. Let’s get naked and jump in that pond.”

She stared at him—at the water beading on his collarbones, the mischievous flicker in his eyes as his hair dripped into his face. Then, with a disbelieving shake of her head, she began unbuttoning the back of her damp dress.

“Don’t look,” she warned him with a smirk.

“I’m absolutely looking.”

Harry gave her a last smirk before he ran to the edge of the grass before he dove straight into the water; the raindrops circling him as he came back up and shook the water from his head with a laugh. In an instant, he took off his boxer shorts and threw them to the shore before giving Clare a nod.

“Bit of an incentive now, innit?”

With a sigh, she let the dress drop in a pile by her feet. She kicked off her own shoes, before toeing into the water, wearing only her slip, now nearly translucent in the rain.

“Jump in!” Harry encouraged, swimming over to where she stood by the bank. The water wasn’t incredibly deep, but Harry couldn’t stand properly in it, either.

With a swoop dive, Clare dove straight in with a scream. Swimming to the surface, she found that Harry swam to her in just a few strokes, laughing when her teeth chattered just slightly.

She squealed and splashed him in return, and they met in the middle, the pond circling around them like a baptism of something entirely new.

“You didn’t even say yes,” he whispered against her cheek as he held her close.

“I didn’t have to,” she said, cupping his face. “You already knew.”

And with that, they kissed again, their lips wet with rain and pond water and a little taste of what the rest of their lives could look like.

+++

The rain hadn’t let up.

It came down in sheets, soaking through to the bone, turning the lane to soft earth and the hedges into dripping curtains. The two of them trudged through the puddles anyway; they were barefoot, laughing, skin flushed from the swim, hearts still pounding from what had just passed between them.

Harry walked beside Clare, shirtless with his suspenders hanging around his thighs, water trailing down the sharp lines of his chest. His hair clung to his forehead, curls plastered in a way that made him look far younger—boyish, but also free. Clare wore his shirt, oversized and heavy with rain, clinging to her slip dress underneath. It hung nearly to her knees and bared her legs, mud splattered up the backs of her calves.

They looked like a pair of soaked, guilty children caught kissing behind the barn. But they were far from innocent. Clare's cheeks hurt from smiling ear to ear.

They kissed her in the rain with the kind of reverence that made her forget the rest of the world existed; it felt like their world. His hands had lingered at her waist. Her fingers had traced the curve of his ribs under the waves. Every laugh between them had felt like breathing for the first time in weeks.

“Are we going to make it before someone calls the Home Guard on us?” she asked, nudging his arm with a giggle.

“If they see you like this, I might have to fight someone,” he teased, glancing over with a smirk. “You’ve got my shirt on. That’s practically a marriage proposal.”

“I believe you already made one of those,” she shot back, trying not to shiver as a gust of wind whipped across the path; she flashed her hand to him with the gold band on.

“Still stands, too.”

They reached the house, the porch steps slick beneath their bare feet. Harry pushed open the door, and warmth hit them at once; the air had cooled outside, even though it was late June— the scent of cinnamon and a roast still lingering in the air.

The low hum of the wireless drifted in from the sitting room. They were laughing, brushing off droplets by the front door, Harry's hand still on the small of her back as he pulled her close, when Clare paused.

There were voices. More than one. She turned to look.

Anne was seated in her armchair by the hearth, her knitting needles resting idle in her lap. Nora sat cross-legged on the rug with Beth leaning against her, while Alfie played with a wooden plane near the hearth. And across from them, the figure that made Harry still was his father, Geroge. They hadn’t spoken since their spat; this didn’t seem the time or place.

He was sitting stiff-backed in his chair by the window, a mug in hand, eyes narrowed as he looked up at his son and the woman at his side. The laughter died instantly.

Water dripped from Clare’s knees. Harry’s curls were plastered to his forehead. Her legs were bare beneath the hem of his shirt, and Harry—God help him—was shirtless and tracking mud into his mother’s house.

No one said anything. The only sound was the BBC announcer on the wireless reciting war headlines, something about heavy bombing in the north of France.

Anne, ever the peacemaker, rose first from her seat as she took in an inhale.

“Well,” she said brightly evaluating the fact that they were soaking the front mat, “you’ve both brought the storm in with you.”

Harry cleared his throat, his jaw working. “Sorry—we, um—went walking. Got caught in it.”

Clare gave a mortified smile, tucking her hair behind her ear as she crossed her arms, feeling completely bare. “We’ll clean up after ourselves, ma’am.”

Nora smirked behind her teacup, lurching her head towards their stance in the foyer. “Must’ve been a very long walk.”

Alfie looked up from his story book innocently from where he sat on the floor. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt, Uncle Harry?”

Harry blinked without anything else to say, a bit tongue-tied and confused. “I, uh—"

“He gave it to Clare,” Beth offered, helpfully. “Because he’s in love.”

Clare turned positively scarlet. Harry’s eyes flicked once toward his father, gauging the temperature in the room. George didn’t speak, but his expression was set—stone and firelight. It was impossible to tell whether it was judgment or resignation there. He wasn’t sure which was better.

Anne stepped in gracefully. “Go on then, both of you. Upstairs before you catch your death. There’s a towel in the linen cupboard and clean clothes on the banister, Harry. And Clare, dear, I believe you’ve stolen my son’s dignity as well as his shirt.”

Nora snorted into her tea. Harry’s eyes met Clare’s for half a second as they backed toward the stairs.

Clare whispered as they started to climb the stairs to the next level, “We’re never going to live this down.”

Harry leaned closer, leading her towards the closet to grab a linen towel. “Worse ways to be caught, don’t you think?”

“And your father?” Clare asked, whispering.

His jaw tensed at the question; he shrugged without another word. “Let him think what he wants. I’m not hiding from the one good thing I’ve found.”

She flushed, heart thumping at his words before she used the towel to blot out her dripping hair.

“Still,” he added under his breath, glancing over his shoulder, “next time we strip down in a field, remind me to check who’s going to be home first—didn’t think we’d have a crowd.”

They disappeared up the stairs, their laughter muffled by the creak of the floorboards. Behind them, in the quiet sitting room, George Styles lifted his mug and stared at the fire, but for once, he said nothing at all.

+++

Upstairs, the warmth of dry clothes and the smell of roast warming again in the oven dulled some of the embarrassment.

Clare had changed into a clean, cream dress that Nora had laid out for her, her damp hair pinned loosely at her neck. Harry had pulled on a crisp white button-down, still rubbing his hair dry with a towel when he walked into the little guest room where Clare was fastening her stockings.

“You look like trouble,” he murmured from the doorway, grinning.

She turned, arching a brow. “Coming from the man who dragged me half-naked through a thunderstorm?”

He laughed softly, stepping in to fix one of her pins. “I don’t regret a second of it.”

She stilled under his fingers. His touch lingered just a little too long. Then he pulled back, suddenly bouncing on the balls of his feet like a man with a secret.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked, a bit curious at his anxiousness. He pursed his lips to the side a bit, staring at the ground before he gave her a look. A look that she had grown to know as serious as it could be.

Harry hesitated, eyes bright. “I was going to wait until the morning... before you left.”

Clare blinked, shaking her head as she paused her movements. “Wait for what?”

He took her hand, lifted it, and brought it to his lips. “To tell everyone.”

She tilted her head. “Tell them…?”

“That you said yes.” His grin widened, shaking his head a bit like she should have known that. “That I’m going to marry the woman who dragged me out of hell with a cup of tea and a bloody book of poetry.”

Clare’s stomach fluttered; she stood up from her edge of the bed before she was met by him in front of her. “Harry—are you sure you want to announce it like this?”

He was already pulling her out into the hall. “I’ve never been surer of anything.”

Her heart stuttered at the way he said it—like it wasn’t just about the way she looked in that moment, flushed and barefoot in one of her simple house dresses, but about everything that had led them to now.

She tucked herself slightly behind his shoulder as they descended the stairs, feeling the creak of the wood beneath each step, the faint murmur of conversation rising from below. She could hear Anne’s voice, then Nora’s laughter, and the gentle clink of dishes being cleared.

As they reached the last few steps, Harry paused and turned back to her with a boyish grin and one last whispered question: “Still sure you want to do this with me?”

Clare smiled, tightening her fingers around his. “Only if you’re sure.”

Downstairs, the dining room had been reset with a second tablecloth and more candles. The roast had been kept warm, and a second round of potatoes was making the rounds when Harry and Clare entered, hand-in-hand.

Nora’s eyes immediately darted to the joined hands and then to her mother, a slow, delighted smile spreading across her face. Clare was flushed, but Harry’s face was all confidence and joy, like a man standing at the edge of something good.

Harry cleared his throat, his earlier eagerness tempered now by a flicker of nerves. For all his boldness dragging Clare down the stairs, now that they stood in the center of the room—barefoot, hair damp from the rain, clothes clinging faintly to their skin—it all felt heavier. Realer.

“Everyone—” he began, his voice steady, but softer.

From the corner of the table, Alfie looked up, a fork still mid-air. “Did you fall in the pond again?”

A snort escaped from Beth, who was curled up on the edge of the armchair, kicking her heels against the leg. “Is she your girlfriend now?”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, glancing sidelong at Clare. “Something like that.��

Then he reached for her hand, grounding himself in the warmth of her fingers, and looked toward his mother. The room had gone quieter—more alert somehow, as if even the walls were leaning in.

“Clare and I…” he said, voice catching on the pause. “We’re engaged.”

For a moment, it didn’t register. Or perhaps it did, but no one moved, as if giving space for the words to settle properly in their chests.

Then Anne gasped, one hand pressed to her chest, the other flying to her mouth. Her eyes brimmed instantly. “Oh—Harry!”

Nora let out a cheer, rising from her seat to wrap her arms around Clare from behind. “I knew it! I knew it. You’ve had that silly look on your face since she wrote you the first letter.”

Beth clapped enthusiastically, delighted by the fanfare, and Alfie, not quite sure what engagement meant, grinned because everyone else was happy.

Clare felt her cheeks warm under the sudden attention, but it was a good sort of warmth—rooted in something safe. Something real. Her heart beat steadily beneath Harry’s palm where it rested against her side, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to exhale.

Until the energy shifted. All eyes gradually turned to the end of the table.

George Styles sat in his usual seat, posture easy but unreadable, arms folded across his chest like he was holding something in. The soft crackle of the radio hummed in the background—news from the continent, voices warbling through the rainstorm on the roof.

Harry straightened instinctively, a subtle but practiced motion—one he hadn’t used in months. “Dad?”

The question lingered in the air. There was a long pause, just long enough to make the fire in the hearth seem louder, to make Clare’s fingers tighten ever so slightly in his.

Then George spoke: “That was fast.”

It was just four words, but it may as well have been forty as they dropped like iron into water. The room stilled again, but not with joy this time. Clare’s smile slipped, not completely, but enough for Harry to feel it disappear beside him.

Harry’s jaw twitched as he inhaled, standing taller. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

George looked at him. No anger. No visible disappointment. Just that quiet, old-world stoicism—the kind that masked more than it revealed.

“I say it like a father who knows the cost of rushing,” he replied evenly.

Harry’s throat bobbed once. “With respect… I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”

George nodded slowly. Not in agreement, not in refusal. Just a gesture, like setting something aside that he wasn’t ready to open.

Anne rose from her chair, moving past the awkward silence like a balm. She stepped toward Clare and gently cupped her face, tears still shining in her eyes. “Welcome to the family, sweetheart,” she said.

Nora gave Harry a nudge and whispered, “You’re lucky she said yes.”

Harry, heart thudding and jaw still set, turned slightly to Clare and murmured just for her, “I meant what I said earlier. No second thoughts.”

Clare leaned in, brushing her lips to his cheek. “None,” she whispered back.

And though the rain still battered the windows, and George Styles sat with arms crossed and eyes careful, the hearth burned bright, and the future began to bloom in the warmth between them.

George didn’t raise his voice. “You’ve been home for a matter of weeks. And now you’re settling in? Like it’s all behind you?”

“It’s not behind me,” Harry said sharply. “You think I don’t know that? But it’s not about forgetting—it’s about choosing something better.”

“I just thought you’d… take your time. Think it through.”

Anne cut in gently, “George—”

“No,” Harry said, voice tightening as he took his seat at his usual spot at the table. “It’s alright. He’s disappointed.”

“I didn’t say that.” George glared at Harry, but Harry kept his eyes on his own plate.

“You didn’t have to.”

Clare placed a calming hand on his back, but Harry’s shoulders were set, his heart pounding in his ears.

“I went to war,” he explained, “I lost people. I came back different. But Clare—she’s the reason I even remember what it means to want something more than just surviving. So if you can’t be happy for me, I don’t know what to tell you.”

George looked at his son long and hard. Then he nodded once, a stiff gesture, and turned back to his food.

“Congratulations,” he said simply, but it landed hollow.

Harry looked up slowly, not looking at him.

Anne reached across and placed a hand over Clare’s, giving her a soft smile. Nora mouthed sorry across the table, then offered Harry a wink that pulled a breath of laughter out of him despite the tension. And Clare—Clare reached for Harry’s hand again, under the table where no one could see, and he held on like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

The mood had softened again, as it often did after a family meal—like steam rising from empty plates, tension lifting into something gentler. The radio hummed quietly in the corner, playing an old tune Clare couldn’t name but recognized in the way it settled into her bones. Harry sat beside her, close enough that their arms brushed, his pinky just barely hooked around hers under the table.

Anne poured another round of tea and glanced across at Clare with a familiar warmth. “So, love,” she began, voice kind but curious, “what comes next for the two of you?”

Clare looked over at Harry briefly—he gave her the smallest nod of encouragement, the kind that said, Tell them what you like. I’ll follow your lead. She smoothed her hands over her skirt and folded them in her lap.

“Well… I have a flat in London,” she said, a little sheepish. “Top floor near Russell Square. It’s nothing fancy—creaky floorboards and a window that sticks in the rain—but it’s mine.”

“Oh, how romantic,” Nora said, smiling. “Like something out of a novel.”

“It’s small,” Clare laughed, “but there’s space for two. And Harry… well, he’d come stay, at least while he figures out what comes next.”

Anne tilted her head, expression thoughtful. “And your family, dear? Will they be nearby?”

Clare’s smile softened at the edges. “My mother passed when I was sixteen,” she said gently. “And my father… we have our differences. We’re not especially close,” She took a sip of water, “My brother also....” She trailed off, enough where everyone knew what she meant. “So it’s just my father and I.”

A hush passed over the table. Anne reached over, laying a hand over Clare’s in the kind of motherly gesture that needed no explanation.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” Clare said, quietly. “It was a long time ago now. I think the war made all of us grow up faster.”

“And you’re still working at the hospital in Babbacombe?” Nora asked.

“Yes, I’ll be back and forth for a while. It’s not too far by train, and I’ve done the distance before. Letters have filled the in-betweens. They’ll do again.” Her eyes turned towards Harry before he settled with a soft smile.

“Well,” Anne said, glancing between the two of them with a twinkle in her eye, “you can’t speak of letters and flats and trains without showing us the ring.”

Clare blinked, startled at the question. “Oh! Of course.” She lifted her hand a little, and Harry, blushing slightly, took it gently, turning it just enough for his mother and sister to see.

The ring was modest but beautiful: a vintage setting, delicate gold with a single garnet jewel that caught the candlelight and winked like a secret. Clare could still hardly believe it was hers.

“Oh, Harry,” Anne breathed. “It’s lovely.”

“Where did you find it?” Nora asked, reaching forward to admire it more closely.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “A shop off the square. The man said it had been waiting for someone who’d know what it meant to start over.”

Anne’s eyes shimmered slightly. “Well. I hope you told him you found the right girl.”

“I did,” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “She’s it.”

Clare looked down, a shy smile pulling at her lips. She wasn’t used to such praise—not so plainly spoken, especially not in front of family—but something about it made her sit a little taller, made her heart bloom just a little wider in her chest.

“Well,” Anne said, wiping the corner of her eye and sitting back with a little laugh, “you’ll always have a place here too, Clare. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” Clare said, voice tight with sincerity. “Thank you. Truly.”

At the far end of the table, Beth was now curled up with a book on the rug, and Alfie was half-dozing in his chair. The adults sat in that warm, flickering space between dinner and dusk, the radio low, the fire crackling.

And in that soft lull, Clare looked around and saw it for what it was—not just Harry’s family, but hers now too.

Harry leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple, his hand still covering hers. The rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, steady and low.

+++

The rest of the house had settled into a sleepy hush. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the sitting room, and Nora had taken the children up to bed after a final goodnight kiss to Harry’s cheek. Anne had disappeared into the kitchen to tidy up the last of the teacups, leaving Clare momentarily alone.

Or so she thought.

She turned at the sound of a soft creak behind her—Harry’s father stood in the doorway, a glass of something amber in his hand. The rain had slowed to a drizzle now, tapping rhythmically on the windows. George Styles looked tired but thoughtful, his usual sternness dimmed in the low light.

“Evening, Miss Clare,” he said gruffly, but not unkindly.

Clare straightened a little at his presence, a bit unsure. “Evening, Mr. Styles.”

He nodded once, crossing into the room with slow, deliberate steps. He eased himself into the old armchair by the hearth with a soft grunt and took a sip from his glass.

“Don’t let the bark fool you,” he said after a long pause. “I’ve got no quarrel with you.”

Clare looked at him, surprised as she situated herself into the seat. “I didn’t think you did, sir.”

He gave a wry smile at that—small, fleeting. “Good. Thought I’d best say it outright anyway. I’m not always easy with words.”

Clare folded her hands in front of her, feeling the weight of the quiet between them. “I know this can’t be easy. Letting someone into the family… when everything’s already been so—”

“Upturned,” he finished for her. “Yes. That’s a word for it.”

He stared into the fire a moment longer, then glanced over at her. “You’re not what I expected. But you’ve done something for my boy I didn’t think possible.”

Clare’s throat tightened. “I only—”

“You brought him back to himself,” George said. “Even after all the rest was stripped away. And I’d be a fool not to see it.”

He took another sip, then leaned back, his expression gentler now. “He had a girl once. Before the war. Nothing serious—they were too young. But he was always a romantic. Wrote her poems once. Poor lad. Never stood a chance.”

Clare smiled faintly, lowering herself into the chair opposite him. “He still writes. Letters. Beautiful ones.”

“I reckon he does,” George said, a hint of pride in his voice, though carefully veiled. “Never could keep his heart quiet.”

Clare sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes on the shifting embers, while George nursed a half-finished glass of whisky.

“He ever tell you about Amelia?” George asked after a long silence.

Clare turned, startled by the name. “No. I don’t think he did.”

George nodded slowly. “Didn’t think he would. They were barely out of school. Just young, soft things still figuring out the world. She was kind to him. Sweet. But it wasn’t meant to last.” He paused, his voice growing rough around the edges. “She left the year after he enlisted. Fell in love with a boy in Leeds. Wrote him a letter about it—one of those awful kind. He didn’t speak much for weeks after.”

Clare’s heart pinched, thinking of Harry, vulnerable and in his bunk reading a letter of a girl breaking his heart. “I didn’t know.”

“He wears his heart out where everyone can see it,” George continued, glancing toward the fire. “Has since he was little. Couldn’t hide a single thing if he tried. It’s a beautiful thing, but it’s dangerous too—makes the pain louder. That’s why I wanted him to come back different. Harder, maybe. Safer.”

Clare stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words settle between them. Then she spoke, her voice low but clear.

“When he came into the ward, I could tell straight away he was different. Not just wounded, but... grieving. He was fighting ghosts. And at first, he didn’t want anything from me. Not kindness, not care. But I sat with him anyway. I watched him flinch in his sleep, hold his breath when he asked about his crew. And I saw, underneath all the damage, that same boy you’re talking about. Someone who still wanted to love the world, even if it hurt him.”

George looked at her, his jaw tightening as he thought for a moment.

“I didn’t fall for a soldier,” Clare added, meeting his eyes now. “I fell for the man who tried to carry all the guilt of the war so no one else had to. The one who whispered prayers when he thought no one was listening. The one who said my name like it mattered.”

George stared at the hearth, blinking slowly. When he spoke again, his voice had softened. “And you think love is enough to carry all that weight?”

Clare’s smile was faint but resolute. “No. But I think it’s a place to set it down, at least.”

The old man let out a quiet breath, almost like a sigh of surrender. “He always needed someone who could see him clearly. Even when he couldn’t see himself.”

Clare nodded. “He does the same for me.”

George stood slowly, setting his glass aside, and gave her the smallest, most weathered smile. “Then maybe you’re exactly what he needs.”

Clare watched him go, a quiet warmth blooming in her chest—not from triumph, but from understanding. From the unexpected grace of being welcomed into the heart of a man whose son she already knew by heart. They sat there for a long moment, just the crackle of the fire and the hush of rain filling the space between their words.

“I may not say it the way my wife or daughter would,” George added, clearing his throat, “but you’re welcome here, Clare. Truly. If Harry’s chosen you, then that means something.”

Clare met his eyes, her own misting as she knew the sincerity of his words. Even if he couldn’t say them to his own son, she knew that her would try his best to do what he could. “Thank you, Mr. Styles. That means more than I can say.”

He gave a nod, then stood slowly, joints stiff from the chill. “Get some sleep, then. Tomorrow’ll come fast.”

He left with the barest smile, his footsteps soft on the floorboards.

And Clare sat a little longer by the fire, hand at her chest, feeling the warmth of something unexpected and deeply reassuring settle in her bones.

At the edge of the corridor just beyond the sitting room, Anne stood in her slippers, towel in hand from drying the last of the teacups. She had paused when she saw George and Clare sitting by the fire, something about the quiet tone in his voice anchoring her to the spot.

Behind her, Harry lingered at the foot of the stairs. He was dressed in his shirt sleeves, hair still damp from the rain, ready to head up when he’d heard his father’s voice—gentler than usual.

They both listened, not out of intrusion, but something like reverence.

“…But you’ve done something for my boy I didn’t think possible,” George said, right in the other room.

Harry exhaled slowly, the words hitting like a weight and lifting at the same time. He hadn’t heard his father speak like that in years. Not since before the war.

Anne turned slightly and looked at her son, her smile subtle but full of understanding. She reached out, placing a hand over Harry’s where it clutched the stair railing. “He means it,” she whispered. “He just doesn’t always know how to say it.”

Harry nodded once, eyes still on the soft glow of the fire through the doorframe.

When he finally turned toward the stairs, his voice was quiet. “She’s going to change everything for us.”

Anne’s smile widened, and she gently squeezed his hand. “She already has.”

The Next Day

The train let out a sharp whistle that pierced the sleepy hush of the morning platform. Steam curled around their ankles, rising in soft waves, catching in the sunlight like silk threads.

Clare adjusted the strap of her handbag, trying not to look as miserable as she felt. Her gloves were buttoned, her hair pinned neatly, her coat smoothed down with trembling fingers — but inside, everything was knotted and aching.

Harry stood just inches from her, hands in the pockets of his trousers, curls a bit wild from the wind, collar half-turned up. His eyes hadn’t left her since they’d arrived. They were soft now, a little sad but full of something else, too — something steadier, weightier. Love.

“You’re sure you’ll be alright?” he asked, voice low, cautious.

She gave a brave smile, nodding. “Of course. I’ve survived months of hospital night shifts and half-frozen ward windows. One train ride won’t do me in.”

He smiled faintly but didn’t laugh.

“I mean it,” she said, reaching for his hand, squeezing. “I’ll be alright.”

Harry glanced down at their joined hands, then lifted hers to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist — warm and slow. “You better not go off and fall in love with anyone else before I get down there.”

Clare laughed, eyes glassy, and bumped his shoulder with hers. “I’d like to see anyone try.”

The conductor called out again, a final warning, and the ache in Clare’s chest bloomed.

Harry stepped closer, tipping his forehead against hers. “I’ll be there soon,” he murmured. “I don’t care if I’ve got to take a horse and walk the rest of the way. You’ll see me again before your pillow’s forgotten the shape of my head.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat, blinking fast.

“I thank God every morning,” Harry whispered. “For the chance to be here. For the fact that I was given one more second, one more breath… and that it brought me to you.”

Clare closed her eyes, letting herself lean into the heat of his chest just once more. “Your story just hadn’t been completed yet,” she said softly. “It was only just beginning.”

He kissed her — gently, reverently, like she was the first good thing he’d ever known. Then the train hissed again, and she stepped away, eyes locked on his, every part of her wanting to stay.

As the train began to move, she found the window nearest the platform and pressed her hand to the glass. Harry matched it with his own, a silly smile breaking through the sadness.

He mouthed something, and it took her a second to read his lips, but when she did, her heart stuttered.

“My fiancée.”

Clare bit her lip, smiling so hard it nearly cracked the grief open.

“I’ll see you soon,” she mouthed back.

The train pulled forward, carrying her away from Manchester, away from him — but her heart, wrapped tight in the memory of their nights together, his whispered promises, and the shape of his hand on hers, stayed behind.

And ahead of her, somewhere waiting in London, was a life beginning.

[monster-disaster]

[wolf-shifter] Oliver

wolf-shifter!Oliver x human!male!Reader Good to know: malexmale, rut, smut

Summary: You are worried about your friend so you visit him.

A/N: Shelby's story can be found on my Patreon.

"Need a hand?" you ask, scratching the back of your head while eyeing the boxes piled haphazardly in the middle of the street. Screws glint in the early morning light, scattered across the ground in a mess.

"No, it's fine," the young woman replies, waving you off with a forced, tired smile. "You've got more important things to do than clean up someone else's screw-up."

A huff escapes your lips as you try to suppress a laugh, but a grin spreads across your face anyway. "Screw-up," you repeat.

"Go back to your buns," your neighbor from the hardware store chuckles. Her once-tense posture slowly relaxes as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"You sure? Looks like a real pain," you offer again, casting another glance at the chaotic mess of supplies.

"Yeah," she nods, but her smile falters for just a moment, replaced by a brief, tight grimace. "It's not the first time," she mutters.

You want to press her a bit more, but a quick glance at the watch on your wrist reminds you that if you don’t get back to the bakery soon, the croissants will soon be smoking in the oven. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

The sound of her shuffling the boxes lingers behind you as you head back to your shop.

_

"Hello," you smile. "What can I get for you?"

"Just the usual, please," comes the reply, and without even thinking, your hand is already reaching for the bagels neatly displayed beneath the glass counter. The warmth from them seeps through the paper bag as you hand it over.

"Thanks. Have a good day," they say, already on their way out.

"You too," you call after them, but your voice is swallowed by the steady hum of the shop. Behind you, the espresso machine hisses, adding to the busy chatter all around.

The bell above the door jingles again, a soft chime that blends into the rhythm of customers coming and going. The line at the counter never seems to shrink. It seems like it stretches with each passing second, and you have barely any time to catch your breath between the orders.

"Mornin'," the familiar deep voice draws your attention away from the counter. The rag you use for cleaning is forgotten as soon as you see the man standing in front of you.

"Hello," you smile, straightening your posture without your noticing. "What can I get for you?"

"Two baguettes, please," Oliver replies, and you nod, turning away from him to reach for his order, yet keeping an eye on him the whole time.

The man you have known since kindergarten looks disheveled, more tired than usual. His hunched posture and the light sheen of sweat on his forehead under the bakery's bright lights make you frown.

"Are you okay?" You ask him.

"'m fine," he mutters, leaning against the counter like he's struggling to stay on his feet.

The wrinkle between your brows deepens. "Oliver-"

"I'm fine, Y/N," he grunts with a frustrated edge to his voice. "Don't worry about it."

Don’t worry about him. You almost scoff. Ever since he left Ironridge to join the military worrying about him is all you do.

"Sure," you say quietly, biting back the questions crowding your mind. The line behind him is growing, and you don't have the time to dig deeper, no matter how much you want to.

He takes the bag from you while already turning to leave. "Thanks."

"I'll call you later," you nearly shout after him, and even though he doesn't react as he makes his way to the exit, you know his sensitive werewolf ears hear you.

The usual morning rush slowly fades, and when you finally have a moment to yourself, you pack a small bag and fresh coffee to take over to your neighbor as a pick-me-up for her tough morning.

The streets are now bustling with activity; stores are open, and people move about their day. The sun shines down over the rugged mountains and woods surrounding the town, yet the air still carries a crisp hint of the approaching autumn.

The bell in the hardware store jingles as you push open the door, your gaze lingering on the boxes still piled outside. "Y/N—Oh," your greeting falters when you notice she is not alone. Shelby throws you an unimpressed glance, but you don't take it personally. You aren't sure if the orc has any other expressions.

"What are you doing here?" your neighbor asks, putting back something on the counter before turning her full attention on you.

You lift the paper bag and plastic cup with a smile. “Breakfast. On the house. Looks like you've earned it.”

"Oh, thank you!"

"Are you sure you don't need help?" you ask, placing the bag and cup on the counter. Your eyes flick to the boxes stacked near the window. "They look heavy, and I've got time."

Before she can answer, Shelby's gruff voice slices through the conversation. "I will take care of it," she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. She points at your neighbor. "You, eat."

"Shelb—"

"Eat," Shelby insists, then steps out to tackle the boxes with determined strides.

You stand there, trying to hold back a chuckle. "She's in a good mood today," you tease. "But if I'm not needed, I should probably head back to the bakery."

"Bye," the young woman hums, still a bit dazed by the sudden turn of events, and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from teasing her further.

When you get outside, you grin at Shelby while nodding her way, but she scowls back at you without a sound. Typical. She hoists the boxes effortlessly, barely noticing the bustle of people flowing around her. The town is now fully awake, with traffic picking up and the stores on the main street open for business.

Back inside the shop, you pull out your phone, sending a quick text to Oliver. Are you okay? Just as you tuck the device away, the clock strikes twelve, and a fresh wave of customers begins to pour in.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of baking and filling orders, each task blending seamlessly into the next. Before long, you are locking the shop door while the sun is already sinking behind the distant mountains. As you settle into your car, you suddenly remember the message you sent, but when you check the phone, there is no answer from the other man.

"Okay," you huff under your breath. "Change of plans."

Oliver lives in a small cabin in the woods. He bought the place after he came back from the army. He needed space and privacy, and his wolf was calmer so close to nature.

A narrow, hidden path leads you into the forest. The green of the trees looks tired now with the fall in the doorway, but the canopy above is still thick, barely letting any silver of light through the branches. Your car stumbles up on the dirt road as the wheels fight with the bumps and pits on the way.

By the time you reach the small wooden building, the sun is behind the horizon, with only thin rays of light painting a slight blush on the otherwise clear sky. Among the tall, towering trees, the cabin is old but well-kept, with fresh renovations here and there. There is a porch with only one chair and empty flower boxes on the windows.

Leaving your car next to his, you grab the small bag of pastries you intended to eat for dinner. The crinkling of the paper bag sounds unusually loud in the quiet evening air. You knock on the front door, but after several attempts with no answer, a frown tugs at your lips. You are almost entirely sure he is home, and there is no way he can't hear you. You test the handle, and to your surprise, the door swings open easily. It’s unlocked.

"Oliver?" you call, stepping inside. The house feels too quiet, a strange stillness clinging to the air as if it’s holding its breath.

"Are you home?" you try again, your voice echoing slightly in the stillness. No answer. Not even the faintest sound of movement.

"Oliver!" Stepping into the house, you close the door behind you and leave the small paper bag on the kitchen table. "I brought you food." Your steps creak on the stairs as you make your way up to the second floor.

"Oliver?"

A frown pulls at your features as you near his bedroom. Muffled groans and labored breaths filter through the thick wooden door, growing louder with each step you take.

"Oliver?" you call again, your voice softer this time, a mix of concern and hesitation. There's no response, only the strained, irregular sounds from beyond the door.

The doorknob is cold in your hand as you turn it and push the door open.

The sight of him takes your breath away.

He lies in the tangled mess of his bed, naked and spread across the sheets. A thin layer of sweat glistens on his flushed skin, and beneath, his muscles twitch and flex, caught in a rhythm between agony and release. His chest expands with every ragged breath, and your gaze from the tense plates of his muscles wanders down across his stomach to the happy trail leading down your attention between his thick thighs. His cock juts out, hard and leaking onto his lower belly.

Oliver is caught somewhere between human and wolf. His triangular ears twitch at the sound of your footsteps, tracking your approach even as his glazed eyes remain half-closed. A heavy, furred tail sways lazily beneath him, brushing against the sheets. The slow movement is in contrast with the violent changes rippling through his body. His usually toned, muscular frame is hairier now, with dark fur creeping across his chest and shoulders. His back arches off the bed, and a low growl escapes his lips as his body convulses. His muscles bulge, stretching and thickening with each passing second. You can see his fingers elongating, transforming into claws as his hands dig into the bed. His face, once familiar, begins to morph, the bones cracking audibly as his mouth stretches into a long muzzle.

"I—" Oliver wheezes between ragged breaths, his voice rough and strained as his body continues to betray him. "I forgot the pills."

Oh

Werewolves without partners rely on suppressants to dull the intensity of their heat or rut. These pills help manage the unbearable desire, easing the physical and emotional strain that comes with it. Without it, however, the experience shifts from manageable to agonizing and tense, turning what should be a few days of discomfort into a feverish nightmare that can stretch into a week or longer. Without the suppressants, Oliver is left to endure the full force of it. His body burns from the inside out in a constant state of arousal that offers no relief, only exhaustion, no matter how many times he relieves himself. The fever takes its toll, leaving him trapped in a haze of desire, weakened and drained by the time it finally passes. His usual control is gone, replaced by raw instinct, and a deep, aching hunger burns and only grows in his stomach. His wolf claws to the surface, pushing his boundaries and testing his limits.

"What can I do?" you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, though the thick fur covering his body makes it impossible to feel his skin.

Oliver's long mouth opens, but the words blur into a drawn-out whine as his fingers curl around your wrist. His grip is shaky but enough to keep you close.

"Please," he whispers, heart racing. His hips buck upward, his cock bobbing beneath its own weight. The sight leaves you breathless.

"Oliver-"

"Please," he whines again with desperation.

Before you can process what’s happening, he pulls you onto the bed beside him. You tumble onto the messy sheets, and in an instant, his arms are wrapped around you, dragging you against him with an urgency that sends a thrill down your spine. His hips grind against the rough fabric of your jeans, a rhythm fueled by the fire burning his veins. His hand slips beneath your shirt, claws grazing over your stomach and up to your chest. The tickling sensation makes your muscles jerk, and a shocked moan escapes your lips when his fingers find your nipple, teasing and pulling until it's hard under his impatient touches.

"C'mere," he huffs, propping himself on one elbow to bury his face into the curve of your neck. You can hear every deep breath he takes, sniffing you and letting his nose run along your skin and pulse.

"Oliver," you gasp, fingers raking through the soft, brownish hair on his shoulder. You feel his muscles moving, tense and alive, as his hips continue to thrust against your hips, leaving a dark patch on your pants.

The sight of this powerful man becoming a begging, whimpering mess under the delirium of his rut sends a rush of heat through you. Arousal floods your veins, and the zipper of your jeans presses painfully against your own erection. Your reaction to this big male so desperate and pathetic is automatic. At this point, you aren't even sure if you have the will to say no to him.

"I'm here," you tell him softly, trying to ground him amidst the chaos. Your hands move up and down on his back, letting your fingers glide through his fur. "'m here."

"Please."

You hesitate. Uncertainty swirls in your mind as you open and close your lips to say something. "Oliver..."

As if he’s reading your thoughts, his arms go still around you, and the air thickens with tension. His whole body goes rigid, afraid you will get up and leave him like this. "Don’t," he growls. "Don’t stop."

"Oliver," you murmur his name again. The weight of his desire hangs heavy between you, and you can’t help but feel drawn to him despite the sane part of your mind trying to stop you.

You met Oliver in kindergarten. It all started when you slid down the slide, and he happened to be on his way up on the wrong side. Before either of you realized what was happening, you both ended up in a heap at the bottom. You both groaned as you sent him tumbling onto your stomach, elbows first.

From that moment, you accepted him as your best friend, and he had no choice in the matter. You became a pair through thick and thin.

You were there when he enlisted in the military, and you were there when he came home to visit. And eventually, when he came back for good, you helped him find solace in the woods, away from the noises of the world.

And now, it's you and him again.

"On your back," you instruct gently, turning him until you are above him. His long arms are still holding you close. "It's okay. Let me take care of you."

He growls low in response, the sound vibrating through you as you let your hands explore his body. Beneath the warmth of his fur, you feel the hard contours of his chest and the thin layer of softness that has settled in since he left the army. He’s buff and thick, a blend of strength and comfortable softness that awakens a new desire in you. For a fleeting second, you forget about his leaking cock just a few inches away from you and almost let yourself rest on him, snuggling close.

Sliding down his tall body, you settle down between his legs. Your shoulders brush against his thighs as your hand wraps around his erection. The warmth radiating from your palm makes a thick bead of pre-cum drip down his shaft. Your fingers curl around him, moving your thumb up and down while exploring his length.

"Fuck," Oliver cries out. His hips instinctively buck up, and the pink tip brushes over your lips, emitting another growl from his throat.

"I'm here," you reassure him softly, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

Leaning in, you take a deep breath of his warm, musky scent and let your mouth envelop the sensitive head of his cock. His warmth fills your mouth as you suck gently, lapping at the small opening. He is heavy and salty on your tongue. As you explore him further, your tongue swipes over a vein bulging underneath his skin, brushing over the outline while you maintain a steady grip. You can feel his body reacting to each movement. His muscles tense and relax, and his breathing becomes more erratic with each passing second. His chest is heavy with need and desire.

“God, you feel so good,” he grunts, his voice hoarse with desperation.

Glancing up at him, your lips curve upwards as much as it's possible with this thick girth in your mouth. He looks like a proper mess, spread out on the bed, breathless and half-delirious. So, you deepen your efforts, taking him a little further until he hits the back of your throat, and both of you moan at the new sensation. You can see your voice rippling through his body, making him shake and tremble.

“Just like that,” he encourages breathlessly. His fingers tangle in your hair, guiding you gently up and down on his leaking cock and keeping you around his base every now and again.

His breaths become ragged, and a low growl escapes his lips as he nears the edge. His chest heaves, and his back arches until his muscles grow tight and hard.

“Please,” he whispers, strained. “I’m close.”

Increasing your pace, you match the rhythm of his breathing. You can feel his pre-cum and your own saliva dripping down your chin as you move up and down, letting your tongue swipe up across the underside of his length and linger around the tip of his cock.

The air thickens as he goes tense and rigid beneath you, and with one final thrust, he lets out a low groan. The sound resonates deep within you, throbbing down straight to your cock. His body shudders in the next second as he reaches his peak, and you brace yourself, feeling the rush of his release. He is thick and salty in your mouth, and you gulp around him as much as you can, but the long spurts of his cum leave a mess on your face and around his cock anyway.

As Oliver recovers from the intensity of his orgasm, a new spark ignites in his eyes, and before you know it, with a swift motion, he flips you onto your hands and knees. His movements are both commanding and careful. The sudden change of position sends a rush of adrenaline through your body, making your nerves buzz with a thrill that heightens your senses.

You kneel at the top of his bed while the wolf behind you tugs down your clothes hurriedly, ripping into the thin fabric of your shirt as he gets rid of it and throws it onto the ground carelessly.

"Hey," you groan, half-laughing, but your friend is too busy to reply.

His attention is on the shifting muscles on your back and the straight line of your spine that lead him down to the tight curves of your ass. A low rumble escapes his throat at the sight, and suddenly, his large hands are on you. His long fingers dig into your flesh, kneading and groping your cheeks to his heart's content.

"Fuck," Oliver groans. "I will take care of you."

You huff, letting your weight rest on your elbows. "I don't doubt it." Your lips are open to say something else, but the words blur into a loud wheeze when you feel him spreading you open, letting his thumb brush over your exposed hole. Your body reacts on instinct, pushing back against him for more. Your back arches, and your muscles tense with impatience.

His next words make you forget how to breathe for several seconds. "I can't wait to taste you."

Without waiting for an answer, Oliver leans down and lets his tongue swipe a wide, wet path between your cheeks. He teases and prepares you slowly, curling his long tongue before slipping past the tight rim of your hole to soak you in his saliva. Every lap and grope on your ass punches a new sound out of your chest you barely recognize as your own.

"Oliver," you breathe out his name, pressing your forehead against the messy bedsheets underneath you. "Fuck me. Pleasefuckme!"

"Soon," he growls back, slipping a finger inside you slowly and carefully. He watches you open up to him while you moan and groan at the other side, rocking your hips back and forth to make him hurry.

You burn and stretch around his finger, but every fiber of your body begs for more, driving you half-crazy with the need for the wolf. Your mind is dizzy. The world shifts and swirls around you several times until you close your eyes.

Oliver nips at your flesh, letting his sharp canines brush over your skin while adding another finger to make you wheeze and jerk at the new sensation. Your cock, between your spread thighs, bobs with every relentless movement of your hips and leaks onto the bed, hard and sensitive. You know one touch would be enough to make you cum, but your senses are so focused on the wolf behind you that touching yourself doesn't even cross your mind.

By the time Oliver is done stretching you, you are nothing but a drooling, moaning mess under him.

"Hold onto something," the male warns, but it almost makes you laugh. There is just enough strength in you to keep yourself in position, you seriously doubt you could hold onto anything.

"Just fuck me finally," you croak, pushing back when you finally feel his cock rubbing and prodding at your hole.

Soon, the bedroom is filled with the sounds of your moans blending into his low, desperate growls. His breathy grunts fan over the nape of your neck as he rocks into you, edging you closer and closer to your orgasm without touching your cock even once. Your whole body is on fire and ready to burst with pleasure. The base of your spine tingles, sending ripples through every twitching muscle that rocks back and forth against the other male's rhythm.

"Fuckfuckfuck," you chant airy, lungs burning from the lack of oxygen.

"Cum for me," Oliver almost howls, hips stuttering as he feels his own pleasure building. You feel like a glove around him, tightening and fluttering as you writhe and chase your orgasm. One of his large hands from your shoulder, slips down on your side and down between your legs. His fingers barely have any time to curl around your raging hard-on when you cum with a shout.

White-hot pleasure strikes through you, igniting every nerve with a force that leaves your muscles taut and trembling until they slowly melt under the intensity. The rush overwhelms you. Your mind swirls, and your body convulses around the male behind you. Oliver holds onto you as if his life depended on it. You feel him shudder, his breath ragged as his restraint snaps only moments later. His low, guttural growl fills the air, and the sound only pulls you deeper into the blissful haze.

When you open your eyes again, you’re lying on your side, cradled against Oliver's chest. His arms are wrapped around you protectively. His heat seeps into your skin. His breath is steady and warm against your neck, but you feel the tension still humming in his body. Your limbs feel heavy and weak to do much more than nestle into his hold.

"Sleep," the wolf hums behind you, pressing his nose against your pulse. "I will need you again soon." His words carry both a promise and a warning, and you feel a lazy smile tug at the corner of your mouth as your body surrenders to rest.

The following days blur together. Time loses meaning as Oliver’s rut consumes you both, and everything beyond the two of you fades away. Food, water, and even coherent thoughts seem secondary. You try to call your friend to manage the bakery, but even that feels distant as the wolf’s insistent presence dominates your world.

It’s only when you wake one morning and find his side of the bed empty that you know the fever has passed. The sheets are cool where he once lay. With legs still shaky, you drag yourself into a quick shower, borrowing one of his worn shirts and a pair of pants before making your way downstairs where you hear him moving around.

"Just in time," the man says, putting two glasses onto the table when you appear at the bottom of the stairs. "I'm sure you are hungry," he grins at you wolfishly, motioning to the food laid out on the table.

You groan, rolling your eyes. "Shut up."

He laughs but motions you to sit down.

For a while, the only sounds are the clinking of utensils and the soft stirrings of nature outside. The sun filters through the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the scene.

You clear your throat, searching for words. "About the last few days..." The unfinished sentence hangs in the air, awkward and uncertain. You don’t know exactly what you want to say, but the need to address it lingers.

Oliver interrupts before you can find the words. "How about a date?" he asks suddenly, his tone casual but his eyes watching you closely. "At your favorite place."

You blink in surprise, caught off guard by the suggestion. A smile slowly forms as you meet his gaze. "Yeah," you say, a little more softly than you intended. "I'd like that."

Oliver isn’t one to openly share his feelings, but this- this is a good start.

[shintaru]

Shed your knuckle velvet, torn on my teeth When you're torn apart, you'll destroy me again Bleeding out on your sleeve, you kill me any way but softly

m.list ♡ taglist

~ @bfwooin @dzvelinaskebiyars @wthphe1n

Wooin had challenged you to a race spoiler alert he won. He walks over to you all sweat ready to rub in the fact he won. He takes his helmet off, sliding his arm through it and throws his fists in the air making a victory pose but he immediately freezes when he sees you flinching. His expression softens a bit “why did you flinch?” He asks, looking down at you with a serious expression. You try playing it off “I was just dodging your helmet I thought it might swing and hit me since it’s hanging off your arm” you reply.

“Bullshit don’t lie to me” you can hear the anger in his voice. You’re frozen in fear, unable to answer the volume of his voice, keeping you stuck in a loop of pain you’ll never forget. You hate that you can’t react normally when someone’s volume increases in their voice. It always brings you back to when your cowering in horror hearing your things being slammed against surfaces and glass being broken.

He haunts you even when he’s nowhere to be seen. The feeling of his fists against your skin linger far longer than the bruises that always fade with time. The sound is worse than the physical contact because hearing him hollering out you know he’s coming for you and there is no escape. The feeling of your heart dropping and panic sets in knowing you can only do so much to mentally prepare yourself for the physical assault on your body before he beats you until he’s satisfied.

Nothing hurts worse than the way he says he loves you right after what he’s done to you and he swears he’ll change but the day never comes. “I said don’t lie to me” Wooin repeats himself making you leave the loop of traumatic events. “My boyfriend” you say barely even a whisper. “What did you say?” He asks. “My boyfriend… he hits me when he’s mad” you say softly looking down at the ground too afraid to look up and see the expression on his face. Wooin is silent for a long moment hearing your confession brought him back to his own pain that he shares with you.

He knows what it’s like to care for someone and feel them violently hurt you in ways that someone that loved you would never do. He takes out his phone and texts Joker & Vinny to meet him at your place. “I’ll walk you home, and I’ll take care of everything” he says. “If he finds out I told you he’l-“ he cuts you off “don’t worry about it, he won’t hurt you anymore” he says sternly. You don’t say anything back, you just enjoy the silent walk home.

The second you unlock your door your boyfriend is shouting pissed off that you’re late and it’s because you were with another man. His fist is already swinging towards you and you squeeze your eyes shut to be scared to run. It was always worse when you ran and didn’t endure it. You waited for the impact but it never came when you opened your eyes again you were facing Wooin’s backside. You heard footsteps approaching and when you turned around you seen Wooin’s friends Joker and Vinny.

Joker had already punched your boyfriend for laying his hands on Wooin. You’re watching the horror unfold with relief that maybe this time you can finally escape him. Vinny pulls a chair from your porch raising it in the air, crashing it down on your boyfriend knocking him to the floor. Wooin takes his turn stomping his head into the ground. “She’s done with you” he says, continuing to stomp on him. You couldn’t believe you heard sobbing. He was cowering, covering his head in the fetal position sobbing.

After all the tears he made you spill driving his fists into your skin over and over day after day because he couldn’t control his anger. Now that he’s receiving his karma the only thing he can do is cry. “What a piece of shit” Vinny says disgusted by the man beneath him. “His tears make me want to break his face” Joker adds in. Wooin decided it was enough and you all walked together to the crew's hangout. They promised they’d go back with you so you could pack your stuff but when you went back you didn’t even need them he was long gone. In your heart you hope he never returns.

[freedomfireflies]

pussy plug pt. 2 today?? 👀

Harry is angry with you.

Even without the explicit words, you can tell by the shift in his expression that you’ve displeased him. That he’s refraining from dragging you out of this restaurant and into the hallway so he can have a word.

You don't mean to, really. But what does he expect after edging you for hours and then plugging you full of his cum? Forcing you to sit through this prolonged evening with nothing more than some tantalizing memories and promises of release to hold you over?

“Bee,” comes the low warning, discreetly whispered into your ear as you both await the arrival of your parents. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“Can’t help it,” you pant quietly, hand on his thigh as you squeeze for dear life. “You keep turning it up—”

“And I also keep telling you to hold it,” he hisses, scooting closer as if to hide you from the rest of the restaurant. “Are you gonna disobey me, baby girl? Are you gonna make me put you over my knee in front of everybody in this goddamn room?”

You squirm a bit harder in your seat, lashes fluttering quickly as you wrestle against your orgasm. “Har, please—”

“No.” His rejection is resolute, his voice thick with disappointment. “You are not to cum until I say so.” 

You suck in a sharp gasp as a wave of pleasure explodes between your thighs, the tip of the plug lightly grazing the bottom of your chair. “H, I can’t…I can’t hold it, I’m sorry—”

“You will,” he reminds you, fingers curling around the edge of your seat as if to warn you. “You fucking will, Bee, or I’ll spank you right here in front of your parents. Is that what you want? Want your dad to see you get punished by your daddy?”

You’d slap him if this were any other time, but right now, you devote your energy to keeping the orgasm at bay. Nearly sweating from the strain. “Harry—”

“No,” he repeats, a bit icier than before as his eyes flick toward something just behind you. “Promised you’d be my good girl. So I want you to be good and fucking take it. Yeah? Fucking take it.”

With that, he’s standing from his chair, a wide smile on his face as you wilt by the table.

“Maggie, Richard, so nice to see you,” he calls loudly, arm outstretching to welcome your parents closer, and that’s when it hits you.

Because suddenly, the vibrations from the plug are abruptly changing in rhythm, and it’s exactly what you’d needed to tip you over. You try to fight it, you really do, but it washes over you like a fucking wave until you’re choking on a gasp and shivering in your seat.

Nobody else seems to notice, with Harry quickly stepping in front of your body to block you from any prying eyes.

But you’re humiliated, nonetheless, and it’s all you can do to keep from whimpering right then and there.

After a bit of small talk, your parents sweep around the table to take their place on the other side. Exchanging their greetings with you as you finally begin to find your footing again.

“Oh, honey, are you getting sick?” your mother coos, hand on her cheek in worry. “You look a little warm.”

“I’m…no, I’m all right,” you manage to stammer, ignoring Harry’s smug smile from beside you. “It’s just hot in here. How was your drive?”

“Absolutely dreadful,” she sighs. “The traffic was a nightmare, we didn’t move for at least an hour, I mean…I don’t know how you two put up with it every day.”

And thus begins the lively reenactment of their journey, with your father nodding along dutifully while you and Harry attempt to listen.

And you’re happy for the distraction because at least it means you’re offered a moment of reprieve. Even though you know Harry is currently stewing from beside you. Unable to reprimand you the way he’s so apt to do.

However, your momentary escape from his wrath is brought to a sudden halt when your parents declare they’d like to wash up. Standing from the table and disappearing toward the bathroom, thus leaving the two of you to…chat.

“Well, well, well,” is the first thing he murmurs once you’re alone. “Obeyed me for all of…what? Twenty seconds?”

Swallowing thickly, you glance over. “It’s not my fault. You kept turning it up—”

“Because you kept cumming without my permission,” he retorts, nodding his chin toward your thighs. “And after I was kind enough to keep you nice and full.”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you lean a bit closer and whisper, “I’m sorry, okay? I really tried. Really, really. But it just…it was too much. I won’t do it again, I swear—”

“Oh, you will,” he interrupts again, forcing you to blink at him. “No, yeah. If you wanna act like a brat and cum whenever you feel like it, then I’ll let you cum. Let you cum as many fucking times as you want.”

The switch in tactics nearly makes your head spin, and you look over his expression curiously. “Okay…?”

“In fact, I’d like you to cum at least two more times while we’re at this table,” he tells you, and instantly, your heart drops. “Think you can do that, baby girl?”

“Har…Harry, you aren’t…you can’t be serious—”

“I think you can,” he decides for you, ignoring your outrage. “And I think you will. Think you’ll cum as many times as I’d like. Won’t you?”

And you want to respond – want to scream at him for this sadistic little game – but your parents are sliding back up before you get the chance. Forcing you to do nothing but gawk at him.

Pleased, he leans back over, and hums, “Starting right fucking now.”

With that, he hits a button on his phone, and brings the vibrating pussy plug back to life. Instantly shoving you up that peak of pleasure as your poor, overstimulated cunt is toyed with yet again.

You cough to hide a gasp, and you’re lucky that your parents are otherwise distracted by their menus to notice.

But Harry notices.

He always notices.

As the evening progresses, you attempt to keep your thighs pressed tightly together. Attempt to avoid any extra stimulation or accidental grazing to the plug. But Harry is on a mission, and his insistence on making you orgasm is relentless.

“Bee,” he warns quietly as your parents begin to relay their order to the waiter, “none of that. I want you to keep your legs spread, yeah? So I can have a feel. Make sure you’re doing what I asked.”

You bite back a glare – while also biting at your lip – and bring your eyes to his. “Har…I can’t, really. Please…please—”

“Shh,” he whispers, scooting closer to press a seemingly harmless kiss to your cheek. “Yes you can. And I don’t want any complaining. You asked for this, didn’t you? By disobeying? You asked to be punished.”

“No,” you argue quietly, head shaking. “No, I promise. I tried. I really tried—”

“I know,” he finally concedes with a sympathetic coo, running his hand over your back soothingly. “I know, baby girl, but you didn’t try hard enough. I know you can do better, yeah? So I’m gonna make you do better. And this is how I do that.”

Whimpering softly, you plead with him through a frown, desperately needing his mercy more than ever.

However, he doesn’t seem to notice, his hand merely moving down to your lap as his fingers curl around your thigh firmly. “What did I say, hm? Want them open, Bee.”

You force your expression to remain stoic and unbothered as Harry’s hand continues to tug your leg closer to him. Creating the perfect space for access while he shoots a grin toward your parents from across the table. And keeping his little game a secret.

Leaning into his shoulder, you turn your face and try again. “Harry, please—”

However, his hand simply squeezes the top of your thigh from beneath your dress, and you choke on a whine as you pretend not to notice. “All you had to do was behave, baby girl. All you had to do was sit here, nice and full of my cum, until I could take care of it for you. So I could take that pretty little plug out and have a taste of us.”

Your lashes flutter, and it’s getting harder to pretend as though the two of you are engaging in nothing more than innocent conversation.

“But you just had to cum. Just had to disobey me. And now…” His thumb suddenly finds the tip of the plug and he grazes it softly before shooting you a smirk. “…I’m gonna make you sit here at this table. All goddamn night while cum as many times as I see fit.”

Reeling, you shoot him a piteous look for leniency, to which he merely grins.

“And you?” He presses his finger against the toy – hard. “You’re you’re gonna fucking take it.”

Previous Part:

~ Harry and Bee Use A Pussy Plug*

- Full Teach Me Masterlist

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @onlystylesss28 @winterrays @jessitpwk @aslugforharry @allthelovehes @straightnogayhs @adoringhrry @lillefroe @avasversion @littlelunamoon @harrysgf01 @lexiecamposva @spinningoutwaiting4ya @hs-tpwkrry @vyctorya @b-reads-things @thiyaabs @buckybarnessimpp @whoreforjamesbuckybarnes @cherryluvhobi @mybabyh @xellybellyx @harrysxcarolina @reneemunson @juliatpwk @wolfmoonmusic @buckyssbestgirl @wandasbae616 @imavirginhoe @nuggetdean @chubby-cheek-calum @itsmytimetoodream @finelinesss

[drama-glob]

I know some people have already pointed out some parallels between "Just Look My Way" and the ending of "Sinsmas" with Octavia, but something I thought was interesting too was that when they changed the lyrics from the original version by PARANOiD DJ to make the official music video reflect in canon Stolas/Stolas's growth like this:

They also changed here:

To reflect in canon that while Stolas is aware that he was wrong to make this deal between him and Blitz and that he's got his walls up that Stolas can't get over so long as the deal stands, he's also failing to keep considering how all of this has been affecting/hurting Octavia up to this point because he's been so concerned with making things right by Blitz, all while barely holding onto the chance that the two of them could actually be happy together since he's not even sure if what they have is real/all a lie to serve as his escapism from his life at the palace. :( The illusion he built for his daughter about them all being a happy, loving family growing up is still in Octavia's mind and now thanks to Stolas, she believes he (as well as Blitz based on what we've seen) ruined her family and it's making her become more isolated and feeling unloved because of his choices and how she perceives the situation; Stolas in the original version seems to be at least acknowledging how his daughter might be feeling as a result of him trying to find happiness with Blitz and is wondering if that's what he's feeling now at the prospect that Blitz doesn't actually love him, compared to the canon one of how he's hurt Blitz in his pursuit of him and knows he needs to set Blitz free no matter how much he wants him (or at least that's how I read it, although the "She" could have been referring to Stella, but we've seen her hatred and attacks towards Stolas by that point, so I'm still leaning towards it being about Octavia :( ). Also, just to reiterate the point, since the canon version of the song takes place later in the series, the change in lyrics also likely had to happen because we've seen Stolas repeat the neglect/being stuck in his own head behavior such as in "Seeing Stars" and then later in "The Full Moon," thus why the song needed to continue showing this pattern; plus, he probably felt so sure in Octavia's love for him that he'd be forgiven like in "Seeing Stars" and "Loo Loo Land" for said behavior that he didn't need to work on improving that aspect of how he acts with her. :/ What's crazy is that the original version of the song came out 9 days before "Ozzie's" premiered, where we see Stolas then feel ashamed for how he's handled things with Blitz at the cost of hurting his daughter and not being sure Blitz loves him back, especially with Blitz's words at the end of the episode. Talk about timing. O_O

*On a side note, the flower also changes from being a daffodil that can symbolize rebirth and new beginnings, then becomes a carnation (I think) and can refer to love in various forms, although that one in particular can refer to rejection because it's striped. :( Also, even though it's in the original version of the song, I find it interesting that it was a carnation at the part when he brought up Octavia, although I know the focus of the song is still on Blitz and Stolas's relationship and it changed in realization that it may be his fault things are this way/the reason Blitz doesn't love him. :/ In addition, the song had Stolas trying to talk with Blitz and wanting to see him outside of the full moon at the beginning, which we then saw he was doing via text messages in "Western Energy," so damn on it predicting that too. O_O

By all means, Stolas has a right to be happy, to be loved and to get away from Stella, but as so many have already argued as well, Octavia's feelings are valid and understandable given Stolas's actions and her not knowing the full story. :( (I felt obligated to include this since I want Stolas and Octavia to reconcile in the future and be one big, happy family with Blitz and Loona <3<3<3).

Also:

It's too bad that this lyric about growing cold had some literal manifestation, even though Octavia is also obviously giving her father the cold shoulder here and Stolas was referring to Blitz in the song, but it's still so sad that Stolas believes Octavia truly hates him for all that he's done rather than her being angry, hurt and needing more time to process everything/learn the truth in order to see things from his perspective. :(

*I think someone may have pointed this cold part out already, but I wasn't 100% and it went with the first part of the post anyway, so I included it as well. :/ Also, sorry if it seemed like I was rambling or getting off track here as this wound up being longer than I planned and I kept thinking of other tidbits/observations to include. :/

[another-bryk-in-the-wall]

Rain and Snow - Martin Septim x F!HoK

i have found a new pookie so of course i had to write smt for him. please enjoy. i didn't use any specific language for the HoK apart from she/her, so you can imagine your HoK, no matter if High Elf or Kahjiit :)

Warnings: the writer is cringe but free, fluff

tagging @shadow-pancake9 cause you were so nice in the comments of the teaser :D

♥

Rest had become a foreign word for them. She either running around, trying to save Cyrodiil from harm, fighting others here and there, or trying to locate things for him. He was reading the books provided, trying to fight the demons crawling into his mind from the things he had read.

The nights were too long. The nights were too dark.

She came to realize that sleep was something impossible to reach on this very night. Too much blood, too much death, all coming back to haunt her. All the tossing and turning hadn’t helped her, made her feel even worse.

So instead she got up from the bed, stretching a few times. The Cloud Ruler Temple was silent, only a few snores could be heard from time to time. The weather had changed drastically these past few days, a rainfront came in from Skyrim, along with fog and a coldness that reached her bones when she was outside. The rain was falling still, playing piano on the roof tiles.

She put on her socks and shoes and headed into the Great Hall to escape the invisible demons chasing her. A fire was still crackling in the fireplace, filling the room with a warmth she was seeked so badly. Force of habit, she checked the room before fully entering, when she noticed - she wasn’t alone.

By the fireplace was a couch. Someone must have moved it from the corner to the fireplace, and someone was sitting there. The silhouette was clear, she couldn’t mistake him for anyone else.

“Martin? Why are you still up?���, she asked as she took a step towards him, now fully visible.

Martin looked up from the book he was reading. It wasn’t one of the daedric books she had gotten hold of, no, just a simple fictional story of a Khajiit Alfiq, telling the stories of travel and causing chaos all over Tamriel. The book was a children’s favourite, for non-Khajiit as it was a fun book, for Khajiit children it showed them there were more ways to live and to come to terms with their own unique ways.

“Something lighter for a change?”, she asked, by now standing in front of the fireplace. Martin’s eyes had deep bags under them, the tiredness written across every line and wrinkle on his face. His whole posture screamed ‘sleep!’, but when the mind is full, the body cannot sleep.

“I needed something different for once.”, Martin said - even his voice was full of sleep. He placed a bookmark into the page he was currently reading, then put the book aside. “What keeps you up?”, he patted on the spot next to him.

She sat down next to Martin, eyes on the fireplace, “I was dreaming of Kvatch again. I often dream of the people I couldn’t save. It haunts me.”, she sighed.

Martin, not really knowing how to reply to this, placed a comforting hand on her back, rubbing there slowly. “But you saved so many people there. You saved me. You changed the world by being so selfless.”

“But there were so many other people which I didn’t save! They also deserved to be saved!”

“There’s a reason for everything in life. Their deaths were part of something bigger, leading us here. There’s a meaning behind their deaths, and if you continue to fight on, their deaths won’t be in vain.”

She sighed as she placed her face into her hands, Martin’s words repeating in her head. “You know…I am not sure what the Gods have planned for us. Nor am I excited to find out. But I have to do it.”

“Wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to do it. We have to do it.”, Martin said, a reassuring smile covering his tired face. In another moment, these words coming from another person would have made her laugh. But right here and right now, she knew Martin was right. They were in this mess together. “No matter what you do, I’ll be right by your side. And when I am crowned Emperor, you can be sure that you’ll be set for life. I’ll make sure you won’t have to worry for another day of your life and you’ll rest in satin every day.”

“Well, I am looking forward to that, because the blankets here are quite itchy.”, and they both couldn’t help but laugh - it was true after all. The blankets were horrible, the pillows not a bit better.

“Once the weather is better, I’ll head down to Bruma and get us better pillows. One of the vendors must have pillows in stock.”

♥

In the late hours of the evening, she returned from her day trip down to Bruma. The weather had progressively gotten worse over the past few hours, changing from a rain storm to a full blown blizzard. Shivering and frozen to the bone, she arrived back at the Cloud Ruler Temple. The cold nearly made her stiff, the warm fire in the fireplace heated her the moment she came through the door.

“There you are!”, Martin said, he had approached the door when he heard it being opened. Probably not the wisest choice, thinking of how he had the biggest target in all of Tamriel on his head - but in this snow and cold, approaching the Cloud Ruler Temple without being spotted was impossible. Martin helped her out of her coat, hanging the soaking wet cloth over a chair close by. “I have some leftovers for you. Jauffre tried his hand at making soup, and it was amazing. I didn’t want you to miss out on it.”

And it was. Sitting by the fire next to Martin, the fire, the soup, the closeness to the new emperor…it all warmed her up rather quickly. “Say, my friend, you went down to Burma in this weather? Why?”

She turned around, pointing to the bags she had placed next to a door. “Check them out. I bought some extra potions, and something for you, Martin. I would show you the things myself, but it still cannot feel my toes.”

Martin raised an eyebrow as he stood up, making his way to the burlap bags she had pointed to. In one were several potions, ranking from healing potions to poison, to one that’d paralyze the target. “That’ll come in handy someday soon.”, he said as he neatly put the glasses out of the bag, carefully putting them on the shelf next to him. The second bag were various vegetables and some meat, and hidden deep inside… 

“Two sweetrolls?” “For you and me. You said you were craving it a few days ago, so I thought…” “You are the most amazing person I have ever met.” “Did you check the last bag?” “No.” “Do it.”

Thankfully, Martin wasn’t facing her, otherwise he would have noticed the steam coming from her, how her skin was burning hot, how she was hoping he’d like what she had gotten him. All she could do was fidge with the seam of her shirt as she was listening to him unpacking the bag. And she thanked all the Gods out there that they were the only ones left in the room, everyone else either on duty or in their chambers.

Martin’s eyes got wide when he realized what she had brought back - two blankets, two pillows. The quality was out of this world, soft and warm, filled with feathers from the rarest birds. “Where did you get this?”, Martin couldn’t believe his eyes, the softness under his fingers, holding as if they were to melt. He wasn’t bedded in satin during his life.

“I called in a favour.”, she said, finally having enough grip on herself again to face Martin. The amazement was written across his face, holding the blanket up to show her. “A favour? Do I even want to know?” “It’s best for me to know and for you to never find out.” “You have friends in strange places.” “So will you have it soon, Emperor.” “Stop calling me that, I’m still Martin for you and will always be.” “Of course, Martin.”

And they both couldn’t help themselves, giving the other the biggest smile possible. “It is gonna be cold tonight. Are you prepared?” “Of course Martin, I have ample clothing to wear, and in case it still gets too cold, I’ll set some of the furniture on fire.” “Jauffre will kill you if he finds out.” “That’s, of course, a fair concern.” “I have a fireplace in my room in case you seek warmth.”

Oh, of course she did.

♥

Wearing two sets of clothing couldn’t keep the cold outside. The Cloud Ruler Temple felt like a crypt, freezing everyone in its halls. The storm outside made trees fall down, the sound of their cracking could be heard all the way into the walls of the Temple. And of course, she couldn’t sleep, like so many nights. What did Martin say? If she seeked warmth, she could find shelter in his room? The offer was tempting, and in this very moment, the need for warmth, security and the desire to have a feeling in her toes again overwhelmed her. On silent feet, she made her way into the chambers of the Emperor, dragging her blanket and pillow with her. From previous peeks into his chambers, she knew the bed was big enough for two.

“Martin?”, she whispered into the room upon opening it. To her great luck, the Emperor was still awake. Not situated near the fireplace, but wrapped in his new blanket, cozy and a bit warmer. A candle on his nightstand illuminated just enough of the room for him to read. “Good evening, how are you?” “I am coming back to indulge on your offer. I cannot put it into words how freezing cold the room I am staying in is.” “That’s alright. Come here and close the door.”

And that’s what she did, closing the door and hushing over to the Emperor despite her stiff limbs. The bedding was warm and comfortable, so much better than the futons they were sleeping in. Something that lessened her back pain for once, strained from carrying the weight of this world on her shoulders. “Thank you.”, she said as she made herself comfortable next to Martin, trying not to be too close to him.

Martin closed the book with the bookmark, just how he did the day before, and turned to her. “If it helps you sleep better, you may of course come closer.”, he said - his red face betrayed him and his calm voice just this little bit shaky. “That’d be very kind of you, thank you.”

Martin’s arms were warm and comfortable. In this very moment, the world seemed alright, the snowstorm outside did not matter, the gates of Oblivion seemed to be shut for just a moment. He smelt like old books, the temple and the soap they used to wash themselves every night. For a moment, the world seemed okay. And for a moment, their flushed faces didn’t matter, the awkward silence didn’t matter, it was just them, for this short eternity.

[books-and-omens]

Okay okay, so I really want to talk about S2 Crowley.

I’ve been thinking about who Crowley is in the book and who he is in the show, and the gap is significant. (@tbutchaziraphale has fantastic meta over here which I think is spot on.)

Book!Crowley is an optimist, yes? I mean, we’re outright told this:

“Because, underneath it all, Crowley was an optimist. If there was one rock-hard certainty that had sustained him through the bad times—he thought briefly of the fourteenth century—then it was utter surety that he would come out on top; that the universe would look after him.”

Honestly, what a thing for a fallen angel to believe! And to me, it’s powerful, yes, but it never quite answers the question: where is he getting that certainty?

Tv!Crowley, in the meantime, is emphatically not this. He’s never been an optimist, not even in S1—although in S1, it might have been easier to look at A & C and consider them essentially similar to their book selves if a little out of sync.

In S1, Crowley gives the whole “don’t test them to destruction” speech. He cares about humanity deeply, even if he won’t admit it. He will try to stop the Apocalypse.

And there is still a moment when he feels helpless. When he has no innate optimism to carry him through, no deep belief in the universe looking after him or anyone. When his instincts tell him to run, and he tries to follow them. When he despairs. Aziraphale pulls him back out of that despair; they make a stand together. As we know, it works.

But the thing is, the thing is. I find tv!Crowley’s lack of optimism so very relatable.

I find despair so very relatable, too.

We live in an age of deep anxiety. (Climate change, anyone? Just for starters! The promise and wonder of the Moon landing and the end of the Cold War are far in the past; day to day, we deal with the effects of capitalism, of reactionism, of continued exclusionism. It’s far too easy to feel helpless.)

So in S2, Crowley is very much the same character as he was in S1, except we see it even clearer.

He is not an optimist. He wants to run; he wants to escape when faced with Gabriel’s arrival; he wants to protect Aziraphale and himself, and believes that the best—perhaps only—way to do that is by them retreating as far away from the problem as they can.

In Heaven, Crowley finds out about The Second Coming. His need to escape and to keep his angel safe become overwhelming. But he doesn’t tell Aziraphale about the Second Coming, does he? And his repeated offer to run away together doesn't even make sense to Aziraphale. (Not that Aziraphale would want to run if he knew. Quite the opposite, in fact, which Crowley must know.)

Anyway, Crowley already knows that the clock is ticking. Aziraphale is about to find it out. (Do you notice how often, in the last fifteen minutes of S2, we hear nothing in the background but the ticking of a clock?)

And just—the despair, the desire to retreat and escape when you are faced with overwhelming odds, with a fundamentally broken system, are so relatable.

And yet escape has never been the answer.

I hope, of course, that this is what we’ll see in S3 if there is a S3. Crowley deciding, emphatically, that running away is not the answer. 

We didn't get there yet. We were dropped out of the story at the darkest point.

But I think being at this point is precisely what makes Crowley’s confession at the end of S2 transcendent.

Because it’s the same conflict, isn’t it, except on a personal scale. Despair in the face of overwhelming odds, followed by the decision to not give up.

Crowley, who’d been ready to confess, sees what is likely to happen. He sees the way the deck is stacked against him, sees that he is unlikely to get through. He feels the coming loss. 

And then he does it anyway. 

He confesses anyway. He says what he has set out to say, gasping and clawing for every word. He does it at the point when everything appears lost.

And no, we don’t see the effects of it, not yet. We don’t see what he has launched, the hook that sank into Aziraphale, the change it has wrought in Crowley himself.

But his bravery won’t be lost.

We live in a dark timeline. I maintain that this is precisely what makes this story so compelling.

Be brave. Do the difficult thing anyway. Do it anyway. Do it anyway.

Even in the face of overwhelming odds. Especially in the face of overwhelming odds. While not being an optimist in the slightest.

This is what hope is.

This is what we have to do.

(And to all of us who’d lost a comfort story: I’m so sorry. I, too, am still grieving for it. I know, I know.

Emphatically: all is not lost.)

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

Kinktober (30)- Rough Sex

Dark Wanda X Reader 18+

Summary: During work, you notice something weird about the people and the town you live in. You confess this worry to Wanda who ensures you find a way to forget about the doubts surrounding Westview

Warnings/Tags: Dark Wanda, Dubious consent, Rough sex, Fingering, Oral, Strap on sex, Multiple orgasms, Squirting, Westview/Wandavision inspired

Kinktober Masterlist

“How was your day Detka?” Wanda asked, one of her hands drawing random patterns on your thigh as you both watched the sitcom playing on the tv. Your mind went back to the events that had happened throughout today, blurs and flashes of various events eventually coming to mind as you struggled to remember anything.

“It was alright love,” you murmur back, placing your hand above hers, brushing your thumb over the back of her hand. “Although something weird did happen,” your brows furrow at the sudden flash in your mind, the conversation you and Norm had during the day. Wanda’s interest was piqued at your confused tone, curiosity evident in her features as she looked at you. “Norm was acting odd, he looked scared for a moment.”

“What do you mean he seemed scared?” her hand moved to cup your jaw, guiding your face to hers.

“He….” you try to remember fully what happened, “He just kept saying it hurts, it hurts so much, please make her stop.” Too lost in your memory you fail to notice the slight paling of Wanda’s face, concern taking over her features. “Then he just stopped, went back to normal asking me about the emails,” your gaze met Wanda’s, a soft look in them until your next words. “Who was he on about?”

Green eyes darkened at your question, her quickly switching it to a gentle look as you furrowed your brows at her sudden change in mood.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about Detka,” she rasps out, guiding your face closer for a kiss to which you pull away from quickly.

“He seemed terrified Wanda, we can’t just ignore that,” your tone one Wanda didn’t appreciate.

“I said it’s nothing to worry about Detka,” her voice was colder than before. “Don’t stress over it,” she whispers before claiming your lips once again, threading her fingers through your hair to keep you close so you can’t pull away, legs moving to straddle your waist on the sofa. Wanda let out a soft moan against your lips, smirking when she could hear your thoughts about Norm and his fear fading away, lust and desire for her clouding your mind, especially when she started to roll her hips against you. “Just focus on me Detka, I’ll take care of you,” she husks out, you groaning into her kiss as she deepens it, sliding her tongue into your mouth to dominate it, her hands tugging your head back to make it easier for her to crash her lips to yours.

“Wanda,” you sigh out, fluttering your eyes open to see red in hers when your thoughts drift back to earlier.

“Focus on me Detka,” she repeats, you unaware of the red tendrils escaping her fingers at the side of your head. You listen to her, moving back to crash your lips to hers, hands drifting down her body, sliding under her shirt and up to cup her breasts. She smirks into the kiss, tugging your head back to make you part from her swollen lips. “Bedroom,” she sighs out, you immediately lifting her off the sofa and towards your shared room, lips attaching to her neck while soft moans and whimpers escape her.

When you reach the room, you place her down on the bed, lips moving to crash against hers again as her legs wrap around your middle, flipping you both around. She straddles you with hunger and desire swirling around in her eyes, briefly flashing red before she moves to rip your shirt off your body. You groan as she removes her own shirt, breasts practically spilling out of her bra while she leans over you, biting down on your neck.

“Fuck Wanda,” you moan out, hands going to touch her but immediately being forced above your head but red tendrils of magic.

“You’re mine Detka,” she mutters against your skin, mouth trailing lower on your body, skipping past your breasts and going straight down to your core, too impatient to drive you mad with her touch tonight, she just needed you. “All mine,” she whispers, biting down on your hip bone before pulling your jeans and panties down your legs, whimpers escaping you as you let her do as she wishes. Her mouth peppers kisses along your inner thighs, her eyes peering up to yours squeezed shut, mouth parted into an ‘o’ shape as breathy sounds escape you. “I’m all you need, aren’t I Detka?” she murmurs, her finger moving to swipe through your folds, running through the abundance of arousal that's gathered there.

“Yes,” you moan out, her sliding a long slender digit into you while her mouth moves to suck on your clit, tongue occasionally swirling around it to have your hips bucking against her face. “I just need you,” she smirks against your core at your words, her adding another finger, then another as she starts to pump them into you at a brutal pace. Your back arches off the bed at the merciless pace of her fingering you, her mouth unrelenting on your clit as you try to grind against her face. “Wanda, right there,” your hands grip whatever part of the sheets you can reach with her magic wrapped around you, her curling her fingers inside you against your weak spots, a cry of pleasure leaving your lips.

“Tell me you only need me,” she rasps out, you whimper as she somehow manages to fuck you even harder.

“I only need you, Wanda,” the phrase falls from your lips like a prayer, chanting it to her to make sure she knows that you would only ever need her. “I’m coming,” you practically scream as she sends you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through your body, mind going blank just how she wants it. You don’t have time to recover as she continues to thrust her fingers into her, her other hand holding your hips down and stopping them from bucking. “Oh fuck,” you groan out when a second orgasm tears through you, her moving away to climb back up your body. Her lips meet yours, a whimper leaving you at the taste of yourself before a loud moan reverberates around the room at the feeling of a strap on pushing against your entrance.

“Are you going to take this like a good girl?” she muttered against your lips, red magic fading around the conjured-up toy. You nod against her head, foreheads touching but that’s not enough for her, “Words Detka.”

“Yes, I’ll take it like the good slut I am for you,” you whine, her then finally pushing into you. Wanda lets you adjust to the size before snapping her hips into you, her fingers interlocking with your restrained ones. Moans pour out of your mouth as she pounds you into the mattress, the bed shaking with each powerful thrust. She pants against your lips, an occasional grunt leaving her lips as she pumps the toy in and out at you with long, hard and deep strokes. Your back arches as she hits your g-spot repeatedly, a sinful noise erupting from the back of your throat making her stop kissing you as you can’t keep up. Her eyes flicker down to the sight of the red toy being swallowed up by your greedy cunt, your arousal glistening off it when she pulls out before slamming back in.

Tears form in your eyes at the pleasure, your body trembling beneath her as she thrusts into you, her mouth kissing along your neck when you throw your head back.

“Oh Detka,” she coos, almost condescendingly as one hand moves to wipe the tears that have just spilt down your cheeks, smearing your makeup, “You’re being so good for me, so good.” You whimper at the small praise, moving your head up to kiss her lips as another orgasm starts to crash through you. You still under her as your body is overwhelmed with pleasure, liquid gushing out of you as you squirt all over the toy, ragged breaths leaving you as you go limp under the witch.

You open your eyes a few moments later, still in a daze of pure bliss after that orgasm, mind foggy with only the thought of Wanda. Her hands soothingly roam your body, magic releasing her hold on you as she pulls you into her lap, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m all you need,” she murmurs once again, “You don’t need to worry about the others, you don’t need them. Just me, only me.”