#“Learn Spring Boot step by step” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kiss-me-muchoo · 9 days ago

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𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 || 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary_ Right after Lucy breaks up with Harry, he is left with an extra ticket to Iceland, so he invites the most unexpected person to go with him: you, Lucy’s sister. Only to return to New York and learn that he knocked you up.

warnings_ age gap (unspecified), spoilers for the movie, pregnancy, angst, they fuck and then it’s slowburn, fluff, Lucy and reader kinda have beef (but they love each other), NO PROOFREAD, BEWARE (I’ll edit grammar and blah blah later okay?)

Notes_ just please listen in order while reading:

1. Relationships

2. So Close

3. Guess You Could Say I’m In Love

4. My Baby (Got Nothing At All)

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 Pedro

✰ Index (+ fics here)

୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ

It was the perfect night of extremely late spring, when it was not cold anymore but you still needed a light jacket. You had been out, leaning against the railing of a bar, smoking and looking at the passing city.

You heard the door opening and when you turned to look over your shoulder, you spotted Harry: your sister’s new boyfriend.

He also noticed you and barely smiled at you before walking closer. He was on a phone call, something about a meeting and appointment.

“Work call?” you asked after he hung up.

“Yeah. Lucy didn’t mind” Harry said and you allowed yourself to groan and roll your eyes at his words.

“Let me guess. She was talking with John?” you asked, and Harry seemed embarrassed, but he disguised it so well that he nodded.

“That woman is all talk-talk and no moves”

“I guess you’re her-“

“Lucy is my sister” you revealed to the man. “Well, my half-sister”

“I see, and… Why do you say that? About her?” He asked, making you sigh.

“You’re dating her. I don’t want to spoil your relationship” Harry chuckled, he stepped closer, also leaning on the railing like you.

“Swear I won’t tell…”

“Pinky promise?” You offered your pinky finger and he twirled his around yours. You spotted his gold ring and you finally confirmed that he was actually very rich.

“Pinky promise” he swore.

“Lucy claims she wants to secure a partner with money rather than loving them. But I know she yearns for sickening love”

Harry as the smart man you knew he was, understood quickly. Didn’t say anything, but you knew he would start thinking about your words eventually.

“What about you, kid? Do you want sickening love?” He asked and you crossed your arms, looking down at your boots.

“I once experienced it, as a teenager. But now… Not so sure. I don’t know if I have it in me anymore”

“We find it…”

“Childish” you finished for him.

Both of you smiled at each other.

…

You weren’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing that NYU hired you to be an advisor just weeks before the spring semester was over. With so much free time, you found yourself going to dance classes for adults and getting a volunteer job at your local library.

It was early in the morning when you had just finished getting ready to go to the library when your phone vibrated.

An unidentified number appeared on the screen and you debated whether to answer or not. You decided to pick it up, since it could be related to work.

“Hello?”

“It’s Harry…”

You frowned confused. Why was your sister’s boyfriend calling you? You had barely spoken to him before and after the night at the bar.

“Harry, hi. How did you get my number?”

“Your number is on the staff members list of NYU” he said and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Right. Well, How can I help you, dear?” You had no idea why he was calling. Lucy and you weren’t as close as it appeared.

She was the big sister and since your father preferred your mother before hers, it was not a secret in the family that you slowly became the priority.

You had just finished college unlike Lucy, who was a dropout. You barely had ex-boyfriends and couldn’t care less about dating, compared to her.

“I know this might sound weird…” he started, making you press the cell phone harder against your ear and cheek. “Lucy just broke up with me and we were supposed to take a flight to Iceland in the evening. And… She’s gone. I have this extra ticket and since you two have the same last name- I thought…”

You stopped listening to whatever he kept saying. Only focusing on the first part.

What would you do in Iceland with your sister’s ex-boyfriend? You didn’t know.

Then you thought about Harry himself. You barely knew him, he was wealthy, and apparently perfect according to Lucy.

Wouldn’t he prefer to take a model or fitness queen with him? And beyond that, Did he tolerate you enough to invite you?

“Harry, Are you sure? Cause-“

“Please, say yes. I can get you a room of your own and-“

“Perfect. I’ll send my driver to pick you up at 4:00. In the meantime I’ll put your name on the ticket” Harry said with evident optimism. “You have a passport, Right?”

“Yes, I have a passport” you confirmed with a smile.

“Great, I’ll see you later, kid” and he hung up.

You sighed, confused, happy, and overwhelmed. You weren’t sure why you said yes, you weren’t even sure if you completely liked Harry and you definitely weren’t telling anyone.

You went to grab your passport with the fear of finding it wasn’t expired. And when you saw it was all under control, you smiled.

It was a trip to the unknown. But you weren’t scared. In fact, you were curious about knowing better Harry and why Lucy broke up with him.

…

He was actually perfect. Harry went straight to see if the luxurious hotel in Reykjavík could give him another room for you. To his dismay, nothing could be done, but you assured him it was okay.

Sharing the same bed was not an issue. Not when the bed itself was bigger than any bed you had seen before.

He booked a private trip to walk inside a volcano and then, he rented a private spot in the Blue Lagoon, where hundreds of tourists waited to get a relaxing time in the waters but you two passed through all of them like nothing, as if Harry owned the place.

It was a medium-sized pool with amazing views of the mountains covered in green fawn and the gloominess of the surrounding water. You felt like a child, like a Nordic mermaid.

Harry had been nice, giving you hundreds of compliments and sharing light talk. He was very handsome, you noticed when he entered the pool. He had two scars in his thighs and you wanted to ask about it but you didn’t want to make him feel awkward. His wet hair made him look younger, but his fit appearance did all the work.

And as you enjoyed the feeling of swimming and basically savoring the water, Harry could only eye you with curiosity. And you wondered if he was noticing how childish you could be.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I love the water” you admitted, finally taking a seat instead of remaining wandering. Your cheeks disgusting the embarrassment as they already were red from the vapor of the waters.

Harry only offered you a brief smile.

“I don’t mind that you’re enjoying this”

“I never thought of visiting Iceland before” you admitted, looking at the portrait views of the place. “I’m ignorant of much of the beauty the world has to offer”

“Where do you want to go? Paris?” You chuckle, shaking your head.

“I mean of course I want to go to Paris but I’ve always had a thing for Italy and Japan” you admitted. “And lately I’ve thought about how much I’d like to go to Malaysia”

“Malaysia?” Harry asked with genuine interest as you nodded.

“Yes, it’s perfect”

“I never thought about it” you shrug at the man sitting across from you.

“I can’t believe Lucy wasted the opportunity to experience something like this…” you said and Harry seemed to get thoughtful. He turned away from you, his arms leaning on the rocks and looking at the biggest mountain in the place.

“You were right…” he said taking you by surprise.

“I was?” You asked with shyness, thinking maybe you’d gone too far.

“Yeah, about her wanting sickening love…” you didn’t know if it was correct to ask for more details, but Harry spared you the silence. “I can’t love so easily, I just want companionship and stop hearing my mother that she wants me to marry”

“Then find someone who also just wants companionship. No actual love and pointless sweet nothings” you said taking a place beside him, feeling your muscles relaxing thanks to the water.

Harry turned to his left to eye you. He smiled and chuckled.

“You’d make a hell of a good wife for my mother” You shook your head, chuckling as well.

“Oh my god, Why?”

“She and my dad have a chunky age gap. She always tells me to date younger women…”

“Well, most relationships with age gaps don’t work well. But there are somewhere… the relationship sticks” you started, trying to choose the right words. “I hope that yours sticks too”

Both of you smiled at each other.

…

The dinner was great. You were surprised at how great you got along Harry. He was older and had more experience in every single aspect but he listened to your stupid bullshit and followed along. Just like you listened and asked about his stuff. It was like actually befriending someone. But in the middle of a Scandinavian five-star dinner and Vínarbrauð for dessert.

Then both of you wished good night to each other and went to bed. He never made you feel awkward or obligated to do anything and you loved it.

But you couldn’t sleep. Harry had been rolling over the bed for hours. You didn’t mind, but you grew curious as to why the sun was still up. Until you are seated on the floor, looking at the balcony and you remember it was a time of the phenomenon called Midnight Sun. The sun barely set over the horizon.

The sky looked red, purple orange, and with hints of magenta, with the rest almost completely dark. You couldn’t recall a sunset as beautiful as that one in Iceland.

“Can’t sleep?” Harry asked, startling you.

“You scared me, shit. But… No, for some reason, I cannot”

“Jet lag. I can’t sleep either”

His dark grey pajama pants and black t-shirt made him look cozy, even worthy of cuddles, but as the non-love person he was, you knew that’d be hardly a reality.

“We can postpone tomorrow’s agenda”

“No, I’m fine. You planned out everything already, I can’t make you cancel or postpone….” Maybe you sounded a little too hysterical, but you felt slightly entitled to enjoy everything Harry had planned for the trip. Even if it was meant to be for your sister.

Anyone would’ve said it was morally wrong and imprudent to accept the trip invitation. But… Why not? Harry was great and he wanted company. You thought he offered the ticket to you because it was cheaper to change first names and leave the same last name.

“You can say no, y/n. The fact that I have you here with me doesn’t mean you have to accept everything I planned” Harry said with a kind smile. One that made you realize he was a really good person.

Perhaps Lucy was right: he was perfect.

“You’re far too kind, Harry. I swear I’m insisting because I want to enjoy this trip” You lied in the slightest, but Harry didn’t seem to notice.

“Good girl,” he said patting your head and you playfully yanked his hand.

“I’m not a dog, man” Both of you chuckle until there are those smiles again.

Since that night in the bar, you felt some peace when that exchange of smiles happened. And you felt it again in that hotel, in Iceland.

“Maybe it was meant to happen this way” Harry said looking at the still Midnight Sun. “To have you here and not Lucy…”

“Could be destiny telling you to have a female younger friend”

“Or you just wanted to save money on the extra ticket” Upon hearing your words, Harry started cackling, which made you smile confused.

“You think I did it to save money?” You nodded and he kept laughing.

“I knew you were rich but no this reach”

“That gives me more points, right?” Then you cackled, patting his knee.

“You seriously have been brainwashed”

“Why so?”

“This thing about dating being a business” you said with a slightly frustrated tone. “It’s all total bullshit, just find someone who you enjoy spending time with, don’t cheat on them, and call it a day”

“So if I wasn’t rich, Would I still be a fair option for you?” Harry asked.

“You’re good-looking. Despite being older than me, you’re hot so… That’s a good start for me, so yes”

“What about being shorter?”

“Why? You had the limb lengthening surgery?” You asked and he remained quiet, looking at you deeply in the eye. So you started cackling again.

“For real?” Slowly, he nodded with genuine shyness.

“Oh my god. If you were my boyfriend, this where I kiss your cheeks, tell you I don’t give a fuck but make fun of it for the rest of our time together”

Harry only glared at you with a little smile. The faint light of the room is getting brighter as the sun would soon start to rise again. But Harry thought you looked radiant, with no makeup or trying to make yourself look desirable. At one moment he thought he would regret taking you with him. But he was glad since you were good company.

“That’s it. Now you know my darkest secret, now you’re entitled to be my friend forever” he joked, so you offered your hand.

“Friends forever, then…” you said, shaking his big and warm hand.

He didn’t let go of your hand at first. And when he did, his fingers passed to caress your cheek, testing the skin of it. It took you by surprise, but you found yourself leaning closer to him.

As he started to lean as well, you thought twice if it was a good idea. But there wasn’t much to think about when you already had Harry’s lips on yours.

By the way, his lips tried to take complete control, you understood that Harry was a dominant lover. He wanted the power of giving pleasure and when you started to feel his weight pushing you backward, you also understood he was more interested in your release rather than his.

“Harry…” you whispered before leaning backward completely.

“Should we stop?” He says on your lips, his hands stopping their movements in your hips.

You instantly missed the way his thumbs caressed your hip bones, the ache between your legs growing at a desperate speed.

You finally got on your back, your right hand barely touching his chin. His beard tickled you and when he accidentally moved his head, you touched his lips, so you pushed him, urging him to kiss you again.

“Do you have condoms?” You asked, trying to articulate coherent words as Harry pushed your shorts aside, quickly feeling how you weren’t wearing any underwear. He gasped and gave your wet lips a soft pat before nodding as you moaned for the first time in the night.

“Yeah, in one of my bags” you nodded back, trying to focus on getting the protection first. But dear lord, his fingers rubbed you so well, expertly gathering your crystal clear juices and making a wet mess in your clit. Your legs opened wider by instinct.

“Go and get the damn condom before I start getting wetter and needier” he smirked and when you thought he was going for the condoms, he slid two of his clean fingers in your mouth.

“I think, you come first and then I get the condoms” It shouldn’t have turned you on how bossy he sounded. You were pretty boring when it came to sex, but… What were you seeing in Harry that he was making you feel so aroused?

“Now, suck my fingers while I use the rest on your pretty cunt” You moaned in his fingers and closed your eyes when he started fingering you. All the time comes to remember the damn condoms.

It was safe to say that neither of you remembered the booked whale sighting tour for the next morning.

…

Was Harry your friend, friend with benefits, lover? You couldn’t tell.

Iceland was a dream. It made you feel sad to return to New York. But as the days passed, you quickly got back to your old routine and self. You remember your life was also great with no man sleeping by your side, dealing with debts, and not having five-course meals.

Until he called. Exactly two weeks after returning home.

“Am I talking with the most optimist woman in New York?” You smiled, remembering how Harry started saying you were too optimistic while trying different things in Iceland. Or when things got a little rocky after visiting a melting glacier.

“I believe that optimistic woman stayed in Iceland, sir” he chuckled and it made you smile wider.

“I should’ve called sooner, but I was so busy. How are you, kid?”

“It’s okay, I get it. I’m fine and you? How is job and life going?”

“Things are fine. Things are fine…” he repeated.

There’s a comforting silence for a couple of seconds. You heard the birds near your window and the sound of traffic down the block.

“So… We should see each other one of these days” you felt your heart pounding, fluttering, and sending shockwaves through your body. The same thing that happened with people who made you happy. You couldn’t tell but you really wanted to befriend Harry.

“Yeah, we should hang out or something” you agreed quickly.

“Great, I will call you soon…”

“I’ll be waiting. And Harry?”

“Yes, darling?’

“Thank you for everything”

“You thanked each day. I know…”

You hung up with a big big big smile.

…

Three weeks later, life inverted, in the most twisted and unexpected way.

You had declined each call from Harry Castillo, you were with a confectioner to get a dress for Lucy’s wedding with John. And you were six weeks pregnant.

It all started the weekend after Harry called. You have a cozy Saturday alone at your apartment and decided to have wine. It tasted great but you felt odd. And the next morning, the nauseous feeling started.

Two negative pregnancy tests later, you still felt sick. So you started ignoring Harry until you knew with certain details if you were pregnant or not.

Turns out you were, you needed thousands of vitamins to have a healthy pregnancy and apparently a husband or at least a boyfriend. You didn’t know what to do.

You didn’t even know if Harry deserved to know.

In Iceland, you saw how he placed the condom each time he was about to fuck you. Each time he trusted you, you wished he wasn’t wearing a condom so you could feel better that delicious vein his cock had. What was the point then?

It didn’t make sense. But there was a creature that didn’t even look like a fetus yet inside your womb.

When Lucy came to your place with the news that she was getting married to John, you genuinely felt happy for her. But even better for John because you knew him since you were a teenager and he was a great man, only that he needed to get a better job.

Lucy asked you to be her bridesmaid and you couldn’t say no. Because for the first time, you felt light while being with her, you couldn’t ruin things. So you didn’t tell her you were pregnant.

And horror of horrors, the day of the wedding, when you were ready with your bridesmaid grey dress while trying to get a cab, you found Harry leaning against a ridiculously expensive car, his driver ready to any command of his.

The color in your face drained. You gripped your purse tightly. He was wearing a suit and looked sad.

“You look very pretty” was the first thing he said, almost making your eyes grow wet.

“Harry…” you said.

“I called…”

“I know” you admitted with shame.

“Then why you didn’t answer any of my calls?”

“I’ve been sick” his expression changed, from dissatisfaction to worried.

“What? Are you okay? Is it serious?”

“No, uh… anemic breakdown and a meltdown combined” It wasn’t a complete lie. You were anemic and you had a meltdown. You were only skipping the part of Harry’s child growing inside you.

“I’m truly sorry. I know it was stupid but-“

“Hey, it’s okay. But you worried me, next time you tell me. Talk to me, I can’t cook but I’ll try and I can get you the best medicine”

Your eyes finally grew wet, but you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I wish I could hug you right now”

“You can hug me, I don’t like love, but I’m human, dear”

You crashed into his arms and called it pregnancy hormones, but you kept holding Harry so dearly that you forgot about so many things while doing so. Except that, you felt worse for keeping the most important thing from him.

“We’re good then. And why are you so nicely dressed, little lady?” The nickname made you punch his arm as he made you spin around once to pay attention to your dress.

“Lucy is getting married” you revealed.

Harry couldn’t hide his shock.

“Really? With that actor?” He asked with pure curiosity. “What was his name? Uh-“

“John…” you told him and he nodded. “They’ll have a communal wedding and I’m the bridesmaid”

Harry subtly looked up and down at you, he was relieved to hear that you were not actually avoiding him. It was so weird that he was actually interested in you when he never pursued young women.

And it felt even better to not really care about Lucy’s love life.

“Can I take you to the wedding then?” He asked with a gorgeous spark in his eyes.

You weren’t sure if it was the best idea, but you couldn’t say no at that moment.

“Yes, you can” Then he opened the door of his car for you and the ride was comforting. You easily avoided sharing too many details about your sickness with Harry, but it didn’t mean you weren’t slowly feeling anxious about the whole issue.

When he dropped you at the place, you just couldn’t tell Harry to leave.

“We are going to have a little party at Lucy’s mother’s place upstate after the wedding. Do you want to come?” You asked feeling shy and small. He could’ve easily rejected you but he only smirked and started walking you toward the entrance, offering his arm,

“If Lucy and John have no problem. Then yes…”

“I hope not…’ but you knew it could get a little awkward.

And so it did, the moment Lucy appeared in a simple but beautiful wedding gown along with John, the smiles dropped when they looked at Harry.

“What did I miss?” She asked as she hugged you briefly.

“Uh, I wanted to say it sooner. But we’re…” In fact, you were clueless about your status with Harry. But soon he answered for you.

“We’re seeing each other,” Harry said, gently squeezing your arm. It took you by surprise and a little smile appeared on your face.

“She’s barely out of college” Lucy commented, sounding a little too judgemental.

“I know, she works at NYU” Harry answered, not feeling threatened at all.

So cynical, but polite and confident. That was Harry trying to not let the tension escalate between him and Lucy.

“And that’s great. If they get along, that’s also great. Right, Lucy?” John also tries to lighten the mood.

As Lucy was still eyeing Harry, you started to feel nervous. So John, took you by the arm.

“Hey, y/n. Why don’t you pick our seats?” You nodded immediately, but you didn’t want to let go of Harry, until you looked up at him and he offered a warm smile with a tilt, urging you to go with John.

“If you break her heart-“ Lucy starts, pointing at Harry with defiance.

“You know I won’t” he interrupted her.

And the truth was that Harry had so many points in his favor.

“Fine, go and sit with her”

…

It was a beautiful and humble party in a modest house. You remembered a few Christmass spent at that house: blue with white facades and too many flowers.

You forgot about a lot of Lucy’s family, and seeing them again was nice. She genuinely looked happy and relaxed. You knew she quit her job as a matchmaker and was trying to simply help plan weddings.

And it resulted in curious how hers was so light, classic, and homely.

Harry seemed to get along with the party, you wondered if he would feel like an outcast since it wasn’t a luxurious wedding, and it surprised you that he embraced humility as if he wasn’t part of the richest families in New York.

“So… you and Harry?” Lucy asked as soon as she appeared to take a seat beside you.

You sighed, nodding while watching Harry dancing with Lucy’s grandmother.

“I mean, I don’t know if we’re a thing but… is something”

“How couldn’t you tell me?” It was unsure if she was just curious or resented, but you wished it was just doubt and shock.

“I- I don’t know, it just happened”

“You’re aware that he’s older, avoidant and dominant. Right?”

“Lucy, I’m well aware of that. It’s not like I’m marrying him” Suddenly you felt irritated by his accusing tone. And you didn’t want to fight but as she kept bombarding you with comments, you started feeling anxious.

“Oh, you would. With all the materialist things he can get you. You’d hardly be willing to leave him…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lucy finally snapped out of it, she realized she was getting on your nerves.

“You can never be happy for me, it’s always judge and judge and judge. My god, Lucy, just let me live the way I want!”

“…y/n” Lucy grabbed your hand, placing the free one on your cheek.

“You’re pale. Are you okay?” She asked with worry.

At that moment you realized your hands were turning numb, your vision was getting blurred and you could only hear a pitch, Lucy’s voice sounding distant.

Then nausea started its way through your chest and throat.

“My blood pressure is dropping”

Lucy yelled, calling for John.

Lucy’s mother, John, and Harry gathered around you.

You couldn’t see well but you knew Harry was right there, telling you to breathe and asking for water for you.

“Is she sick?” John asked, fanning you.

“Maybe she’s dehydrated” Lucy commented, debating whether to call for an ambulance.

You looked very pale and you couldn’t even lift your hands anymore.

“Dear, Are you pregnant?” Lucy’s mother asked you with a relaxed voice.

You distantly heard her and started nodding.

“You got my sister pregnant?” Lucy started screaming at Harry. John was trying to calm her and the rest of the guests were looking at each other in confusion.

“Harry, get her inside the house, please” Lucy’s mother had always been nice to you, despite not getting along with yours, she was always kind and soft-spoken to you.

You barely felt Harry carrying you all the way from the backyard to the living room of the house.

…

The sound of water being poured finally made a return to reality.

Harry handed you a cold glass of water and you thanked him.

“Do you feel a little better?” you only nodded, looking for any sign of anger from him. But Harry looked calm, he got on his knees, facing you and looking so deeply into your eye that sent shivers through your spine.

“Is it true? You’re actually pregnant and is mine?”

“I- Yes…” you admitted, lowering your head.

‘And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure. I don’t even know if I’m having it…”

“How far are you?” His eyes felt heavy on your still flat stomach, with no specific emotion on his face.

“About six weeks…” the air felt thicker but not suffocating.

Harry remained calm, making it harder for you to understand what he was feeling.

“Harry, I don’t want to ruin anything. I really like you and I enjoy your company. This was an accident…”

“A one-of-a-kind accident,” he said, and his attempts to joke, made you feel less stressed out.

The condoms were fine. But he didn’t doubt some had a defect. That’s why only dated women who were on birth control. But… he couldn’t judge you, you were in your right to stay out of it. In fact, Harry admired you for opposing it, but it came with a great cost. And for some reason, he couldn’t be angry.

He was not getting any younger, his mother would hate the idea of him getting a woman pregnant before putting a ring on her finger. But he liked the idea.

“I’ll respect whatever you choose to do. But I’d like you to keep it, let’s have a kid. I promise we’re going to be fine”

Finally, you felt like you could breathe again. Not really because you desired to become a mom. Or because you wanted to tie Harry to you. But because now you had an answer. It was your time to choose.

“Are you sure?” You asked leaning forward, very few inches of distance between you and Harry.

“Yeah, I am,” he said before caressing your cheek. “I’m going to take care of you so well, darling”

Lucy saw the exchange from afar, from the sprint door his mother had in the kitchen. She found herself smiling. And accepting her maths was once again wrong. You and Harry Castillo made a match.

…

[ First Trimester]

The whole place smelled like chicken broth. You were drinking hot hibiscus tea while flipping through a fashion magazine.

“Holy fuck…” you heard from the kitchen. At first, it startled you but then, you started chuckling.

“Are you okay there?”

“Everything is fine, sweetheart”

Harry was attempting to cook for you. You were three months pregnant, he was coming at least three times per week to see you. But when you faced a whole entire week of nausea and vomiting, he stayed the whole week.

Slowly, you were getting used to having him in your life. The only bad thing was that you two had never defined the relationship. And you weren’t desperate to do so, but it was odd whenever an old lady asked if you were Harry’s wife.

“Dinner is ready…” Harry announced.

You made it to the kitchen and he had placed two bowls of chicken broth along with cranberry juice glasses. You stared at the scene in awe.

“We can order delivery if you don’t like it”

“No! Harry, don’t! It smells great!” you reassured him, caressing his hand.

He would never pressure you. But as Harry saw you slurping at the soup and engaging in whatever conversation he brought up, he wanted to make you consider marriage.

He was growing too comfortable with you.

He wasn’t in love and doubted he’d ever be. But felt nice, having a couple without a facade.

…

[ Second Trimester ]

Hospitals made you uneasy. Not even clinics were as terrifying as big white sanitizer-smelling hospitals. But there you were leaning in a cold bed with Harry sitting beside you.

It was the fifth-month appointment and so far, everything seemed to be going well. The nausea stopped and so the hormones became overproduced. You started staying some days at Harry’s penthouse and he got you a full maternity lingerie wardrobe to wear for him. It was silly, but you two had so much fun despite not being an ordinary couple. The relationship was still undefined, but it was too good, so you avoided the subject as much as he did.

“Alright, parents. Are we ready to know the sex of the baby? Or would you like to print the results?” The nice old doctor asked.

Harry and you exchanged looks before smiling at each other, nodding at the same time.

“We’d like to know now…” you said at the doctor. She was one of the best in New York and Harry easily got you an appointment with her during the second month of the pregnancy.

“Alright then… Let’s see” the cold gel in your womb almost made you squirm. But the warm touch of Harry’s hand on your shoulder relaxed you.

Through the echography, you start to see faint parts of the baby’s body. The head, what seemed like an arm and leg, and then… you squeezed Harry’s hand.

“It’s a girl, congratulations!” The doctor yelled. “I’ll go print some pictures and then I’m back to clean your belly.

You smiled again, and then Harry leaned closer, kissing your cheek.

“You heard that, baby? We’re having a girl…” Harry whispered in your ear, making you blush and caress his knuckles.

You were becoming addicted to him. But you knew it had to be the pregnancy playing with your emotions.

…

[ Third Trimester ]

Charlotte; Harry’s sister-in-law offered and insisted on throwing you a baby shower. You couldn’t say no, but you warned her how you wanted to be a casual party with no storks and sandwiches and games.

And it worked out.

She rented a rooftop that felt like a dream despite not being too ostentatious. There was pink everywhere, but it wasn’t blinding. People congratulated you and Harry and constantly asked if you two would get married. Others are reserved to compliment your outfit. You picked a sundress with comfortable heels, curled hair, and orange makeup. Your belly popped out weeks ago, and by the time of the baby shower, you were seven months pregnant.

And you were scared. Not because your due date was approaching, but because you were utterly in love with the father of your baby.

The sickening love knocked at your door and didn’t seem to want to leave.

Harry looked gorgeous as ever, he was in dress pants in sand color with a salmon pink shirt. He was proud of being babygirl father-to-be. And that was one of the many reasons that made you feel like you couldn’t live without him.

The cake was cut and some guests had already left, but there was a song from The Ronettes that Harry and you loved, so he asked if you wanted to dance with him.

“Charlotte outdid herself with this shower” you commented while placing your head on Harry’s chest.

“She did. Everything was nice…”

“Pink suits you” you dared to tell him, which made him laugh.

“Really? I never wear pink. But I’m getting used to it” his comment made your heart flutter.

“Same for me” you admitted.

“Be for real, baby. Everything fits you…”

“Even this bump between us?” The hand on your shoulder came to rest on your belly.

“That only makes it more special” Your smile was overflowing.

And just when he said that the baby kicked.

Harry felt it and sighed in disbelief. He couldn’t believe he was going to ask Lucy to marry him.

After you, nothing would ever top the feeling of having a woman like you in his life. And to your luck, he was also scared to be falling in love with you.

…

You were late. Harry was about to call you to see if everything was okay, and then you knocked on his door.

“Why are you sweating so much?” Harry asked upon opening the door.

“I came all the way here from my place walking?” you revealed and Harry huffed in disbelief.

“Are you insane? Why would you do that? You’re pregnant, y/n!” Harry pushed you inside his penthouse.

“Harry, I’m being too lazy, I can’t even hit my usual gym routine anymore”

“You’re insane. My baby girl must be so tired” You grew accustomed to having him kissing your bump whenever you two reunited after days of not seeing each other.

“Your baby girl was screaming, begging for a trip”

“When she’s at least four months old, I’m taking my girls to Malaysia like you always wanted” You wanted to rip your heart out and stop seeing him as the most perfect human being.

You wanted to scream you loved him. But you weren’t sure if Harry broke his boundaries like you did.

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to. You deserve it” Slowly, he dragged you to the kitchen, showing you delivery food bags and a pizza box.

“Now, we’re going to clean you up a little bit and then we’ll have a nice dinner and then watch those horror cases you like to see” he started kissing your neck, aiming at your melting point, you gasped, immediately getting turned on.

“Are you sure getting me cleaned is the first thing we’ll do?” Harry chucked, spinning you to kiss you on the lips.

“I can clean you and have a nice time with you at the same time, doll” It was a promise. He washed your hair and then gave you your head. Great communication, promising goals, nice sex. Harry was able to give you the world even if you ignored his money.

…

The moment you felt the bed wet, you got so embarrassed that you almost cried. But soon you started feeling contractions. The pain is ten times worse than the darkest periods of a year.

You looked at the clock and it was 5:00 am, Harry soon was awake as well.

“Are you okay?” He asked, yawning before sitting to take a better look at you.

You wanted to answer, but you let out a big moan of pain.

“No… I think she’s coming today, Harry” he stood up only to come around the bed and sit beside you. “Harry, it hurts too much!”

“Hey hey, baby. Look at me please” You struggle, but you do as he says. “Breathe, just like in the courses we took. Breathe…”

Trying to find some peace, you sigh, holding his hands and expecting the pain to pass.

“You can do this. You will bring our babygirl today and it’s going to be fine” You start nodding with tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

It’s too much happening at the same time. But there is your Harry holding onto you and urging you to keep going at the same time.

You need to tell him. To say-

“I love you” both of you say at the same time.

…

June, June, June, June…

That was all you could say. Over and over again. Ever since you woke up, she was already dressed in a pink onesie with an embroidered duck and gloves covering her tiny hands.

She had a head full of golden hair and had the same kind of eyes as Harry. She was born in the evening and smelled so unique that made you kiss her temple over and over again.

The moment you pushed her out of your body, you fell asleep and the rest of the day was blurry.

“She’s perfect. Isn’t she?” You asked the following morning. Harry hugged you from behind, feeling your body covered in bandages.

“And she smells perfect” Harry replied, feeling your body against his. You threatened to get surgery if your body didn’t return to normal after a year of giving birth. But Harry reassured you that he would love you no matter what.

“Here…” Harry offered you an envelope and it made you frown.

June was asleep, her soft breathing making you look at her like being under a spell. But Harry was still your core shaker. You opened the envelope and gasped in surprise.

Three tickets to go to Malaysia in the fall.

“Harry…” before you could speak, he hushed you.

“One thing in exchange…”

“Yes, dear?”

“Marry me” he told you with a big smile on his face.

Your cheeks burnt and you started giggling, only to end up crashing in his arms and kissing him all over his face.

“Sure”

“Sure that’s all you’ll say?”

“What else do you want me to say?” He rolled his eyes and hugged you tightly against his chest.

“God, I love you”

“June and I love you too, Harry” you assured him, hearing his heartbeats.

“So much?”

“Maybe a little too much, baby” you concluded.

_________________________________________

Taglist: @mirandablue1 @hopperbopper @aeriaselle1711 @persiar9 @qtmoonies @isa942572 @luvrrish @chewie-bars @particularlypuppetry @sweetlovepascal @samslvrgirl @holydreamflower @hummusxx @llamaproblem @sydneyandioop @gretagergwigsmuse @callmefroggy10 @withakindheartx @everandforeveryours @qyoongi @umadirectioner @bellatopo25 @dilfs4life69 @inlovewithchrisevans123 @littlemisslovesjpbp @arcticversed @maniac-penguin @destinythepanda

#pedro pascal x reader #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo x you #harry castillo #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal characters

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sweet-pea-channie · 1 month ago

Text

Yours, Elsewhere

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: A mission gone wrong hurls Azriel into a parallel Velaris. There, he meets a woman who knew him intimately in her world. As they search for a way to send him back, grief tangles with growing affection. He teaches her how to breathe again; she shows him a version of himself he never knew could exist. But the Cauldron is cracking, time unraveling. He must leave—or risk destroying everything.

Warnings: grief, past death of a loved one, emotional angst, mentions of trauma, memory loss, canon divergence. Bittersweet but healing.

Word count: 11.6k

A/N: I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of soul-deep connection, something that survives even across worlds. Writing this fic was a journey of emotion, comfort, and quiet hope, and I truly hope it resonates with you. Also, English is my third language, so thank you for your patience with any little mistakes along the way. I’m always learning, and I’m just grateful to be able to share this story with you. Thank you for reading 💙

The spell left her fingertips just as he vanished.

The witch’s lips moved in a frantic whisper, the ancient incantation torn from her throat like a last breath, desperate and reckless. Magic sparked blue at her hands, arcing like lightning across the broken altar stones. It twisted into the air, weightless and burning, then launched toward the night sky.

But Azriel was already gone.

He didn’t see the light flare behind him. Didn’t hear the way the wind screamed as it bent around the surge of power.

His wings beat once, powerful and sure, and then the shadows took him.

Velaris.

His destination shaped itself in his mind, rooftops glistening with dew, the scent of citrus and moonflower in the air. The shadows wrapped around him like silk, folding the world inward and then outward until the mountains welcomed him home.

His boots touched stone.

He exhaled slowly, the winnow sliding off his skin like a second breath. Easy. Clean. Just like always.

The balcony beneath him was familiar, high above the Sidra, at the top of the House of Wind. The air was sharp with pine and river mist, a spring breeze curling over the tiles.

He glanced up. And paused.

The stars were wrong.

Only slightly. Barely noticeable. But Azriel had flown these skies long enough to know every constellation, every shift in the heavens, they were old friends, silent sentries. And now, the stars blinked like strangers.

Frowning, he stepped forward, shadows curling idly at his heels. The door was unlocked. Odd. He stepped inside. The House was quiet. Too quiet.

Not in the peaceful way it usually was but empty. Hollow. As if no one had passed through in days. No scent of food, no lingering traces of Cassian’s boisterous laughter or Feyre’s paint-streaked energy. Just silence.

Azriel reached for the bond. Rhysand.

No answer. He stilled.

He pressed harder, pushing through the mental link, summoning the familiar pulse of his High Lord's mind.

Rhys. Come in.

Nothing. Like throwing a stone into water that didn’t ripple.

He tried again Cassian? Mor? but each attempt came back with the same flat silence.

A cold unease began to thread through his chest. The shadows responded immediately, rising like smoke along his shoulders, alert and watchful.

Something was off.

He launched into the skies again, this time gliding silently over Velaris. It looked... untouched.

The buildings were the same. The Sidra still shimmered like liquid silver beneath him. People walked the streets below. But when he dipped lower, he saw the way they looked up.

Saw the expressions that bloomed across their faces. Not awe. Not fear. Shock.

One woman clutched her child tighter to her side, eyes wide as she watched him pass. A group of males at a café stopped mid-conversation, staring. One stood abruptly, knocking over his chair, his mouth falling open.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. He landed in an alleyway behind the familiar stretch of the Rainbow, his feet hitting cobblestone with barely a sound.

He turned toward the street, and froze. A shop window reflected him.

His armor, his blades, his shadows, all exactly as they should be. But behind him, in the glass, Velaris was... different. Too bright. Too sharp. Like the color had been turned up just a little too high.

He blinked. Turned. The illusion held.

No, he thought. Not illusion. Not glamour. This is real.

The truth whispered through him like a crack in the foundation. He was home. But something was wrong with home. The streets felt narrower here.

Or maybe it was the way people kept staring, some openly, some with barely concealed glances over shoulders, as if they’d seen a ghost and didn’t want to be rude about it.

Azriel kept to the shadows. He’d just rounded the edge of the Rainbow when he heard the gasp. A sharp inhale, half-shocked, half-sucked through clenched teeth.

He turned.

She stood beneath the awning of a flower stall, a spray of wild violets clutched in one hand, her other frozen mid-reach.

Human. Or maybe half-Fae. Familiar enough to recognize the expression on her face: recognition slammed into disbelief, then sank quickly into pale, careful confusion.

She didn’t speak at first.

Azriel gave her a cautious nod, not slowing his stride.

She took a step toward him. "That’s not funny."

He stopped. "I beg your pardon?"

She stared. “Who put you up to this?”

Azriel tilted his head, shadows coiling tighter around his boots. “No one put me up to anything.”

Her hand trembled, still gripping the stems. “You shouldn’t wear his, I mean, your armor. That’s... sick. Even for Cassian.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly. “Who are you?”

Her brows drew together, uncertain now, brittle. “This isn’t funny,” she said again, softer this time. “Is this some sort of cruel Solstice prank?”

“I don’t play pranks.”

“No, he didn’t either,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

Something in her eyes shifted. The anger cracked, just a hairline fracture and beneath it, something raw flickered into view. Fear. Or maybe hope.

She dropped the violets.

Azriel stepped forward instinctively, but she flinched, then shook her head, waving him off like she couldn’t bear to be helped.

“This has to be a mistake,” she muttered. “Or... or a glamour. Are you-? No. You can’t be...”

She looked up at him again, really looked, and he watched her decide something.

“You need to come with me.”

Azriel hesitated. “Why?”

She didn’t answer, just turned on her heel.

“I don’t follow strangers,” he called after her.

She paused at the corner. “You’re not following a stranger.”

She looked back. And for a moment, her expression softened not quite fond, not quite grief-stricken, but edged in something that made his stomach twist.

“You’re following a friend of hers.”

Azriel’s wings rustled. “Her?”

“She’ll know what to do with you.” A beat. “Or... what’s left of her will.”

He didn’t like the sound of that.

But the shadows, ever attuned to unspoken truths, whispered go.

So he followed.

────────────

The children were covered in paint.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. The sun was warm, the breeze soft, and after a long week of rain and restlessness, she had promised them something fun. So the easels were out, brushes flying, water cups sloshing precariously on the garden stones.

Y/N knelt beside a little girl with wild curls and green streaks on her cheeks, helping her mix blue and white into a swirl of sky.

"Like this?" the girl asked, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

"Perfect," Y/N murmured, smiling. "That looks just like a cloud before it rains."

Laughter bubbled nearby. The world, for once, felt light enough to hold.

So she didn’t notice the footsteps at first. Or the quiet tension just beyond the garden gate. Not until a shadow crossed her canvas.

She looked up.

Her friend stood there, a strange expression on her face. Breathless, like she’d been running, though the walk from town wasn’t far. And behind her, half in the sun and half in the shade, stood a male Y/N hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Everything stopped.

The paintbrush slipped from her fingers. Her breath caught on the edge of his name, but she didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

He looked the same.

The armor, the blades, the face she’d memorized long ago. The face she still saw in dreams, the one she sometimes whispered to when sleep clung too tightly. But there was something missing. No recognition in his eyes. No quiet pull between them. Just… calm. Measured wariness. And then there were these things... shadows?

He wasn’t hers.

Not really.

Her friend stepped aside, watching her carefully.

Y/N rose slowly, brushing her hands against her apron out of habit, though streaks of dried paint still clung to her palms.

Azriel’s eyes followed the motion.

She didn’t speak. Not at first. She just stared.

And he stared back.

One of the children tugged on her sleeve. “Miss Y/N? Is that the scary man you told us stories about?”

A huff of laughter slipped from her friend, almost hysterical. Y/N managed a breath.

"No, sweetheart," she said quietly. "He’s not scary at all."

Azriel tilted his head. “You know me.”

She swallowed, forcing her eyes to stay dry. “Not you, exactly.”

He looked down for a moment, then back at her, something almost apologetic in the tilt of his brow.

"I'm not supposed to be here, am I?"

She took a step closer, heart pounding, unsure what to do with it all. The sight of him. The voice. The way her body recognized him even if he didn’t recognize her.

"No," she said. "But you're here all the same."

The breeze picked up, rustling through the garden. The scent of lilac and paint and spring.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

But the world felt suddenly too full, and too empty, all at once. "Come inside," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "We need to talk."

And he followed her, just like he used to. Even if he didn’t know why.

Y/N kept her voice steady as she called over to the other caretaker, a soft-spoken male named Tarian who’d been helping with the younger ones that day.

“Arios, would you mind staying a little longer? I need to step away for a bit.”

He glanced up from where he was braiding daisies into a toddler’s hair, his expression gentle but curious. His eyes flicked briefly to the male standing behind her, then back. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

She offered a grateful smile she didn’t feel, touched a child’s shoulder in passing, and turned.

“Follow me,” she said without looking back.

Azriel obeyed in silence.

The garden gave way to the winding path toward the cottage she used for art and quiet reading. It was set apart from the others, tucked between climbing roses and silver-barked trees. Each step she took seemed more uncertain than the last, but her posture stayed rigid, collected. Just enough to keep from unraveling.

Azriel’s eyes moved over everything as they walked.

The cobblestones here weren’t the same. Laid in a different pattern, slightly darker in hue, almost as if the rain had never stopped soaking into them. The flowering vines on the archway above them curled in unfamiliar directions, lavender in color where they should have been white. And the House of Wind, though distant, didn’t quite look like itself either. The cliffs cradled it too tightly. As if the mountains had shifted just enough to close their grip.

Velaris. But wrong.

Beautiful still, but subtly off. A painting that someone had copied from memory rather than life. Familiar and foreign in the same breath.

He could feel the magic in the air too. Not buzzing. Not screaming. Just trembling softly at the edges of everything, like a note held too long on a string.

His shadows had quieted, uncertain of what to guard against.

He studied the woman in front of him. She moved like she was trying not to feel. Like her heart had shattered and she'd pressed the pieces back in place with nothing but breath and willpower. She wasn’t crying. But the tension in her shoulders said she could, at any moment.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low but clear.

She didn’t stop walking.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to. The words landed like a stone in his chest.

Azriel let the silence stretch. Not empty. Not awkward. Just necessary. He understood grief. He lived in the shadows of it.

But this was something else. This was her past colliding with his present. And whatever version of himself had once belonged to this world, it was obvious that he had belonged to her.

And now, somehow, so did the weight of his absence.

They reached the door to the cottage. She paused with her hand on the knob, inhaling slowly, the breath catching like a thread snagged on glass.

She looked at him, truly looked. Not at the armor or the blades or the shadows, but at his face. Like she was trying to find something in it. Or make peace with the fact that she wouldn't.

Then she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and let the light swallow her.

Azriel followed.

And for the first time since arriving, he felt the world shift slightly again. Not the magic. Not the timeline. Just his own heart. Something had cracked open.

And he didn’t know yet whether it was meant to be sealed again, or stepped through.

The door clicked softly shut behind them.

Inside, the air was warm with the faint scent of paint and clay and something citrus-sweet, orange peel maybe, left out in a little bowl on the windowsill. Children’s drawings lined the walls, some framed with pressed flowers, others curling at the corners from age or love.

Azriel stood just inside, uncertain of the space but unwilling to impose.

Y/N moved slowly. Not towards him, but toward the shelf where the water pitcher sat. She poured herself a glass with steady hands. Didn’t offer one. Didn’t look at him. Just needed something to do.

Azriel let the silence hold for a moment before speaking.

“I don’t think this is my world,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, then back at her glass.

“I figured.”

He nodded, stepping forward. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath his boots. He stopped a few paces from her, careful not to cross whatever invisible line she needed right now.

“There was a mission,” he said. “We were tracking a rogue spell-weaver. A witch who’d been bending too many old laws. I...” He exhaled slowly. “I might’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong time. I made her angry.”

Y/N set her glass down but didn’t drink from it. “And?”

“She was casting something. Ancient magic. I interrupted her. I thought I’d stopped her in time.” He gave a small shake of his head. “But something must have hit me. Something… twisted.”

She finally looked at him then, brows slightly furrowed. “You’re saying she sent you here?”

“I think so,” he said. “Not on purpose, maybe. But the spell left her hands just as I winnowed. I landed in Velaris. But not mine.”

He looked toward the window, out at the sky that wasn’t quite the right shade, at the garden path that curved too gently.

“I knew the moment I saw the stars. They’re wrong here. Familiar, but rearranged. Like someone shuffled the sky when I wasn’t looking.”

She said nothing for a long beat. Then, softly, “You’re a Shadowsinger there?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And who… who do you work for?”

Azriel’s mouth twitched slightly. “Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his spymaster.”

Her breath caught. He could hear it, even with the distance between them. She looked down at her hands, fingers curling in against her palms.

He took a half-step closer. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said, his voice gentler now. “May I ask?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Swallowed.

Then, almost to herself, she said, “Your voice is exactly the same.”

Azriel went still.

Her eyes flicked up to his. “The way you speak. It’s like… like he’s standing here.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to.

She closed her eyes briefly, as if the air itself had become too heavy.

“My name is Y/N,” she said finally. Quiet, but clear. “I used to mean something to you. I mean, to him. In this world.”

Azriel let the weight of it settle between them.

“I believe that,” he said.

Azriel’s eyes lingered on Y/N’s face, on the way she held herself just a little too still, like one wrong move might shatter the fragile calm she’d built around her.

“If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “could you tell me more about this place? This version of Velaris. Is Rhysand the High Lord here too?”

Something shifted in her expression. Not shock. Just quiet confusion.

“Rhysand,” she repeated, as if tasting the name for the first time. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

That struck deeper than he expected. He kept his face impassive, but inside, a slow ripple of unease moved through him. Rhysand had ruled for centuries. If no one here knew his name…

“Then who rules the Night Court?” he asked.

“Lord Tharanis,” she said. “He’s been High Lord since before I was born.”

The name meant nothing to him. Not even a whisper of familiarity. Another piece of the puzzle that proved it beyond doubt, this world wasn’t just a copy. It was a divergence. A different thread entirely.

Y/N must have seen something in his face, because she stepped away from the table and crossed to one of the nearby shelves, tracing her fingers over the spines of a row of books without reading any of them.

“There’s a witch who lives near the cliffs on the eastern side of the city,” she said. “She studies old magic. Real old. Quiet about it, but good. We could ask her to help. Maybe she’ll know how to get you back.”

Azriel caught the way she said it. We. But the tone didn’t hold warmth. It was kindness, not invitation. She wanted him to leave.

He watched her closely now, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her hand paused over a small ceramic sculpture on the shelf but didn’t pick it up. She didn’t want to look at him again.

He took a step closer, his voice soft. “Are you afraid of what might happen if I stay?”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the shelf. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence.

Then she turned, slowly. Her eyes met his, clear and unwavering.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “But you’re not supposed to be here. And… part of me keeps waiting for him to walk in.” She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. “And he won’t.”

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Her voice was steady now. Empty of drama, full of weight.

“My Azriel died,” she said. “Years ago. Not in battle. Not in glory. Just a quiet thing. Magic sickness. He didn’t even tell me until it was too far gone. He thought he could protect me from it.”

Her breath shivered at the edges.

“And he’s been gone long enough that I stopped dreaming of him. Until today.”

Azriel exhaled, low and slow. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Y/N gave the smallest nod, then sat down on the edge of a low bench, hands resting on her knees.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” she admitted. “You’re not him. But every time I look at you, my chest forgets that.”

Azriel lowered himself into the chair across from her. No armor between them now, no title. Just two people caught in something too large to name.

“I’ll help you find a way home,” she said again, quieter this time.

But Azriel wasn’t sure if she meant it for his sake, or hers. Maybe both. And maybe neither of them knew what it would cost when the way opened.

────────────

The room was small but clean. Simple linens on the bed, a chipped blue vase on the windowsill with a few sprigs of dried lavender tucked inside. The shutters creaked faintly in the wind as Azriel stood at the window, arms folded, staring out at the river.

The Sidra glittered under the early evening light, silver and shadowed, the current moving slow as syrup. In his Velaris, it danced faster. The curve of it was a touch different too, this one bent around a cluster of buildings that shouldn't exist. The skyline was off by inches, by centuries. He couldn’t stop cataloging it.

His shadows whispered around him, brushing the walls, curling through the corners of the room like restless thoughts. They brought him details he hadn’t asked for. The smell of something baking three floors below. The hushed footsteps of a couple arguing in the hallway. The flick of a candle being snuffed out in a room across the street. And whispers — always whispers — carrying scraps of names, old magic, things his mind could barely catch before they slipped away.

But he couldn’t focus.

He watched the light shift on the water, caught between the golden pull of sunset and the first hints of stars above. Stars that didn’t belong to him.

How many versions of Velaris were out there? How many Azriels? In this one, he had lived. Loved. And died.

He turned away from the window, ran a hand through his hair, let his fingers drag over his jaw.

He’d seen grief in Y/N’s eyes, coiled tight under her calm. But what haunted him more was the way she looked at him, like her heart didn’t know how to tell the difference yet.

He wanted to ask her. Everything. What he had been like. What he’d done. What they’d been.

But some part of him worried that asking would crack her open, and he wasn’t sure she’d ever put herself back together again.

Still, the questions clawed at him.

He needed to know. If not from her, then from someone who hadn’t loved that version of him with their whole chest.

His mind returned to the woman from earlier, the friend who’d brought him to Y/N in the first place. Sharp-eyed. Suspicious. Protective. She knew more than she’d said.

And if he and Y/N were going to visit the witch tomorrow afternoon, then this was his only chance to find answers before everything shifted again.

Azriel strapped his knives back onto his belt, out of habit more than necessity, and cast one last glance toward the Sidra.

The sky was deepening, thick with color. A world of strangers, and one familiar soul. He slipped into the shadows. And went looking for the truth.

Azriel found her near the edge of the old market, tucked behind a row of shuttered stalls. She stood alone by a railing that overlooked the Sidra, arms crossed tightly as she watched the river move in silence. The lanterns from the lower paths cast flickers of gold against her dark coat.

He didn’t try to be stealthy. He wanted her to see him coming.

She did.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to his armor, his shadows, the stillness in the way he moved.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Azriel said, stopping a few steps away.

She exhaled, jaw set. “If you’re looking for Y/N, she’s not here.”

“I came to talk to you.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Because I need to understand what this place is. What he was.”

The muscles in her arms tightened where they crossed. “You don’t get to dig through his life like it’s a map back to yours. He wasn’t a version of you. He was someone… And that someone was married to her.”

The moment the word left her mouth, her expression shifted, a slight widening of her eyes, as if she’d only just realized what she’d said.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Married?”

She flinched but didn’t deny it. Didn’t backtrack.

“Yes,” she said. “Since they were hundred-twenty-four.”

His breath caught. The word sat in his chest like a stone, unfamiliar and too big to ignore.

She watched him carefully. Noticing, perhaps for the first time, the way he didn’t quite stand like the Azriel she knew. How he held tension in his body like it was armor. How the shadows around him didn’t just cling — they listened.

“You really don’t know anything about this world, do you?” she said, softer now.

“No,” Azriel admitted.

And then, slowly, like the weight of his surprise had unlocked something in her, she began to speak.

“They grew up together. Their fathers were old friends, your father was a smith, hers a spice merchant. They were just… always around each other. Always in each other’s orbit. You used to tease her for stealing fruit off your plate. She used to braid flowers into your hair when you fell asleep in the fields behind her house.”

Azriel listened in silence, the image unfolding before him like a story written in a hand he almost recognized.

“He became a soldier,” she said. “Not a Shadowsinger, he didn't have those shadows. Just a fighter. Loyal. Brave. A little reckless, when it came to her.”

Azriel’s hands were still at his sides, but his knuckles had gone pale.

“He loved her,” she went on. “More than anything. He was quieter than most of the other males we grew up with. Thoughtful. Steady. But gods, when he looked at her…”

She trailed off, blinking fast.

Azriel said nothing. There was something raw sitting in his throat, but he didn’t know what name to give it.

“They were married under the spring cherry trees,” she added after a moment. “I stood beside her. I watched him shake when he kissed her.”

He closed his eyes briefly. The breeze off the Sidra caught the edge of his coat, pulling it slightly. His shadows stayed close, hushed, as if mourning someone they’d never met.

“He died nine years ago,” the friend said finally. “It wasn’t his fault. But it didn’t matter. She hasn’t been the same since.”

Azriel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “And now I’m here.”

She looked at him again, really looked, and for the first time, her eyes softened. “You’re not him,” she said. “But you’re not nothing either.”

Silence stretched between them, and Azriel breathed through the ache of it.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said.

“I know,” she answered.

And they stood together at the edge of a world where two lives had almost, impossibly, collided.

Y/N shut the door behind her, turned the lock with trembling fingers, and let her back fall against the wood.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

Velaris was quiet beyond the window, the kind of stillness that always came after the children's laughter faded and the lanterns blinked to life across the Sidra. But the city felt foreign now. Tilted somehow. Too sharp in its familiarity. Like someone had redrawn the lines of everything she'd learned to live with.

She pressed a hand to her cheek and felt the tears that had dried there. She hadn't even noticed when they'd fallen.

Slowly, her feet carried her into the room that used to be theirs.

The walls were warm with the same soft blue he used to say reminded him of summer skies. Her fingers brushed the edge of the dresser, skimming over the old glass bottles and the cluster of pressed flowers still sealed in a frame.

She reached for the drawer beneath the bed. It groaned softly in protest. And there it was. The painting.

A small canvas, edges frayed from being held too many times. A portrait, clumsy, rough-edged, painted on a spring afternoon years ago when the breeze kept stealing her brush and he wouldn’t stop laughing. She’d made him sit still for it, half-scowling, half-grinning. His hand was on hers in the picture, even though she’d never meant to paint that part.

She cradled it in both hands now, sinking slowly to the floor, her back against the side of the bed. Her forehead pressed to the edge of the frame.

He looked so young in it. And now he was standing in her world again. Breathing again. Looking at her with the same eyes but none of the memory.

She had told herself she was fine. That she could handle this. That helping him find his way home was the right thing to do.

But the truth hit her like a blow to the ribs. He wasn’t her Azriel. Her Azriel was gone.

Gone in a way that left the world quieter. In a way that had hollowed out parts of her she’d never been able to refill. And now this new one, this stranger who wore his face and spoke with his voice, had stepped into her life like the echo of a dream she’d spent years trying to forget.

It was too much.

Her hand curled around the bottom of the frame, and her breath hitched.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to breathe around you.”

A shadow slipped through the crack beneath the door.

She didn’t see it. Didn’t feel the gentle shift in air as it moved, curious, cautious. It hovered in the corner of the room, keeping its distance like it understood grief by instinct alone.

She pressed her face into her knees, shoulders shaking.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you every day.”

The shadow watched, then slipped back through the wood and stone, weaving between alleys and eaves, past flower boxes and lit windows, all the way across Velaris.

It found him at the inn, standing at the window again, still staring at the stars that didn’t belong to him. And when it reached him, it didn’t speak. It didn’t have to.

He felt the truth curl against his ribs as the shadow touched his shoulder, cold with the ache of her.

She was crying.

And somehow, the sound of it broke something open in him too.

────────────

The sun was warm where it filtered through the trees, casting soft shadows across the cobblestone walk. Azriel stood near the gate of the care station, wings tucked in, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he waited.

He didn’t have to turn when he felt her approach. The shadows told him before her footsteps ever reached the stone.

Y/N’s pace was steady, but her shoulders were a little higher than usual, her chin set with quiet resolve. Her eyes met his as she stopped beside him, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then Azriel offered a soft, “How are you doing today?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then gave a small, honest smile. “Coping,” she said. “But… it’s hard. Seeing you like this. Every time I look at you, my heart forgets, for just a second, and then it remembers all over again.”

Azriel nodded, gently. “That makes sense. I'm sorry you have to go through this all."

She glanced at him sideways, searching. “And you? How are you doing in a world that doesn’t quite know you?”

His mouth lifted slightly. “Figuring it out as I go. Trying not to get too attached to the wrong sky.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of her, small, but real.

“I thought maybe,” he said, “you’d feel better if I distracted you a little.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she admitted, her voice softer now.

They fell into step, walking side by side down the shaded street that led toward the edge of the city.

“You mentioned a High Lady,” she prompted after a pause. “You really have one in your world?”

Azriel nodded. “Feyre. She’s my High Lady, and Rhysand’s mate.”

Y/N blinked, eyes wide. “You have a mated High Lady?”

“We do,” he said. “And she earned it. She was mortal once. Human. Fought through war and death to save our kind. Rhysand gave her the title because she earned her place beside him. Not behind. Not beneath. Beside.”

Y/N shook her head slowly, clearly captivated. “I’ve never even heard of a female high ruler. In our court, the males still hold the bloodlines. Always have.”

“Feyre shattered that,” Azriel said with quiet pride. “And she didn’t do it alone. Mor helped guide her. Amren too. Powerful females, each in their own way.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “You’re surrounded by strong women.”

He gave a faint, rueful smile. “That’s an understatement.”

The wind stirred as they turned onto a narrower path lined with stone lanterns.

“I think I would’ve liked your Feyre,” she said after a moment.

“She would’ve liked you too,” he said. “She sees people. The quiet strength in them. The ache they carry. She would’ve seen yours right away.”

Y/N looked at him then, really looked, and for a brief moment, the weight behind her eyes eased.

Ahead, the path curved upward toward the rise of a mossy hill. At the top stood a narrow building nestled in wisteria vines, its windows darkened with age, a carved raven perched over the lintel.

“She’s in there?” Y/N asked.

Azriel nodded. “I can feel the wards already.”

They stopped at the base of the hill.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Are you?”

She took a breath that trembled slightly. Then nodded.

And together, they climbed toward the witch who might hold the answers, and the thread that would lead him home, or unravel everything they’d just begun to hold.

The climb slowed as they reached the top of the hill. The weight of the city seemed to fall away behind them, replaced by the heavy scent of moss and wildflowers. The air was cooler here, still enough that the faint rustle of leaves sounded like a secret waiting to be shared.

Azriel glanced at Y/N. She stood a few steps ahead, shoulders squared but tension visible in the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers curled lightly at her sides.

He shifted, shadows flickering softly around his ankles, a quiet reminder of the darkness he carried and the light she tried to protect.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

She looked back, surprise flickering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “I don’t know any other way forward.”

He nodded, stepping closer, feeling the subtle tremor in her breath. “Whatever happens in there, I want you to know...”

She cut him off with a small, sad smile. “You already know. It’s not the witch I’m afraid of. It’s what comes after.”

Azriel’s fingers itched to reach for hers, but he held back. “Then we face it together.”

She swallowed, eyes drifting to the carved raven above the door. “I’m not sure if I’m brave enough.”

“You’re braver than you think,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

They stood side by side, the silence stretching between them like a fragile thread. Azriel’s shadows curled protectively, sensing her fear, her hope, and the impossible bond that held them here, tangled between loss and the chance at something new.

Y/N took a shaky breath, and without another word, she lifted her hand and knocked.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a dim interior that smelled of damp stone, dried herbs, and something older, the scent of magic that had been rooted there long before Velaris rose around it.

The witch was already waiting.

She stood at the center of the room, pale hair swept into a thick braid, her eyes the color of moonstone. Everything about her felt quiet and vast, like a pond with no surface ripple — but Azriel felt the power gathered beneath her skin like coiled smoke.

“You’re not from here,” she said before they even stepped inside.

Azriel inclined his head. “No.”

She gestured them in, and the door shut behind them with a breathless hush. Y/N hovered just behind him, silent, wary.

“Explain,” the witch said, voice like frost curling up a windowpane.

Azriel took his time. He told her about the mission. The witch he’d cornered. The way she screamed in an old tongue as she’d vanished into shadow. The spell that had struck as he was winnowing away. And the moment he landed in Velaris only to find that the stars were wrong and nothing quite fit.

The witch listened without interrupting. When he finished, she moved to the shelves lining the curved wall, fingers gliding over jars and scrolls like she already knew what she’d find.

“That’s weaving magic,” she murmured. “Time-threading. Ancient. Nearly extinct.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed. “You recognize it?”

“Barely,” she replied. “It’s old enough that even most witches have only read about it in theory. Which means the one you angered was exceptionally trained… or dangerous beyond sense. Or both.”

Y/N swallowed, watching the way the witch’s shoulders tightened.

“So what does that mean?” she asked quietly. “Is there a way to undo it?”

The witch turned, scroll in hand. “Maybe. But not quickly. This kind of casting unravels space around it, rips a hole through layered time. You’re not just misplaced, Shadowsinger. You’re displaced. And you’ve dragged the thread of your world with you.”

Azriel stilled. “What are you saying?”

The witch looked at him like a storm just waiting to form. “The Cauldron can only bear so much. When a being slips through timelines like this, especially one bound to another world, another rhythm, the strain begins to tear at the core of everything. Realms blur. Boundaries weaken. If you stay much longer, the damage could become… irreversible.”

Y/N’s breath left her in a slow, unsteady exhale.

The witch's voice dropped lower. “One wrong soul in the wrong timeline is a ripple that doesn’t end. Eventually, the Cauldron cracks. And if that happens, it won’t be just you or this world that falls. The entire weave could collapse, all timelines, all lives. Every version of you. Every version of you and her.”

She didn’t have to gesture toward Y/N for the words to land like a blade.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Can you fix it?”

The witch hesitated. “I can try. I’ll need time. And help. I’ll reach out to every coven that still remembers the old languages. But we’re not talking about days. You have to be ready when the moment comes, and it will come suddenly. We may only get one chance.”

Azriel nodded once. “Understood.”

The witch gave him a long, unreadable look. Then turned her gaze to Y/N.

“I don’t need to ask how much it hurts to see him,” she said. “But I do need you to understand that if you keep trying to hold him here, even with your heart, the cost might not stop with you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The kind that broke bones.

Y/N didn’t speak as they left the witch’s house. Not at first.

But when they reached the edge of the hill, with Velaris spread beneath them like a world pretending to be whole, she finally whispered, “You really do have to go.”

And Azriel, who had watched the edges of her tremble and steel themselves with quiet dignity, didn’t argue.

He simply said, “I know.”

The sun had shifted lower by the time they made their way down the hill, painting Velaris in a watercolor haze of lilac and pale gold. The path was narrow, flanked by wild heather and whispering grass, the city glittering below like a dream waiting to be remembered.

Y/N walked beside him in silence, gaze flicking to the horizon, her jaw tight with thought.

Azriel didn’t speak. He could feel the tension in her steps, the storm moving behind her quiet eyes. It was a familiar silence, but not a comfortable one. This wasn’t the silence they’d shared in the witch’s house, filled with fear and consequence. This one was quieter. Raw. Human.

“I know it’s dangerous,” she said suddenly, voice low, like she wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud. “I know you shouldn’t be here. I understand what’s at stake, what could break because of this.”

He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes forward.

“And still,” she breathed, “some part of me was hoping you could stay. Just a little while longer.”

Azriel’s heart thudded against his ribs. He said nothing, waiting.

Y/N shook her head, her voice thinning with guilt. “It’s selfish. I didn’t even think about… Oh gods...” she stopped walking and turned to him, wide-eyed. “Is someone waiting for you back home?”

Azriel blinked. Then slowly, gently, he said, “No. No one like that.”

She looked away, swallowing hard, but not before he saw the flicker of relief that passed through her features. Relief and shame.

“My family,” he added, softer, “my court. They’ll be worried. But they can wait a bit longer… if staying here means I might help you heal.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Her throat bobbed with the effort to speak.

“I won’t force anything,” Azriel went on. “While we wait for the witch to find a way back, it’s your choice. If you want me to stay away, I will. If it’s easier to forget I’m here, I’ll disappear into the city and you won’t see me again until it’s time.”

She looked at him now. Fully. The grief in her eyes shimmered, but so did something else. Something fragile and reaching.

“But,” he said, the barest trace of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth, “if you think maybe… maybe we could spend some time together, even just as strangers, I’d like that too.”

Y/N stared at him, and then, slowly, her lips curved into a faint, wistful smile.

“There were things,” she whispered, “my Azriel never had time for. Little things. I always told him we had forever.”

Azriel took a breath, feeling the tightness in his chest ease.

“Then let me do them with you,” he said. “I have time.”

The city glowed warmer below them now, the river catching the last light of day.

Y/N nodded once, more to herself than him. “He never got to learn how to paint. Or dance without armor on. Or ruin a cake recipe just because he always wanted to.”

Azriel chuckled, a low, quiet sound that made her eyes brighten.

“I’m excellent at ruining recipes,” he said. “That one I’ve already mastered.”

Y/N laughed — and it cracked something open.

They kept walking.

This time, they walked slower.

────────────

The next day dawned pale and bright, the kind of morning that smelled like clean air and promise. Velaris stirred gently to life as Azriel made his way to the care station, a small satchel slung over one shoulder, shadows curling lazily along his collar like drowsy cats.

The children spotted him first.

Cries of delight broke out across the garden as a handful of small figures dashed toward the fence, little hands waving, eyes wide. Y/N stood under the canvas awning that shaded the painting tables, her apron already dotted with a dozen different colors. She looked up, and despite everything — the pain, the weight of yesterday — her smile came easily.

“You came,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“I said I would,” Azriel replied, glancing around. “Besides, I’m here to ruin your art supplies.”

“You’re about to be in a lot of trouble,” she warned playfully, already handing him a paintbrush.

The table was covered in bright pots of color, paper curling in the corners from the morning breeze, little hands dipping brushes into everything at once. Azriel found himself seated between two wide-eyed children, both whispering about how tall he was.

“Are you a warrior?” one of them asked.

“Sometimes,” he said, lips twitching.

“He’s going to paint with us today,” Y/N said from across the table. “Be nice.”

Azriel dipped his brush into something bright pink and started dragging uneven strokes across his page. Purposefully clumsy, exaggeratedly bad. The kids giggled with delight as his “painting” became a lopsided blob with what might’ve been wings.

“This is terrible,” Y/N said, leaning over his shoulder.

“I warned you.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He didn’t reply.

Her voice lowered. “You’re better than this, aren’t you?”

He looked up, surprised to find her gaze already waiting for him. Calm. Patient. A little amused.

Azriel sighed. “A little.”

“Then paint something real.”

He blinked. “Real?”

“Something that reminds you of home.”

The children were still lost in their own work, but Y/N had settled across from him now, eyes steady, hands stained blue at the knuckles.

Azriel picked up a clean sheet, silent for a long moment. Then he began.

His brush moved slowly, deliberately this time. Thin strokes forming shadows first, not harsh, not frightening, but soft, layered darkness like the kind that gathered under quiet trees. Then came the mountains, sharp and proud, painted in indigo and deep green, rising in the distance.

A sky filled in next. Not just blue, but dotted with constellations, each one placed with careful reverence.

At the center, a single stone balcony, draped in ivy and overlooking a silver river. There were no people. Only light. Stillness.

Y/N didn’t say a word while he worked. She watched, hands folded in her lap.

When he was done, Azriel set the brush down and sat back.

“That’s the House of Wind,” she said quietly.

He nodded once. “It’s where I feel most like myself.”

She looked at the painting for a long time. “It’s beautiful.”

His voice was soft. “Thank you.”

There was a quiet between them, warm and full, not the silence of absence, but of something being gently built. In the background, a child was explaining to another that Azriel’s first painting was definitely a dragon.

Y/N smiled. “Tomorrow, you’re baking.”

Azriel raised a brow. “I’m what?”

“Ruining a recipe,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Like you promised.”

He chuckled, a low sound that stirred something in her chest.

“All right,” he murmured. “But only if you help me clean up the disaster.”

Y/N leaned her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Deal.”

Azriel wiped his hands on the edge of his tunic, smirking faintly at the streaks of paint across his skin. Most of it was probably from the children, but some, he admitted, was definitely from him.

“Should I help clean this up?” he asked, glancing at the mess of paper, drying brushes, and tipped-over jars of color.

Y/N had already started stacking the unused paper. She looked up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“No, you don’t have to. You’re a guest.”

“I insist,” he said simply.

She hesitated, then laughed under her breath. “You’re very stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

With a small shake of her head, she handed him a cloth. “Fine. Wipe the brushes gently. We try to save them as long as possible.”

Azriel took the cloth, his hands deft and steady as he followed her instructions. They moved quietly beside each other, the easy rhythm of shared work wrapping around them. For a while, it felt almost ordinary. Light spilling in through the awning, soft laughter still trailing across the yard.

Then, suddenly-

“Miss Y/N!”

A small voice broke across the space.

One of the children, a little boy with untied boots and paint on his chin, came barreling up to them. His eyes were wide, worried.

“It’s Lyla,” he panted. “She fell. Her knee’s bleeding. She’s behind the swings.”

Y/N’s face changed instantly — concern replacing ease. She set down the brushes and knelt to the boy’s level, brushing his curls back gently.

“Is she crying?”

He nodded. “A little.”

“Good job coming to get me,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before rising and heading off across the garden.

Azriel watched her go. The way she crouched beside the small, crumpled shape near the swings, her hands soft as she checked the child’s knee, her voice low and steady. The boy hovered near them the whole time, guilt in every line of his little frame. She pulled him close too, one arm wrapping around each sibling as she whispered something only they could hear.

Azriel didn’t know what it was, but both children clung to her like roots to soil.

He didn’t look away.

Not when she kissed the girl’s forehead. Not when she helped them both stand. Not when she walked back across the grass with her braid loose and her cheeks a little flushed from the sun.

“She’ll be all right,” Y/N said as she reached him again. “Nothing serious. A scrape and a fright.”

“You’re good with them.”

She gave him a small smile. “They’re easy to love.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched. “So are you.”

She froze just slightly. He looked away, but the words lingered between them, soft and unthreatening. Like a truth neither of them needed to acknowledge yet.

“I should let you go,” she said gently. “You’ve spent enough of your day here.”

Azriel’s brows lifted. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You really don’t?”

He shook his head once. “Not until the witches find a way home. And even then…” He looked around at the garden, the half-dry paintings, the swing swaying slightly in the breeze. “I don’t mind being here. Not at all.”

Something in her chest eased. Not everything. But something.

“I could tell them a story,” Azriel said then. “If they’re tired. Something from my world. I could… make it sound like a fairy tale.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment. “You know any stories with dragons and starlight?”

He gave her a rare, small smile. “I know one with a High Lady who turned a battlefield into a blooming field of moonflowers.”

The surprise in her eyes turned to delight. “Go on, then. They’ll love that.”

Azriel turned toward the group of children now gathering under the big tree near the edge of the garden. The sun had shifted again, dappling light through the leaves, and as he sat down in the grass, a dozen eager faces leaned closer.

He looked back once, just briefly.

Y/N stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching him.

For the first time in a long time, in either world, Azriel let himself settle.

────────────

The wind howled low through the canyons of Velaris, carrying with it something strange, a pulse beneath the air, as if the city had drawn breath and forgotten how to exhale.

In a dim, windowless chamber beneath her ivy-covered cottage, the witch worked.

Scrolls lined every surface. Spellbooks lay open to pages so brittle they nearly crumbled beneath her hands. Runes flickered along the floor in fading gold, ancient symbols drawn in circles of salt and powdered quartz. Candles burned with sickly blue flames, their wax dripping sideways, as if gravity itself was beginning to tilt.

Her fingertips trembled. She had felt it again. The Cauldron.

Not in a dream, not in a vision, but in her own bones, a thunderous crack of power, distant but real. Like a ripple through the ocean of time itself. One timeline brushing too close to another, dragging its weight behind it.

She dropped the crystal she had been scrying with. It shattered.

“Damn it,” she hissed, rising to pace the circle.

Magic swirled in the corners of the room, uneasy. The Cauldron did not like to be tampered with. It hated interference, especially from mortals who meddled with the delicate weave of fates not meant to cross.

And yet… someone had done just that.

A witch. Skilled enough to rip one Azriel from his thread and toss him into the wrong tapestry.

And now, the Cauldron was fraying. Not yet breaking. But it would. Soon.

She raised her hands again, whispering the tracing spell. The map of timelines floated before her, glowing strings dancing in the air. One line flickered, silver and pulsing. Azriel’s.

It crossed where it should not.

“I need more time,” she murmured, eyes scanning a dozen different volumes, trying to remember where she had last seen the binding rite. “Just a little more…”

Outside, the wind shifted again, dry and sharp with something like heat. Magic was unraveling. And if she couldn’t fix it… The worlds would bleed.

In the meantime, Velaris held its breath in quieter ways.

The sun filtered through clouds like gold poured from a pitcher, softening the sharp edges of the city. Along the Sidra, the river murmured to itself, weaving through stone bridges and glass-lit walkways as if it had never heard of timelines or cracking Cauldrons.

At a quiet corner café by the water’s edge, Y/N sat across from Azriel, a half-eaten slice of honeyed pear tart on the plate between them.

Azriel had no idea how she’d convinced him to try it, only that the moment she wrinkled her nose and said, “You’ve never had this before?” he’d already agreed. Her smile had done most of the work.

Now, he sipped warm tea from a delicate mug far too small for his hands, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue. The sun caught in his hair, in the curve of her cheek as she laughed at something he didn’t know he’d said quite that funny.

He didn’t think about the witch’s warning. Or the ripple he felt in his shadows earlier that morning. Not right now.

“You’re staring,” Y/N said, her voice light but not teasing.

Azriel blinked, caught. “Just listening,” he said softly, and her expression flickered with something warmer than the sun.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “To what?”

“The river. Your laugh. Everything.”

That earned a softer smile. Not the kind she gave the children or her friend or even the strangers in the market. This one was quieter. More uncertain. Like she didn’t quite know where to put it.

Their plates sat between them, a shared little mess of tart crust and berry stains.

Azriel leaned back slightly, watching the boats drift past on the Sidra, their sails bright against the water. His wings were folded, his shadows quiet.

“How do you do it?” he asked after a pause.

“Do what?”

“Live like this. After everything.”

Y/N stirred her tea, eyes on the rippling water. “Some days I don’t. Not fully. But then… the sun still rises. The children still laugh. And someone has to be there to hear it.”

Azriel looked at her for a long time. Then, with a faint smile, he said, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Her gaze met his, steady and unsure at once. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

Azriel set his mug down, fingers brushing the rim once before he leaned forward slightly, voice soft in the lull between river sounds and city life.

“You know, back home,” he said, “Feyre, the High Lady, she painted stars on the ceiling of her house. Said they reminded her of hope. I never really understood that until I saw them in the dark once. Alone.”

Y/N smiled faintly, resting her chin in one hand. “And do they remind you of hope?”

Azriel’s gaze lifted to the river, to the way the light danced like silver thread along the surface. “They did,” he said. “Still do.”

But her eyes weren’t on the river.

They had fallen to his hands, gloved as always, even in the warm air. The fabric was worn, the seams faintly frayed at the knuckles. But where the glove slipped back from his wrist, she could just make out the beginning of raised skin. Scars. Twisting like old fire, etched deep and permanent.

Her Azriel didn’t have those scars.

She wondered how far they went. Up to his knuckles? His fingers? Were they from a battle? A punishment? A childhood that had taken more than it ever gave?

She didn’t ask. It wasn’t hers to know, not yet. And maybe not ever.

But something in her chest ached anyway, because she could feel how heavy it must be. Whatever weight those gloves hid, it pressed into the silence between them like an old bruise.

Azriel had noticed her glance. He always noticed.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift to hide. He only lifted the cup again, held it steady between those gloved hands.

Y/N looked up quickly, catching his gaze.

“I won’t ask,” she said, the words barely above a whisper. “But… I see you.”

Azriel stilled.

And then, with a quiet breath, like the softest exhale of his shadows, he nodded. “Thank you.”

They didn’t speak again for a while. Not because there was nothing to say, but because something deeper was already being understood.

Y/N sat with her legs tucked beneath her on the bench seat, a smile playing at her lips as she watched a little boy toddle past with a string tied to a stick, his makeshift dragon clattering behind him across the cobblestones.

“He reminds me of my brother,” she said suddenly, gaze drifting.

Azriel looked over from where he was peeling apart a croissant. “You have a brother?”

“I do,” she said, still smiling, though there was a soft melancholy to it. “He's in another court now. Duty called him. But before that, he was a terror. In the best way.”

She turned toward him, chin resting on her hand. “We used to sneak honey cakes from the summer festivals. Hide them in the garden under the old peach tree and pretend we were squirrels storing food for winter. Of course, we’d eat them all by sunset. I always had the crumbs on my face, and he never took the blame. Not once.”

Azriel chuckled quietly. “Did you get caught?”

“Every time. My father pretended not to know, but he’d bring out extra sweets at dinner. Said something about growing appetites.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “That peach tree is still there. Overgrown and wild, but every year, it blooms just the same.”

Azriel watched her as she spoke — the way her hands moved, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how her voice lightened as the story unfolded. There was something brighter in her now. A part of her that had been submerged in grief when he first arrived, now slowly surfacing.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked real. Whole, in a new way.

He smiled, quiet and genuine. “You loved him.”

“With everything,” she said. Then, after a breath, “Like I loved him.”

Azriel’s expression shifted, softening even more. “You’ve been smiling more,” he said.

Y/N glanced at him, caught off guard. “I have?”

He nodded, his shadows curling lazily along the floor beneath the table. “You laugh more too. The children said so yesterday.”

She leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t think I would, again. Not like this.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, but his gaze stayed steady on her.

She looked down at the tea in her hands, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That you could come here by accident and still... somehow bring light back with you.”

Azriel swallowed, the words landing like a weight and a gift all at once. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

Y/N looked up at him and for a moment, the world around them slowed. The rustle of leaves. The breeze off the water. The soft laughter of someone nearby. It all hushed.

“Maybe not,” she whispered.

They sat in that quiet together, the sun warming their skin, and the scent of fresh bread and citrus between them.

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both knew, something was shifting. Not just timelines. But hearts, too.

The moment the breeze shifted, Y/N knew. It was as if the day exhaled, soft and cool, suddenly too still. The scent of citrus faded, replaced by something ancient and electric, like a storm not yet seen but already felt in the bones.

Azriel noticed it too. His shadows straightened, alert. Then, without warning, she was there.

The witch stepped out of the air beside their table, her robes dark and shimmering faintly with threads of starlight. Her face was as calm as the Sidra behind them, but her presence brought with it something colder. Final.

Y/N’s heart clenched.

She stood quickly, nearly knocking her tea. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

The witch nodded once. “Yes. I’ve found a way.”

Azriel rose more slowly, his jaw tightening as he faced her. “You’re sure it will work?”

The witch’s eyes glinted, old magic whispering in her voice. “As sure as I can be. But there’s no room for delay. The threads of your presence here have begun to fray the structure of this realm. I can feel the Cauldron straining, one more crack, and it won’t be this world that breaks.”

Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat.

It was happening.

It had always been coming, but hearing it aloud, seeing the truth in the witch’s steady gaze, it tore the air from her lungs.

Azriel said nothing for a long moment. Then he looked at Y/N.

He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t need to. The look in his eyes was enough. She tried to hold herself steady. Tried to breathe. But the witch’s words echoed inside her.

It’s time.

He was leaving.

Azriel turned back to the witch, voice rough but steady. “How long do we have?”

The witch considered. “A few hours. Sunset.”

Sunset.

That left so little, and somehow, far too much.

Y/N forced herself to nod. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, but her voice was level. “Where do we need to go?”

“I’ll find you again,” the witch said. “I just needed to give you warning. You’ll know when.”

She stepped back into the wind, and with a rustle of her robes and a flicker of violet magic, she was gone.

Silence fell again over the café.

The world kept moving. People still passed by, unaware that anything had changed. But for Azriel and Y/N, the day had shifted on its axis.

The end had a shape now. And it was coming fast.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the Sidra in liquid gold. The river flowed gently beside them, quiet and endless, its surface glittering like stardust.

Y/N walked beside Azriel in silence, her fingers brushing occasionally against the edge of his cloak. The breeze tugged at her hair, and for a while, all they did was walk, as if they could outpace time itself, if they didn’t speak, if they just kept moving.

But Azriel felt it in her. The way her shoulders curled inward just slightly. The soft tension in her breath. Her sadness folded itself neatly around her like a second skin.

And he felt it in himself, too. That ache.

Not the sharp pain of battle wounds or the burn of shadows in his blood, but something quieter, heavier. A kind of loss that hadn’t happened yet but had already taken root.

He glanced at her, then away. “You’ve helped me more than I ever expected.”

She looked up at him, lips parted as if to protest, but he kept going, voice low. “I came here thinking I’d just disrupted something. That I’d landed somewhere I didn’t belong. And I did. But it’s not just that.”

The shadows at his back stirred gently, like they, too, were listening.

“You’ve reminded me what gentleness looks like,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “You reminded me that healing isn’t just survival. It’s... softness. It’s letting yourself laugh again.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, but she kept walking.

Azriel stopped. She did too, a step later, turning toward him slowly.

“If there was a way,” he said, voice barely above the hush of the river, “I’d take you with me.”

The words hung between them, fragile and impossible.

His gaze dropped, and he exhaled softly. “But I know it wouldn’t work. It’s not that kind of magic. It’s not that kind of story.”

Y/N smiled. Not because she was happy, but because she wanted to give him something kind. Her eyes, though, they told the truth. They ached. They mourned.

Still, she stepped in close. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Her arms came around him, quiet and certain, and she pressed her cheek to his chest. Her hands flattened against his back, holding him there, like maybe she could memorize the feel of him before he was gone.

She inhaled, deeply, taking in his scent, the leather and pine, the faint trace of wind and steel and something only he carried.

Azriel hesitated only a moment before his arms wrapped around her too. Firm, steady, as if he could hold this second in place forever.

Neither of them spoke.

The Sidra flowed beside them, patient and unknowing. The sun dipped lower. And the minutes they had left slipped quietly by, wrapped in silence and warmth and the weight of everything that would never be said.

The witch emerged from the dusk, her presence silent but heavy with ancient power. Her eyes, gleaming with stars and secrets, settled on them both. There was no urgency in her voice, only a steady certainty as she said, “It is time. You must return.”

Azriel’s gaze shifted slowly to Y/N, searching her face as though trying to etch every curve, every unspoken word into memory. The shadows curled protectively around him, but the strength in his eyes softened with something almost like sorrow.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his fingers trembling just slightly as they traced the gentle line of her cheek. The skin was warm beneath his touch, grounding him in this impossible moment.

He leaned in slowly, closing the space between them with a kiss oh her cheek, soft and reverent, a whisper against her skin. The kiss spoke of gratitude and regret, of all the stolen moments and all the things left unsaid.

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice raw with feeling. “For everything. For this.”

Y/N’s breath caught, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath with them. Her hands twined in the fabric of his cloak, reluctant to let go, desperate to keep hold of this fragment of a life she never thought she’d have.

His eyes searched hers once more, filled with a fierce tenderness, before he stepped back, shadows rising like dark wings around him, cloaking him from the world.

The witch raised her hand, fingers weaving a silent spell, and a pulse of violet light rippled outward, wrapping Azriel in its glow. The air thrummed with the power of the Cauldron itself, fragile and fierce.

In the blink of an eye, Azriel was gone.

Left behind was the fading warmth of his kiss, the faint scent of leather and pine hanging in the quiet evening air, and Y/N — standing alone by the Sidra, holding onto the echo of a goodbye that still felt impossibly too soon.

────────────

The familiar hum of Velaris pulsed all around him—the distant laughter of street performers, the soft murmur of the Sidra’s waters, the gentle clinking of glasses from nearby taverns—but Azriel felt strangely untethered, like a ghost wandering through his own city. The days since his return blurred together, a fog swallowing his memories whole. Rhys and Cassian had told him he’d been gone for over a week, vanished without a trace, only to reappear as if nothing had happened. He couldn't remember what happened. But inside, Azriel knew something had changed.

There was a quiet, steady warmth beneath the surface, something healing, gentle, like a balm on old wounds he hadn’t realized were still raw.

Today, he was helping Feyre move canvases and crates into her art studio, the smell of fresh paint mingling with the scent of spring rain drifting through open windows. Feyre’s laughter was bright and easy, her presence grounding him even as a restless pull tugged at his chest.

His gaze drifted across the bustling town square just as he set down a heavy crate. And there, among the crowd, he saw her.

A fae, standing with an effortless grace that made the sunlight catch in her hair, turning it to molten gold. She was looking not quite at him, but through him, as if glimpsing into places only shadows could reach… a spark of recognition he couldn’t place, like a forgotten song playing just beyond hearing.

Azriel didn’t understand why his heart quickened, why his hand lifted almost instinctively in a hesitant wave.

The fae’s eyes widened, and then a soft, almost knowing smile curved her lips. She returned his wave before slipping quietly into a nearby shop, disappearing before he could reach her.

His hand dropped slowly, confusion settling over him like a shadow.

He didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t remember her.

But the pull, the silent thread connecting them, was undeniable, aching beneath his skin like a promise he couldn’t yet understand.

"You've been quiet all day," she said, her voice low and knowing. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Azriel blinked, distracted. Across the square, he could see her through the glasses of that shop.

Feyre followed his gaze, then looked back at him, her brow furrowed. "Az?"

"I... I don’t know," he murmured, almost to himself.

"You don’t know what?" she asked.

But he couldn’t answer. The feeling was too strange, too sharp. His heart thudded in his chest, and before he could stop himself, the words left him like a breath, half-formed and distant.

"I need to go."

"Go where?"

But he was already walking away, crossing the street without looking back, the hum of Feyre’s concern fading behind him.

She had disappeared into a shop moments before, but he knew. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know how. But he knew.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. The world quieted, holding its breath.

And then, there she was.

Closer now. Real. Solid. Her eyes widened, the same as before, but now with something else behind them. Something fragile, something infinite.

Azriel felt it again, deep in his chest. That pull. That thread. It trembled between them like spun gold.

She tilted her head, voice tentative, soft. “Do I... know you?”

He hesitated for a breath, then offered a small smile, one that felt strange and familiar all at once.

"I’m Azriel."

A beat of silence. Then she returned his smile, something in her gaze breaking open.

"I’m Y/N."

Their names, shared again for the first time. A beginning carved into the end.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, the thread between them tightened.

Not remembering. Not yet.

But knowing, somehow, all the same.

#azriel #azriel acomaf #azriel acotar #azriel acotar series #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #acotar #acotar series #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand acotar #rhysand #feyre archeron #rhys acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #cassian acotar #shadowsinger #azriel fic

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sixeyesonathiel · 19 hours ago

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your tutor of marital propriety!satoru teaches you how to kiss.

a/n: perchance i ever expand this into a full oneshot… who do you all think should be the poor, oblivious betrothed of our princess? they will, of course, be embarrassingly, spectacularly cucked. please choose wisely 🫶🏻

you are stubborn. painfully, deliciously stubborn. that is the first thing satoru realizes the moment you stand before him in the empty antechamber, the silken weight of your skirts set stiff with pride, chin tilted in regal defiance. as though you might ward him off with your sharpened glower, as though you could command him to yield with the simple arch of your brow.

it thrills him. it always has. it coils in his chest, sweet and intoxicating, the memory of you haunting him since that spring banquet so long ago. the stubborn line of your jaw. the proud tilt of your head. the way you walked amongst nobles as if you were already their sovereign, despite the heavy chains of tradition looped around your wrists.

“why must i learn these things from you?”

your voice is taut, every syllable wrapped in distaste, your lips pressed together in a line he has longed to unravel since that day. you were but a young thing then, trailing dutifully behind your father, cloaked in silks and privilege, precious and untouchable—but impossible to ignore. you had not spared him more than a glance, and yet he had seared you into memory: the bold set of your shoulders, the fire in your gaze, the quiet defiance you wore like a crown among a den of wolves.

he had wanted you even then. had wondered how your lips might tremble beneath his teeth. had dreamed of the sounds you would make if cornered just right. had yearned to break past the polished veneer of your courtly manners and drag forth the unguarded version of you. the one who would tremble beneath his hands.

“because, princess,” he answers, letting the honorific drip like sweetened wine, “i am the only one who is qualified.”

he allows his words to linger, stepping closer with the measured gait of a man who knows he will not be refused. your shoulders tense beneath the weight of his stare, and he savors the knowledge that you cannot help but react to him. it curls warm and heady in his chest, a delicious pressure that presses against his ribs, urging him to take more.

“you have lived your life tucked safely within these gilded halls. your intended hails from a distant empire, where the expectations placed upon a wife are foreign to you. i was schooled there. i know their customs. i know the ways of their court.”

his tone is soft, the cadence easy, as if he does not mean to ensnare you. but he does. he has been weaving this web from the moment the king appointed him your instructor, the moment he realized he would have you within his reach, day after day, lesson upon lesson. he smiles, slow and deliberate, as a pale lock of hair slips to graze his cheek, his glacial eyes sinking into yours with practiced precision, carefully adjusted over years of quiet longing.

“unless, of course,” his voice drops, a velvet thread tightening around your ribs, “you would prefer to learn these things from another man?”

his question strikes you cleanly, his satisfaction blooming as he watches the slightest movement of your throat, the smallest quiver in your composure. you loathe him. but beneath that loathing, there is the shimmer of curiosity, the reluctant awareness that what he offers you is necessary. you are no fool. you know what awaits you. and satoru—the silver-haired heir to the northern dukedom, all silk and poison—holds the key.

“fine,” you snap, as though the concession scalds your tongue. “but you will not kiss me as though you mean it.”

his lips curl, slow and amused, as though your stipulation is a game he is eager to play, a rule he has no intention of following.

“of course, your highness. i would never presume.”

it is a lie.

he approaches with deliberate steps, each echoing click of his polished boots measured and slow, the faint trace of his cologne arriving before his touch. you flinch as he raises his hand, but he merely tucks a loose strand behind your ear, the brush of his gloved fingers grazing your temple, lingering far too long, savoring the softness of you beneath his leather.

“relax,” he murmurs, savoring the tremble that dances through you. “it would not do for you to be so tense when your husband-to-be touches you.”

“i would prefer he never touch me at all,” you bite, though your voice falters when his hand settles beneath your chin, his thumb pressing delicately against the stubborn line of your jaw. you try to sound strong, but the frantic pulse beneath your skin betrays you. your pride burns bright, but your body does not yet know how to resist him.

“ah, but he will.”

his gaze dips to your lips, his breath faltering—just once. it is the only fracture in his composure he permits himself. he has envisioned this too many times: the softness of your mouth, the fire in your eyes as you surrender piece by reluctant piece.

“part your lips,” he whispers, his thumb coaxing, circling lazily across the seam of your mouth. “good girl.”

your eyes flash, your pride bristling at the endearment, but you obey. you do not pull away. you tremble, uncertain, your hands fluttering at your sides, unsure of where to land. his chest swells with triumph at your hesitation, the subtle fracture in your resolve.

“this is merely a lesson,” he reminds you, his voice low and reverent, his thumb never leaving your lips. “nothing more.”

it is the sweetest, most exquisite lie he has ever told.

he lowers his head slowly, relishing the soft tremble of your lashes, the way your breath catches when his lips brush yours—a fleeting touch at first, no more than a whisper. his hand slides to the nape of your neck, drawing you firmly into him as he deepens the kiss—greedy, voracious, as though he might consume you whole.

his tongue prods at the seam of your lips, insistent, until you—hesitant, trembling—allow him entry, still clumsy, still learning, but so unbearably eager despite yourself. you taste of sweet spring wine, stubborn pride, and something wholly forbidden. satoru groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that spills from him unchecked, ragged and desperate.

he had meant to teach you restraint. to guide you carefully. but instead he devours you—his lips slanting over yours again and again, his tongue tangling with yours in wet, breathless strokes, his hunger plain and shameless. each sound, slick and obscene, echoes in the chamber, every beat of his heart a thunderous ache beneath his ribs.

his other hand drifts to your waist, his fingers curling into the rich fabric of your gown, anchoring you as though he might leave his mark upon your skin. his teeth catch at your lower lip, drawing a startled gasp that he drinks greedily, desperate for more, desperate to swallow every breath that escapes you.

his hands explore the curve of your waist, the subtle dip of your spine, the quickened pulse that flutters beneath his touch. he grips you harder, more desperately, as though terrified that you might slip through his fingers and vanish. his palms burn against the thin barrier of your gown, his thumb pressing firmer, as though imprinting his touch upon your flesh.

he is drowning in you. intoxicated by the soft, shaky moan that tumbles from your throat when his fingers trail the delicate column of your neck, tangling briefly in your hair before settling possessively at your nape. his breathing is ragged, his lips returning to yours with renewed frenzy, unwilling to part, unwilling to yield, until the burning in his lungs forces him to relent—and even then, he hovers, his mouth brushing yours, his breath mingling with yours as if the mere inches between you are too cruel to bear.

his kiss drags on—a feverish, hungry thing—until the heat beneath your skin leaves you swaying against him, your balance teetering, your hands fisted weakly in the fabric of his coat. he presses forward, guiding you with slow, suffocating steps until your back meets the cool stone wall of the chamber, caging you with his body as though you belong there, as though you were made to fit within the curve of his arms.

his lips leave yours only to trail down the curve of your jaw, pressing firm, open-mouthed kisses to the delicate skin there, his teeth grazing, biting, soothing with the sweep of his tongue as though tasting every inch of you he dares to touch. his breath is hot against your skin, his hands skimming the sides of your bodice, sliding up to your ribs with a bruising grip that makes you shudder and arch involuntarily against him.

he kisses the hollow beneath your ear, his tongue darting out to taste the faint sheen of sweat gathered there, his teeth scraping, dragging a whimper from you that shatters whatever pitiful defense you might have clung to.

“you are learning so quickly,” he breathes, his voice a ragged whisper, a dangerous spark alight in his gaze, the fragile leash on his composure long since abandoned. “perhaps we should practice more often. again. and again.”

“satoru—”

your protest is weak, your breath shattered, your lips swollen and glistening with the evidence of his touch. your hands cling feebly to the front of his coat, suspended between resistance and reluctant longing, the last embers of your defiance flickering beneath the haze he has woven around you. your legs are trembling, your heart stumbling in your chest, uncertain whether to fight him or to follow him.

“shh,” he soothes, pressing another kiss to your trembling mouth, softer now, but still steeped in possession, as though he might claim you with the gentle weight of it. “you need not thank me, princess. your education is my duty, after all.”

when he finally pulls away, a string of saliva clings between your lips and his, glimmering and obscene, refusing to part until he brushes his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the dampness he left behind with slow, reverent strokes, as if to etch the taste of you into his skin.

he drinks in the sight of you—disheveled, flushed, the rapid rise and fall of your chest betraying the storm beneath your proud facade. his hunger sharpens, solidifies, anchoring itself deep within him, feeding a yearning he has long since ceased trying to temper.

his thumb drags once more across your lip, slow, lingering, as if he cannot bear to let even this fleeting touch go. he leans in, pressing a final kiss to your chin, to the corner of your mouth, as though marking you in all the places he has yet to claim.

“we shall continue tomorrow,” he whispers, a promise, a decree, as though you already belong to him. he speaks it like a vow. like a threat.

for he will not let you go. not now. not ever.

#gojo satoru #yandere gojo #gojo smut #gojo drabbles #gojo x reader smut #yandere gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk smut #jjk drabbles #jjk x reader #tw yandere

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rosemariiaa · 5 months ago

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~Caffeinated Crush~

𐙚- pairing: Paige x Azzi

𐙚-synopsis: Paige works at a bookstore, and Azzi is the girl who comes in every day but never buys anything. When a spilled coffee incident occurs, she learns Azzi is sketching her in a nearby cafe.

𐙚- this is so cuteeeee, yes i am still currently working on chapter 3 of RMH so you’ll have that soon, but for now enjoy these cuties! happy reading lovelies 💌

𐙚-themes: fluff, au

𐙚- taglist: @thaatdigitaldiary @makethemhoesmad @sierrale8ne @ohbueckers @juspeaks @imaginespazzi @pbaz7 @bueckersbitch @xxloveralways14 @d3arapril @lupinqs @pazzilover101 @ashortyluvsports @absolutelydreadful

enjoy!!!

I should’ve never let Nika get in my head.

My thumbs hover over the screen of my phone as I scroll through yet another endless TikTok, airpods blasting maybe the best R&B playlist handpicked by the queen. Anyway, the store is empty—of course it is. It’s barely 10 a.m., and no one is running to a bookstore this early unless they’re sixty or a morning person.

Not me, though. I’m here because Nika decided to call me lazy last week and the whole team agreed. Said all my NIL deals made me too comfortable, like I didn’t just have the Big East Scholar of the Year award, not to be cocky or anything but doesn’t that mean i’m smartest to ever exist? Exactly. But no, she just still had to run her mouth, so now I’m working this dumb part-time job at “Bound and Brew,” where the only exciting thing is the smell of cinnamon wafting in from the café next door.

Speaking of which, I mentally add a bagel to my lunch break checklist. Asiago, toasted, extra cream cheese—don’t judge me.

I glance at the clock on my phone. Still early. My chin rests in my palm as I lean on the counter, half-heartedly refreshing the store’s Instagram page. No new likes. Big surprise. God, I have practice tomorrow, and for what?

My earbuds buzz with a notification, but before I can check, the door chimes.

My eyes flicker up, and there she is. The girl with the brown, coily hair.

She’s been coming here for weeks now. Never buys anything, just walks around, poking through shelves like she’s on some personal treasure hunt. I’m pretty sure she works at the café next door—I always see her there, either taking orders or perched by the window with a book in one hand and a green matcha latte in the other. Matcha. It’s alright, I guess, but I can’t help the silent judgment. gatorade > tea.

Her eyes meet mine as she steps inside, and I clear my throat, pulling out one earbud. “Hey, what can I do for you?”

She smiles softly, the kind of smile that’s more polite than warm. “You’re fine. I don’t need help yet.”

Her voice is quiet, soft enough that it almost doesn’t match the confidence in the way she carries herself. She’s bundled in a gray puffer coat, her pink sweatpants tucked into winter boots. The UConn shirt under her jacket catches my eye.

She goes to my school? Weird. I’ve never seen her on campus.

I nod, going back to my phone, but I can’t help the way my eyes track her as she moves through the store. Her hands graze the spines of books, pausing occasionally to pick one up, read the back, then put it back in place.

She doesn’t rush. There’s something careful about the way she lingers in each aisle.

I shouldn’t be looking (staring) at her like this.I really shouldn’t, but her hair is just…nice. Thick curls that spring with life, framing her face like something out of a painting. And her skin? Smooth, glowing, the warm tone almost golden under the soft overhead lights.

Wow. I’m really gay.

I snap my attention back to my phone, pretending to scroll. My heart’s doing that annoying thing where it skips.

When I glance up again, she’s at the door. Leaving already. She didn’t pick up a book or anything again.

The door chimes softly as it closes behind her, and I’m left staring at the empty space where she just stood.

She’s really, really pretty.

And just like that, I’m shaking my head, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Get it together, Paige.

This is supposed to be a job, not some secret queer daydream.

By the time my lunch break rolls around, I’m practically counting down the seconds.

The café next door is my safe haven. Warm, cozy, and always smelling like cinnamon and espresso. It’s everything the bookstore isn’t. I step inside, stomping the snow off my sneakers, and head straight for the counter.

There’s no line, which is a small miracle, but then I see her pretty face again.

Brown curls, her same shirt, pink sweats, and those same bright eyes. She’s standing behind the counter, tying an apron around her waist.

Oh.

I knew she worked here! Scholar of the year i told you.

“Hi,” she says when she spots me. Her voice is just as soft as before, but there’s something about the way she looks at me that makes my stomach flip.

“Hey,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “Can I get an asiago bagel, toasted? Extra cream cheese.”

She nods, her hands already moving to jot down the order. “Anything to drink?”

“Just a black coffee,” I say. “Simple.”

She glances up briefly, the corner of her lips quirking like she’s amused. “Simple’s good.”

Her gaze lingers a second too long, and I feel the faintest heat creeping up my neck. There’s something about the way she’s looking at me, like she’s trying to figure me out but doesn’t want me to notice. I definitely noticed.

I glance at her name tag, needing some kind of distraction. “Azzi,” I murmur under my breath. It suits her.

She catches me looking, her cheeks tinting the slightest pink as she fiddles with the pen in her hand. “It’ll be ready in a minute,” she says quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Thanks, Azzi.” Her name rolls off my tongue easier than I expect, and the way her eyes widen just a little makes it worth it.

Azzi ducks her head, pretending to check the order screen, but I can see the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. She’s shy, reserved even, but there’s something so genuine about the way she carries herself. It’s almost refreshing.

As I wait, I glance around the café, the hum of chatter and clinking mugs filling the space. A few students are hunched over laptops in the corner, and there’s an older couple sharing a slice of cake by the window. The atmosphere is cozy, intimate, like something out of a movie.

“Bagel and coffee,” Azzi calls softly, placing my order on the counter.

I step forward, and for a split second, our hands brush as I reach for the tray. Her fingers are warm, a stark contrast to the cold outside, and I swear I see her inhale sharply before quickly pulling away.

“Thanks,” I say again, trying to meet her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. She hesitates, like she wants to say something else, but instead, she bites her lip and busies herself wiping down the counter.

As I turn to leave, I catch her glancing at me again, her gaze lingering on my face before quickly darting away.

I smirk to myself, holding back a chuckle. So she does notice me.

Sliding into a seat by the window, I take a sip of my coffee, my eyes drifting back to Azzi. She’s leaning against the counter now, flipping through what looks like a notebook, nah definitely a sketchbook. Her curls bounce slightly as she moves, and there’s a faint smile on her lips, like she’s lost in her own little world.

For some reason, it’s hard to look away.

I finish my bagel way too fast, but instead of leaving, I sit there for a while, pretending to check emails on my phone while sneaking glances at her. She’s busy now, taking orders and chatting with customers, but every once in a while, her eyes flicker over to me.

It’s subtle—barely noticeable—but it’s enough to make my chest tighten.

When I finally get up to leave, I make a point to walk past the counter.

“See you around, Azzi,” I say, letting her name hang in the air.

Her head snaps up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Yeah, uh—see you,” she stammers, her cheeks flushing as she fumbles with a stack of napkins.

I chuckle to myself as I step back into the cold, the warmth of the café lingering in my mind.

This job might not be so bad after all.

—

The next morning, Paige finishes practice, her muscles aching but her mind buzzing with anticipation. She now knows Azzi works morning shifts, and though she tells herself she’s just stopping by for breakfast, there’s no denying the extra pep in her step as she drags Nika along with her to the café.

As they walk in, the comforting aroma of coffee and freshly baked goods fills the air. Paige’s eyes scan the room, immediately finding Azzi at the counter, focused on a stack of receipts. Her heart skips a beat.

Paige shrugs off her hoodie, tossing it onto the back of a chair at an empty table by the window. She and Nika sit down, glancing over the breakfast menu. Paige tries to act casual, but Nika, ever observant, leans in.

“Calm yourself down and find something to get.” Nika pipes up.

“Shut up,” Paige mutters, burying her face in the menu.

Just then, Azzi glances up and notices them. Her expression softens, and she waves, a shy smile spreading across her face.

Paige beams back, her cheeks tinged pink as she waves back.

“Hi,” Azzi greets, approaching their table. Her soft voice makes Paige’s heart flutter.

“Hey,” Paige responds, a little too quickly.

“What can I get you guys?” Azzi asks, pulling out her notepad.

“I’ll have eggs and a croissant,” Nika says, glancing between Paige and Azzi with a knowing smirk.

“I’ll take some pancakes,” Paige says, handing Azzi the menu.

Azzi jots down their orders and looks up. “What would you like to drink?”

“Orange juice,” Nika answers.

“And—” Paige starts, but before she can finish, she and Nika both say in unison, “Coffee, black.”

They burst into laughter, and Paige sneaks a glance at Azzi, whose dimples appear as she smiles.

“Got it,” Azzi says, gathering the menus and walking back toward the counter.

Paige’s eyes linger on her retreating figure, her gaze drifting downward until Nika snaps her fingers in front of her face.

“Yo twin, is that the girl you keep talking about in your sleep?”

Paige’s head snaps toward Nika, her eyes wide. “What? In my sleep?”

Nika leans back, smirking. “Yeah, I heard you last night saying her name over and over again. ‘Azzi, Azzi,’” she mimics, feigning a dreamy voice.

Paige’s face flushes. “Shhh! I don’t—whatever, I just say random stuff when I’m sleeping.”

“Sure, sure,” Nika says, winking. “But you keep staring at her. And she keeps looking over here.”

Paige shrugs, slipping into her usual cocky demeanor. “Well, I mean, it’s me. Can you blame her?”

Nika rolls her eyes. “Cocky ass.”

A few moments later, Azzi returns with their food. She sets Nika’s plate down first.

“Thank you,” Nika says with a grin.

As Azzi places Paige’s plate in front of her, she hands her the coffee. But before Paige can grab it, another worker bumps into Azzi from behind, sending the coffee spilling onto Paige’s shirt. Azzi stumbles forward, gasping as she falls right into Paige’s lap.

“Yo!” Paige snaps, turning to the worker. “Can’t you watch where you’re walking? You just made her fall.”

The worker mumbles an apology and scurries off as Azzi scrambles to her feet, her face burning red.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Azzi stammers, her voice shaking.

Paige brushes it off, trying to calm her down. “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. But I do need a new shirt now.”

Azzi looks stricken. “I—I think I have an extra one in the back. Come with me to the bathroom?”

Paige stands, turning to Nika, who is smirking like the Cheshire Cat.

“Shut up,” Paige warns, flipping her off as she follows Azzi.

In the bathroom, Azzi motions for Paige to wait while she fetches a shirt. As soon as she leaves, Paige peels off her stained hoodie, leaving her in a sports bra and sweats. She grabs a paper towel, wets it at the sink, and wipes the remaining coffee off her stomach.

When Azzi returns, she pauses for a moment, her eyes widening slightly before she quickly hands Paige a black t-shirt.

“Sorry again,” Azzi murmurs.

Paige grins as she pulls the shirt over her head. “You’re good. Thank you.” She smooths the fabric and gives a playful twirl. “See? Good as new.”

Azzi giggles, her dimples deepening.

Paige’s expression softens. “You have a really pretty smile.”

Azzi ducks her head, her cheeks flushed. “Thank you,” she says softly. “We should probably head back before my boss notices.”

“Lead the way, Miss Azzi,” Paige says, motioning dramatically toward the door.

As Paige returns to the table, Nika raises an eyebrow. “Everything good?” she asks, smirking.

“Shut up,” Paige mutters, sitting down.

Once they finish eating, Nika and Paige pack up to leave. As they’re about to walk out, Paige glances around, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Azzi. When she doesn’t see her, she sighs and heads for the door.

Just as she steps outside, she feels a light touch on her back. Turning, she finds Azzi standing there, holding a folded piece of paper.

“Hey,” Azzi says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just wanted to say sorry again about your shirt.”

“I told you, it’s okay,” Paige says, smiling. “Things happen. And I love my new shirt.”

Azzi smiles nervously, then holds out the paper. “Okay, um, don’t think this is weird, but it kinda is? but it’s also- anyway I wanted to give you this.”

Paige takes the paper and unfolds it, her eyes widening at the detailed sketch of herself.

“Woah,” she breathes.

Azzi shifts on her feet. “It’s okay if you don’t like it. I just did it for fun.”

Paige fakes a pout. “And here I thought you did it because you liked me.”

Azzi blinks, her cheeks flaming. “Well… that too,” she admits quietly.

Paige grins, her confidence swelling. “This is so good I could literally kiss you right now.”

Azzi’s voice drops to a whisper. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Paige steps closer, her hand cupping Azzi’s cheek as she leans in. Their lips meet, soft and tentative at first, before deepening into a kiss that leaves them both breathless.

When they pull apart, snowflakes drift around them, settling in their hair. Paige grins. “So, if I asked you on a date right now, would you sketch me again?”

Azzi laughs, her dimples showing. “Maybe.”

“Pretty please?” Paige pleads, pouting dramatically.

Azzi rolls her eyes playfully. “Fine fine. Since you’re begging.”

Azzi glances over Paige’s shoulder, spotting Nika in the distance, pumping her fist in the air and yelling, “Go gays!”

“Isn’t that your friend?” Azzi asks, raising an eyebrow.

Paige groans, dragging a hand down her face. “I don’t know her.”

#pazzi #fic talk #pazzi fics #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #rosie’s works 🎧⋆｡ °⋆#rosemariiaa

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foxtrology · 24 days ago

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thank fuck you're not complete done with that harry castillo universe because I've barely finished the last chapter and I already miss them 🥹 could you write prompt 31, pretty please? 🥺

dad! harry castillo

prompt 31: harry takes adella to the bookstore and ends up reading four picture books aloud on the floor. two people recognize him. he doesn’t care.

prompt list

⸻

The plan had been simple.

In and out.

One quick stop at the bookstore for the new release Adella’s preschool teacher had mentioned—the one about a grumpy squirrel and a weather balloon or something equally ridiculous—and then back home before lunch.

That had been the plan.

But Harry Castillo had long since learned that plans—especially ones involving six-year-olds with untamable curls and big, curious eyes—meant absolutely nothing.

It was drizzling when they left the house, the kind of late spring rain that didn’t quite warrant umbrellas but still managed to soak through clothes if you stayed outside too long.

Adella had insisted on wearing her yellow rain boots even though the bookstore was only a few blocks away, and Harry—who had once made men cry in negotiation rooms—simply nodded and grabbed the matching coat from the peg by the door.

She splashed in every puddle along the sidewalk.

He didn’t rush her.

The bell above the bookstore door chimed softly as they stepped inside. It was warm and dry, the kind of cozy space that smelled like cinnamon and paper and the faintest trace of whatever candle the owner kept burning on the front counter. The lights were low and golden, and the jazz playing through the speakers was gentle enough to feel like background breathing.

Adella gasped.

Not dramatically—just that quiet, delighted sound she always made when entering places she loved. Her mitten-sized hand tightened around his, and Harry looked down just in time to see her eyes go wide at the sight of the children’s section.

“Can we stay a little bit?” she asked, already tugging at his arm.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Of course.”

She led him there like she’d been born in that bookstore. Past the poetry wall, through the shelves of new fiction, around a table stacked with cookbooks where she paused to point at a pie and whisper, “You should make that for mommy.” Harry grunted in agreement, mentally adding lemon meringue to the next grocery list.

By the time they reached the children’s nook, her raincoat had been unzipped and her curls had started to frizz from the weather. She didn’t care. She had spotted the beanbag chairs. And the bookshelf shaped like a tree.

Harry didn’t bother with the adult-sized reading bench. He was on the floor in seconds, long legs folding awkwardly beneath him, back pressed against the soft cushion of a floor pillow that clearly hadn’t been designed with six-foot men in mind.

Adella dropped to his side with the dramatic flair of a child in her own kingdom.

“Okay,” she said, breathless with excitement. “Pick four.”

“Four?”

“Four books, daddy.” She grinned, one front tooth missing, the other slightly wiggly. “That’s how many we can read before snack.”

He gave a mock sigh. “Only four?”

“For now.”

He let her choose.

Of course he did.

The first one was about a cow who wanted to be a ballerina.

Harry read every word. In a very bad French accent.

Adella giggled so hard she snorted, and he grinned so wide it made the edges of his eyes crinkle.

The second was about a brave girl pirate with a pink eyepatch and a sidekick parrot who only spoke in riddles. Adella leaned against him the whole time, warm and heavy, her head on his shoulder, legs kicked up like she didn’t have a care in the world.

By the third, a quiet story about a raccoon who built a treehouse for all his friends, she had started mouthing some of the words along with him.

And by the fourth—a ridiculous tale about a dragon who was afraid of the dark—Harry had stopped noticing the faint ache in his back or the way his foot had fallen asleep.

He was fully in it. All of it.

Reading in the corner of a bookstore with his daughter in his lap, surrounded by pillows and the soft rustle of pages and the occasional squeal of a toddler from the other aisle.

People stared.

Of course they did.

Two women near the café section exchanged hushed whispers behind travel mugs. One of them snapped a quick photo with her phone, trying to be subtle. Another man, standing by the nonfiction shelf, did a double-take.

Harry Castillo. That Harry Castillo. On the floor of a bookstore with his knees poking out awkwardly from a child-sized nook, his voice animated, his tone ridiculous, his daughter giggling so hard she nearly fell over.

Harry didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did.

And he just didn’t give a damn.

Because this—this was what mattered now.

Not the company he’d once obsessed over. Not the Forbes headlines or the nameplate on the door of an office he hadn’t stepped inside in almost three years. Not the whispers about his age or the commentary about becoming a father so late in life.

He was late. Sure.

But he wasn’t too late.

And she—his daughter, his firecracker, his reason—was worth every second of that delay.

At one point, Adella looked up at him, curls slightly sweaty from leaning against his chest, eyes heavy with the kind of soft, satisfied glow only good mornings bring.

“Mommy would like this one,” she whispered, pointing to the ballerina cow book again.

“She would,” Harry agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“We should bring it home.”

He nodded. “Done.”

“And we should tell her about the dragon.”

“We’ll act it out at dinner.”

“And maybe next time—”

“There will be a next time,” he interrupted gently, squeezing her hand. “There’s always a next time with you.”

She beamed.

Eventually, they did head home.

With five books in a paper bag—Adella had added one last-minute “for Frances”—and two hot chocolates from the corner café that Harry said were overpriced but bought anyway.

By the time they walked back through the front door, her boots were soaked, and her cheeks were flushed pink, and Harry’s shirt had a faint smear of whipped cream down the front where she’d hugged him too quickly with sticky fingers.

His wife was in the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, humming to a song playing low from her phone speaker.

She looked up as they entered, eyes warm.

“Good time?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Harry nodded.

“She made me read four books on the floor,” he said, setting the bag down with a mock groan.

Adella grinned. “He did voices.”

She laughed, crossing the room to kiss his cheek. “Of course he did.”

Later, after lunch and a bath and a half-hour of chasing Frances out of the pantry, Adella was curled up in bed for her nap, and Harry stood at the foot of her mattress, just… watching.

Not hovering.

Just being.

“She’s getting so big,” he murmured.

His wife came up beside him, slipping an arm around his waist. “She’s still your little girl.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just nodded.

And when he slipped his hand into his back pocket later that night, emptying the day’s contents onto his dresser, he found one of the bookstore receipts folded neatly around a crayon drawing Adella had made while sipping her hot chocolate.

It was a picture of them. Him on the floor, book in hand. Her curled up in his lap. Frances, inexplicably wearing a crown.

He tucked it into the drawer next to the watch he rarely wore anymore.

And smiled.

Because even in his sixties, even after everything, Harry Castillo had never been happier to be recognized as just a dad.

And he knew, deep in his bones, he’d read her another book tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next.

Forever, if she’d let him.

#sweet sweet baby replies #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #harry castillo x you #harry castillo fic #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #the materialists #the materialists fanfic #materialists fanfic #harry castillo materialists #materialists #harry castillo fluff #pedro pascal characters

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tojisth3rdwife · 7 months ago

Text

For her…

syn: a certain time of year was particularly hard for Toji, and you start to understand why..

cw: angst. grief. mamaguro🥹🕊️

a/n: idk..was in my feels today i guess🫠 relax and enjoy some bittersweetness with me

No one ever flat out told you why one day out of the year was just…different..at the Fushiguro house.

You were pretty perceptive of the change in Toji’s demeanor. The melancholic sheen over his eyes when he’d look at you, barely holding eye contact when you asked him a question and him being dismissive if it had anything to do with how he was acting.

He wasn’t mean or less patient with you or Megumi. He was just..different. He didn't say much. His laughter sounded a tad off, even forced at times. He slept a bit longer, usually blaming it on a recent job or his age, jokingly of course.

He moved around as if he operated on autopilot, unlike the agile and conscientious man you’d learned Toji to be . You’d catch him zoning out alot or being a little more forgetful than usual. Less focused, as if his mind was somewhere far away. Another place. Another time.

One summer morning you noticed a bottle of strawberry soda in the back of the fridge, tucked behind several items as if it were purposely placed there. Hidden. You’d only seen it because Megumi struggled to reach something on the same shelf, so you helped him You'd been meaning to ask Toji since when he even iiked that brand, seeing as how you never saw him or Megs drink it. You didn’t know him to be much of a soda drinker unless it was the occasional Coke on a scalding hot day.

But when you went back the next day to find it, it was gone. When you finally asked him about it, he’d just say he got it for Megs but he never drank it, and it had been in there for a while so he threw it out. That would have been believable if you didn’t find the same bottle hidden a little better in the back of the fridge again that following year around the same time.

“It's for my mom.” Megumi’s raspy voice makes you flinch from where he spooked you on the other side of the door. He was now tall enough to see over it, his lithe form springing up with each passing day it seemed. You blinked at him in surprise, your mouth gaping and in search of a reasonable excuse to be holding the soda that you’d dug out from the depths of the ice box. The chilled glass bottle was clutched against your chest when the spikey-headed boy stepped towards the open fridge to reach around you for a yogurt drink.

"Oh...I wasn't.." you stammered, only for the broody adolescent to interrupt you.

“It's her birthday tomorrow,” Megumi mutters shortly after he peels the cap back a little to take a sip, not saying anything else about the soda before walking away.

You watched him exit the kitchen in silence, an odd sensation tingling in your chest. You never heard Megumi speak of his late mother. Not even when he was smaller. From what you know, Toji's wife passed away shortly after Megumi was born. Something about an underlying heart condition that worsened after giving birth. Megs wasn't even a year old yet, so it made some sense that he didn't speak of her. He probably had no memories of his mother and was always accustomed to it just being him and his dad.

Until now at least...

Your attention returns to the soda, its slow-rising bubbles lining the neck of the glass bottle as you turn it slowly in your hand.

So every year, around his late wife's birthday, Toji bought the same brand of strawberry soda. For her.

Now that you thought of it, there was always this errand he’d always have to run on a certain day every year. Too consumed with life and work, you didn't realize it was on the same day. Every year.

An errand that would take him far out of the city very early in the morning.

You would roll over in the bed groggily, noting Toji sitting on the edge of his side. He’d be leaned over, lacing up his boots, fully dressed and smelling good. You knew sometimes he and Shiu would meet up early to discuss business so you never asked for details when he'd kiss your forehead goodbye.

He always came back to you around noon with a bouquet of sunflowers and red roses though, from a shop way out of the way, with a card that would read the same thing every time.

For you, just because <3

Toji knew you loved them and it made you less curious about his mysterious errand when he came back bearing gifts. In hindsight, you felt stupid and selfish for thinking they were 'just because' flowers now that you knew what this day meant to him.

Especially when you looked up the flower shop and found out it was less than a mile away from a cemetery.

That was why one year, days before he could find time to go to the store, and days after he gave you the heads up on his early morning errand, Toji found the newly bought bottle of strawberry soda in the fridge. You weren't around when he found it, which made the lump in Toji's throat even thicker at the realization.

He never really told you that every July 7th, he would visit a little florist's shop at the edge of a small town an hour away, where the owner would have a special arrangement that Toji ordered every year waiting for him. Preserved lilies and pink roses, a small bag of items from the convenience store across the street, and two glass bottles of soda (one strawberry and one Coke ) rest in his passenger seat for another 3 to 5 minutes as he pulls into the parking space that was always empty.

The morning sun warms his skin on his walk across the grass. Flowers, and plastic bag in tow, Toji steps with purpose on his way to his wife's grave. For a few minutes, he takes his time using the items in the small bag to scrub and rinse any dirt or grime tainting the granite. In the early years, Toji would visit and clean her grave stone frequently. He’d even bring baby Megumi with him since they still lived in the small town. The place where he and his wife made a life together.

But one day, after about 2 years had passed and Megumi became more active, Toji he realized that staying stuck in his grief was causing him to miss out on being mentally present in his child’s life.

And he knew she wouldn’t want that..

So he came alone now, placing the flowers down to replace the ones that had withered away, along with the opened bottle of strawberry soda nestled perfectly in the grass.

Toji squats to sit in front of the grave with his own beverage dangling between his knuckles, popping the cap off with his teeth and leaning forward to clink it gently against his wife's before taking a sip.

He would then spend about an hour or more just sitting there. Usually, he'd talk, not caring about how awkward it felt anymore.

He'd start out by wishing her happy birthday and telling her about how big Megumi is getting. How much he looks like her and all the little quirks he has that remind him of her. How smart and independent he is and how he takes care of his dad just as much as his dad takes care of him. He tells her about how he is doing. About his health and any recent injuries or ailments as a result of his job. He'd leave out what he still did to make money, even though he was sure she already knew. He'd talk about how getting older isn't as scary to him as it used to be, especially when he had someone that made him feel young again.

He'd tell her about how you came into his life and how hesitant he was about allowing you into his heart. Not that he had much of a choice. You just made it that easy. Leading with friendship, fostering a bond that wasn’t driven by lust or uninhibited emotions. Showing up for Megumi when he couldn’t due to work or making sure the both of them were taking proper care of themselves.

It always stuck in his mind how you never let his trauma or baggage scare you away, even if it should have, and how much your presence changed the way he saw love and life after losing someone so precious.

He would express the guilt he felt in loving you and her simultaneously. He didn't understand it. It wasn't as if there was a hierarchy in his heart, ranking one person over the other. He just couldn’t do that when he loved you both im different ways. It was just as if his heart had grown and all that she taught him about love years ago allowed more to pour in, making space for you.

He'd thank her for being his first love and for giving him the greatest gifts he could ever ask for. For teaching him how to love, and in turn, how to be loved as well.

That part of his conversation always got him emotional, and a breeze that didn’t touch anything but him with blow over his tearstained face. Even his hair would be tussled, reminiscent of the way his wife would tease his messy raven tresses in attempt to cheer him up.

Then he would smile, clear his throat and tell her he’d be back this time next year before rising to stand.

On his drive back, he’d glance at the new custom bouquet of sunflowers and red roses now in his passenger, his heart still twinged with a confusing mixture of guilt and relief riddling him. Relief to be leaving that small old town that only reminded him of a life that was now over. The life he thought would last much longer than it did. Every place held a memory that was colored yellow and blue in his mind, stored deep but never forgotten.

His guilt came mostly from the fact that he never could find a way to tell you why the birthday of his late wife was so hard for him and why he just needed to make that yearly trip on his own to visit her.

So one could only imagine the shock Toji felt that following year when he opened his fridge and found his late wife’s favorite soda.

Front and center. Not hidden or tucked away in the back. Unseen and easily forgotten. With a yellow sticky note placed over the label, easy to see and read.

In your handwriting…

For her, just because <3

#toji #toji fluff #toji angst #fushiguro toji x reader #toji x you #dad toji #toji fushiguro #jjk #anime #toji fanfic #toji zenin #mamaguro #mamagumi

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s1ut-4-rafe · 3 months ago

Text

ALWAYS BEEN YOU | Drew Starkey

MASTERLIST (One Shot)

Pairing - Drew Starkey x HighSchool Sweetheart! Reader

Summary - Years ago, the reader and Drew Starkey were high school sweethearts, convinced forever was yours. But when he left to chase his dreams as an actor, life pulled you apart. Now, he's back in town to visit family, and the last thing either of you expected was to cross paths again.

Word Count - 3628

Content - Fluff, high school sweethearts, second chance, reunion, soft angst, sfw

It’s was a crisp spring morning in Hickory, North Carolina, the kind of day when the air smells like fresh beginnings and the sun’s warmth dances through the trees. A perfect morning for a walk, and you couldn’t help but smile as you stepped into your favorite local café.

The scent of roasted beans and cinnamon lingered in the air as you waited for your order, your fingers drumming idly against the countertop. It was a simple routine—one you’d done countless times before.

With your drink in hand, you pushed the door open, stepping back into the crisp morning air. The first sip was perfect, rich and smooth, the warmth seeping through you as you started down the familiar path.

You’d been walking this same path for years now, and it never lost its magic. It felt as though nature itself was waking up from a long, sleepy winter, just like you used to feel every time you walked through these park gates, years ago.

Spring was always your favorite time of year, when everything felt new again. The birds were chirping, the trees were budding, and the flowers that had laid dormant for so long were now in full bloom. It was the kind of place that made you feel grounded, at peace with everything around you.

As your boots crunched against the gravel path, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander back to the days when this park was so much more than just a peaceful place to walk. It was your place, where you and Drew used to come together after school, your laughter echoing through the trees and the distant sounds of the creek flowing gently beside you.

You remembered it so clearly: how he’d always walk with you, never wanting to leave your side. How the air between you always felt charged, even back then. Before he had his car, you’d take the bus together every day, sitting side by side, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. The world felt so big and full of possibility back then, but also so small, because you and Drew had each other. It was simple. It was perfect.

The two of you were inseparable in high school, always finding a way to be together. Whether it was lunch in the courtyard or late-night phone calls until you both fell asleep, you never imagined life without him. He lived just a few streets over, and that made it all the easier. You’d talk about your dreams, his dreams, where you’d both go when graduation came. And you were so sure then, so certain that nothing could ever tear you apart.

But of course, life had a different plan.

After graduation, Drew left for Los Angeles to chase his dream of becoming an actor, which was something you both had always talked about. He promised to visit when he could, but it was clear that life was pulling you in different directions.

While Drew was headed west, you found yourself on the other side of the world, stepping onto a new college campus that felt both thrilling and overwhelming. You had gotten into your dream school, a prestigious marine biology program, and for the first time, you truly felt like you were where you were meant to be. The ocean had always been your love, and now you were diving into it—literally.

You studied everything from coral reefs to ocean pollution, learning about how the oceans were changing and how humans were affecting the sea life you had always been so passionate about protecting. It wasn’t just about books and classrooms; you worked on real-world projects, traveling to remote areas to help protect endangered sea creatures, and even working with conservation groups to create plans to help restore the oceans.

Every day felt like an adventure, whether you were diving in the middle of the ocean or figuring out new ways to fight for the world’s waters. It was hard being so far away from home and from Drew, but this was your dream. And it was unfolding in ways you had never imagined.

That summer before you left, you and Drew sat on this very path, beneath the same oak trees, and talked for hours about your relationship. You had no idea when you went to meet him there that it would be the last time you'd sit together, side by side, in that park. The last time you'd have easy, carefree conversations. The goodbye you shared was mutual, but that didn't make it any less painful. Both of you understood what was at stake—chasing your dreams and finding who you were meant to be.

The text messages and occasional calls faded over time, until they eventually stopped altogether. You never expected to lose him, but somewhere along the way, it happened anyway.

And now, here you are, standing in the same park, and life had changed so much since those days, yet the park remained the same, unchanging.

You took another sip of your coffee, smiling softly to yourself, as a breeze danced through the trees. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but wonder if things would’ve been different if Drew had stayed. But then again, that’s the funny thing about life is it never really lets you know what would have happened.

With a sigh, you decided it was time to get a few things from the grocery store before heading back home. You tucked your hands into the pockets of your jacket and turned toward the street, making your way toward the small, family-owned store near the edge of town.

The bell above the grocery store door jingled softly as you stepped inside, a scent of fresh produce and baked goods greeting you. It was the small-town market you’d grown up with, the kind where everyone knew everyone’s name—or at least their face.

You grabbed a basket, moving through the aisles distractedly, your thoughts still swirling around your walk in the park. You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking around aimlessly when you turned the corner to grab a carton of eggs and saw the last person you’d expect to see standing there.

Drew.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. He was really there, standing just a few feet away, casually browsing through the shelves, his dark hair slightly longer than it had been the last time you saw him. His features were still strikingly familiar, strong jaw, those same blue eyes you’d gotten lost in too many times to count, but now there was a certain air about him, like life had marked him in ways you couldn't quite understand.

He hadn’t seen you yet, and you wondered for a second if you should just turn around and make a quick exit. But the pull was too strong. You couldn’t avoid it forever.

You took a step forward, and that's when he turned, his eyes locking onto yours with the same recognition, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. The world felt a little too small, a little too still, as the moment hung between you.

"Hey," he said, his voice low but warm, as if he were still unsure of how to approach this unexpected encounter.

"Hey," you replied, your voice a little softer than usual, like the weight of so many unspoken things was pressing on your chest.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The noise of the store faded into the background as you both tried to adjust to the reality of seeing each other again after so many years. It was like you were both teenagers again, but now you were adults, with different lives and different paths. Awkwardness lingered in the air, but the chemistry that you two shared hadn’t disappeared. It was still there and as strong as ever.

Drew shifted, scratching the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle. "I, uh, didn't expect to run into you here."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "I didn't either, to be honest."

There was another beat of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable now. It was just... natural. After all this time, it felt like you were both trying to piece together the puzzle of who you were now, who you had been, and how it all fit.

Finally, Drew spoke again, a little more at ease now. "Well, I’m in town visiting my family for a bit," he explained, his cart full of groceries. "I’m actually just picking up some things for them... but, uh, I was wondering—"

He paused for a second, his gaze drifting away from yours for a split second before locking back onto you, searching your face as if asking for permission.

"Would you like to catch up tonight? Maybe grab a drink or just walk around? I mean... I’m sure we both have a lot to talk about."

Your heart skipped. There was a hopeful glint in his eyes, and even though you both knew how much time had passed, how much had changed, it felt like the past was right there between you. The idea of catching up, of talking about everything and nothing, was tempting.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, I’d like that. Where should we meet?"

Drew’s smile widened, and for the briefest moment, everything felt like it used to—easy, comfortable, like no time had passed at all.

"How about our spot?" he suggested. "Our bench at the park. 5 o'clock sound good?"

"Perfect," you said. The words felt light, easy, like a promise.

He gave you one last look, and you could see something in his eyes—something that had always been there, even if it had faded a little over time. You both had been part of each other's lives once, and maybe, just maybe, tonight could help you figure out where you stood now.

"See you then," Drew said with a soft smile before turning to grab a few more things from the shelves, his footsteps fading as you made your way to the checkout.

As you paid for your items, a mix of excitement and nerves swirled in your stomach. This was unexpected, yes, but it also felt like something you didn’t want to miss. Drew was back in town. And maybe, just maybe, this was the chance to figure out what had never quite been finished between the two of you.

After the unexpected encounter at the store, you needed to ground yourself. The afternoon stretched out before you, and nothing was pressing on your schedule. You figured the best thing to do was to take a moment to breathe and ease your mind before meeting Drew later.

Back in your apartment, you slipped off your shoes and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea. You couldn’t help but smile a little, the warm cup of tea filling your hands as you watched the sunlight peek through the curtains.

It had been such a long time since you’d felt this level of quiet peace, like things were settled for just a moment. It was so easy to get caught up in the day-to-day, in the responsibilities that came with work and adulting, but today felt different. Maybe it was the reminder of simpler times or the unexpectedness of seeing Drew, but everything felt a little... lighter.

You spent the next few hours doing small things around the apartment, organizing old books, folding laundry, and listening to music softly in the background. You didn’t want to dive too deep into thoughts of the past yet. There was enough space in your mind for the present, for this new chapter you had built for yourself, and for today’s unexpected reunion. But it didn’t stop your mind from drifting now and then.

As the day wore on, you started to feel a quiet sense of anticipation, a tinge of excitement that you couldn’t quite place. After a light dinner, you started to get ready to leave. It was still a little before five when you grabbed your jacket and checked the time. There was no rush; just enough time to get to the park and breathe in the fresh air. You didn’t want to overthink this; just enjoy the moment of finally seeing him again.

The walk to the park was peaceful. The streets were quieter than usual, the soft murmur of the town around you giving way to the sound of your footsteps. The park came into view as you rounded the corner, there was a comforting familiarity to it all—the park, the bench, even the light rustle of the trees overhead.

When you finally reached the bench, you spotted Drew sitting there. He looked the same in many ways, but older too. It was the kind of look that made you realize just how much time had passed, how much had changed. Yet, there was something about him still that was so familiar. You hesitated for a moment, taking in the sight of him sitting there, just as he used to.

He looked up as you approached, his eyes lighting up with surprise and recognition. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hey," he said, standing up as you reached the bench. "I’m glad you came."

You returned the smile, settling onto the bench beside him. "I am, too."

The moment hung between you two, just a little heavy with unspoken words. You shifted slightly, the same old chemistry between you both still there, but also... different. There was an awkwardness, a distance that couldn’t be ignored. You weren’t sure what to say, and neither was he. For a few moments, the quiet of the park surrounded you—soft winds rustling the leaves, birds calling in the distance.

"So," Drew finally broke the silence, his voice lighter now. "Remember that day we went to the beach and I ended up with that ridiculous sunburn?"

You laughed at the memory, the sound of it filling the air between you two. "How could I forget? You were miserable for days. And you wouldn’t let me hear the end of it."

He grinned, clearly amused by the memory. "I deserved it. I was stupid enough to ignore your warnings about sunscreen." His smile faded slightly, like he was lost in thought for a moment. "But, you know, even that day felt... perfect. Everything about it felt right. The whole time, I knew I never wanted it to end."

You nodded, your heart stirring with the memory of those simpler days. The carefree summers, the laughter, the little moments when you and Drew felt like you were the only two people in the world. It almost felt like no time had passed at all, but the truth was undeniable: so much had changed, so much had shifted in the time between then and now.

Drew cleared his throat softly, looking over at you. "Do you ever wonder how things might’ve been if we hadn’t... gone in different directions?"

The question hung there, unspoken for so long, yet now was finally asked aloud. You looked away for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Sometimes," you admitted quietly. "I mean, it’s hard not to. I don’t know if things would’ve worked out, but I guess we’ll never know."

A moment of silence passed between you two before you looked at him again, your gaze a little more searching. You couldn’t stop the question that had been nagging at you since he left—since everything fell apart so suddenly. "Why did you really leave, Drew? You promised you’d visit. The calls, the texts... everything just stopped. Why didn’t you come back like you said you would?"

Drew’s expression shifted, and for a brief moment, his face became a little guarded. But then, his eyes softened, his gaze locking with yours as he took a deep breath. "I didn’t know how to handle it," he said quietly, his voice thick with regret.

"I thought that it was the right thing to do, for both of us. I thought you deserved more than what I could give you at the time, I was never around. I didn’t want to drag you into my world, into all that uncertainty. But that was the wrong choice. I should’ve kept in touch. I should’ve made the effort. I wasn’t... I wasn’t strong enough to stay."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking down for a moment, like he was trying to find the right words. "The truth is, I never got over you. I tried to move on with other people, but it was never the same. No matter who I was with, it didn’t feel right. You were always there. You were always in my head."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. It was everything you’d wanted to hear, but now that it was said, everything felt even more complicated than before. You wanted to say something, but the words felt stuck in your throat.

Without thinking, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a soft, hesitant kiss. It was slow, lingering, like neither of you wanted to rush through it, not now, not after everything that had been said.

When you pulled back, your eyes locked onto Drew’s. The air between you felt heavier now, as though the kiss had opened up something neither of you were sure how to deal with. You could feel the tension, the unspoken words, and the feelings you both had buried deep over the years. There was so much left unsaid, so much left unresolved. But one thing was for sure now, whatever had been between you two, it was still there.

He looked at you, his expression soft but uncertain. "So... what now?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure how to navigate this space between you both.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "I don’t know," you said honestly, a slight smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I guess... we take this one step at a time?"

Drew gave a small, nervous laugh, the sound of it almost as familiar as the way he used to laugh when he was caught off guard. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsure but clearly wanting to be near you. "I know I’ve made a mess of things. But... I don’t want to mess this up again." His gaze softened, his voice earnest now. "I’ve missed you, Y/N, more than I ever thought I would."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten. You could feel it too—the ache of missed opportunities, the gap that had formed between you over the years.

You looked out at the park for a moment, the peaceful surroundings a sharp contrast to the emotions swirling between you two. "I never stopped thinking about you either, Drew," you admitted softly. "I just... I had to keep going. I couldn’t keep waiting for you to come back. But really, I don’t know what happens next."

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Look, I’m not asking for everything to be the same as it was before. I just want to be in your life again. Even if it’s a little messy at first. I want the chance to make things right... If you’ll let me."

You took another deep breath, the weight of his words settling in your chest. You didn’t have all the answers, and you couldn’t predict where this would go, but one thing was for certain: this moment felt like the beginning of something new. Something raw. Something real.

You reached out, your hand brushing his. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it felt like enough. It felt like a promise.

"I want to see where this goes," you said, your voice steady but gentle.

Drew smiled, his whole face lighting up with a quiet relief. "That sounds perfect."

There was a moment of silence between you two, the kind that was full of unspoken understanding. And then, Drew spoke again, his voice firm but filled with determination.

"I’m not leaving anytime soon," he said, his gaze locking with yours. "I came back to visit, but... I think I need more time here. I want to figure things out with you. To make up for all the years we lost." His eyes softened with vulnerability.

The weight of his words settled in your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, a mixture of relief and hope swirling inside you. This wasn’t just about him staying in town for a few extra days—he was making a choice, a commitment, to be present and to see where this could go.

"Are you sure? I mean…can you do that?" you asked, your voice a little breathless, both surprised and touched by his determination.

Drew nodded, his smile widening. "I’m sure, and yes, I can. I’m not ready to walk away from you again, not without giving this everything I’ve got."

The way he looked at you made your heart flutter, a mixture of hope and warmth blooming in your chest. You weren’t sure what the future would hold, but for the first time in a long while, you felt like you could face it.

"Okay," you said, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "Let’s see where this goes, then."

Drew grinned, his hand tightening around yours just a little, as if anchoring both of you to this moment. The park, the breeze, the way the evening light bathed everything in a soft glow—it all felt right. Like a new beginning, though neither of you could know what that would look like yet.

But you were willing to find out. Together.

#obx #rafe cameron #rafe fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe imagine #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe obx #obx fanfic #obx oneshots #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks fanfiction

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inkpetrichor · 6 days ago

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Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

7.- Part seven

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smut. p in v. brat reader, brat tamer kuroo (we love that around these parts). power struggle. cowgirl. kuroo being a whiny fuck. lemme know if i missed anything ;3 wc. 5.8k an. a little break from the shitshow y'all but be ready lol. comments and reblogs are always appreciated<3

Kuroo's house smelled like clean laundry and the faintest trace of his cologne. The air was cooler inside, still holding the chill from when he'd opened the window that morning.

You kicked off your boots in the genkan, too tired to hide the slight hitch in your breath as the adrenaline drained from your body, letting out a sigh and flexing once more your bruised hand.

"That fucker has a strong face, I'll give him that."

Kuroo was already rummaging in the bathroom. You heard the click of a cabinet, the rattle of a first-aid box.

By the time you went upstairs and stepped into his room, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, kit open beside him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Sit," he said quietly, nodding to the spot beside him.

The springs of his bed creaked slightly when you sat down.

He took your hand in his like it was breakable. Turned it over in his palm, inspecting the busted knuckles. When the antiseptic hit, it burned deep. You hissed and looked away, jaw locked.

"Sorry," he muttered, frowning.

His fingers moved with care—more than you were used to. The guys would've just slapped a band-aid on it and called it character-building. Kuroo was deliberate and meticulous. Like if he wrapped it right, maybe it wouldn't hurt so badly underneath.

"You twisted into the punch?" he asked, almost to himself.

"Yeah," you mumbled. "Didn't mean to split it, though."

"You've got good form."

You snorted. "Thanks. My old man taught me."

When he finally finished wrapping your hand, he didn't let go. Just held it, thumb brushing the edge of the gauze, like he didn't want to stop touching you.

"Who was it?" he asked.

Your stomach coiled.

You should've told him. The whole story—how you'd had a one-time thing with Junpei, how he wasn't over it, how he started talking shit about you and Emi. How the word slut made your blood boil.

If you were smarter—or learned more from your past communication fuckups with Kuroo—you would've said everything right then and there. Spilled it out and fixed it before it could actually become a problem.

But you didn't answer.

His jaw ticked, but he didn't push.

Instead, his gaze lifted to yours—steady, unreadable. "You hit him for Emi, didn't you?"

You nodded. And he nodded back.

No judgment. No questions. Just a quiet understanding that made something behind your ribs tighten.

He let go of your hand with a defeated sigh, then slid two knuckles under your chin, tilting your face toward his. The action sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

"You're such a pain in the ass," he murmured, serious. But you didn't miss the way his eyes jumped down to your lips when he spoke.

You tilted your head and cocked a brow in a quiet challenge, watching his pupils dilate at the sight of your smirk.

"Be honest. You love that I'm a little rough around the edges."

His mouth twitched into a crooked half-smile.

"Yeah? You think I get hard over you being a walking red flag?"

You leaned in, voice low and lips inches away from his. "I think you do. You literally are right now."

"Touché."

For a second, the weight of the day hovered between you—sore knuckles, rumors you couldn't outrun, the silence you were too scared to fill. Kuroo didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in either. Not like he usually did. Not like he wanted to be the one to start.

So you asked.

"Will you kiss me?" Voice lower. Honest.

His brows lifted just slightly, caught off guard. "You asking nicely?"

"I need it," you admitted. "Need you. Right now."

Then his mouth was on yours—hot, hungry. The tension snapped like a live wire.

He kissed you like he was rewarding you for asking so sweetly. Like he'd been holding it in all day. Hot hands slid up your back, dragging your body tight against his, his tongue sliding over yours in a kiss that was filthy and wet and so full of want it left you gasping. You bit his bottom lip. Tugged his hair.

And then—he slowed.

Broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, panting.

"You okay?" he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"Yeah." You swallowed, breath shaky. "Better now."

His hand slid under your shirt, slow and deliberate, fingers dragging over your ribs. But you knew that look in his eyes—that careful hesitation. That maddening tenderness he defaulted to when he thought you were on edge.

You grabbed his collar and tugged him in.

"Tetsurou. Don't treat me like I'm gonna break."

That made something flicker behind his eyes—something darker. Familiar.

"Then don't act like you want to."

You shoved him back onto his bed.

He landed with a surprised huff, propping himself up on his elbows, shirt tugged halfway up from the scuffle.

The sight of him—flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen—set your pulse thrumming.

"Is that how we're doing this?" he asked, eyes sparking with challenge.

You crawled over him, straddling his waist, your busted hand braced carefully beside his head while the other slid under his shirt. He was already half-hard beneath you, starting to strain against the fabric of his pants.

"Unless you're too tired, captain."

His grin was wicked, eyes darkened.

"Oh, you're really asking for it tonight. I'm gonna fuck the attitude right out of your mouth."

You gave your hips a slow, teasing roll. His brows furrowed and a low moan slipped from his lips.

"Then shut me up already."

With a groan, he flipped you under him like it was nothing—hands pinning your wrists, mouth dragging down your neck, kissing every inch like he needed to taste the proof you were here, alive, his.

It was rough in the way you liked—his grip a little possessive, teeth grazing your collarbone—but always with that frustrating tenderness underneath. Like no matter how wild it got, he was still holding something back. Still keeping you safe.

He pulled away from you to take off his shirt and grab a condom from his nightstand. You stared at his naked torso with your lip between your teeth all lean, lazy muscle, and half-tamed chaos. Impossibly hot.

He climbed on top of you, mouth crashing into yours again—filthy and deep—one hand back to pinning your wrists while the other dragged down your body. Shirt shoved up. Your thighs already falling open for him.

When his fingers slid into your underwear, you whimpered into the kiss.

"Fuck," he hissed, rubbing slow circles against your clit. "You're dripping. You like fighting that much?"

You bit his lip and tugged at your pinned wrists.

"Shut up. You're just that hot, alright?"

That earned you a sweet smile and two fingers—deep and slow, curling just right. Your back arched, thighs shaking as he kept grinding the heel of his palm against your clit with every thrust.

"God, listen to you," he muttered. "You act so tough and you're melting for me. You wanna cum on my fingers like a good girl?"

"Not enough," you breathed. "I want your cock."

"Oh, now you're polite."

You laughed—breathless, shaking—an aggressive warning slipping past your lips. "Tetsurou..."

He groaned at the rough sound of his name on your throat. Then he tugged your underwear off, kissing down your stomach, over your knees, and into your inner thighs. Nipping and biting as your fingers laced through his hair.

He licked a filthy stripe through your folds, slow and hot, then gave your clit a single, hard suck—just to tease. Just to watch you squirm.

"I should make you beg since you wanna be a brat," he said against your core. The vibration made a shiver run up your spine.

"You should just shut up and fuck me."

He growled—low, dangerous—and fumbled out of his shorts. You barely caught a glimpse of him slipping a condom on before he was lined up, head brushing your entrance.

You moaned into his mouth, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he filled you, tip snuggling right into your cervix, stretching you open inch by inch. You clawed at his back, gasping, struggling to pull the air he fucked out of you back into your lungs.

He didn't move right away—just stayed there, deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours again.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned. "Like you were made for me."

You squeezed around him, egging him on. Begging him to move.

He started thrusting—hard, deep, just rough enough to steal the breath from your lungs. His hand found yours again—your bruised one—and laced your fingers together like he needed to anchor you to him. Every thrust hit perfectly, your moans got louder, more desperate, each wet slap pushing you closer to the edge.

He read your body like it was his favorite book. When your hips stopped meeting his halfway, your eyes rolled back, and your nails clawed at his back like you were trying to stay grounded—he knew you were about to break.

"You close?" he panted, his thrusts getting rougher, deeper. Dying to feel you come undone around him.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Don't stop—ah! Tetsurou~"

He grunted, fucking you harder, messier. You gasped, legs trembling, until white-hot pleasure snapped in your core all at once. You cried out, body tensing, pulsing through your orgasm as his name fell from your mouth like prayer.

Kuroo nearly lost it right then.

"F-fuck. That's it—that's so hot."

He slowed just enough to kiss you—hard and breathless—fucking you through the aftershocks, still clinging to the edge of his own climax.

You pushed gently on his chest and he stopped instantly, eyes searching yours to see if something was wrong.

The look you gave him—hair messy, lips swollen, sprawled across his pillow—could have ended him right there.

"Let me get on top."

Your voice was hoarse, still trembling with release. But you needed to see him. Needed to watch him fall apart.

His eyes flared with surprise, but he didn't argue. He eased out with a groan and rolled onto his back. You climbed over him and guided him back in, and he gripped your hips hard as you sank down with a hiss, letting out a strangled moan.

"Oh my god—fuck—" The noises slipping out of his throat made a satisfied smile tug at your lips.

You set a rhythm. Slow. Torturous. Rocking your hips slowly every time you sank back down. Watching him unravel.

"Look at you now," you purred, leaning close. "Thought you liked being in control."

His head tipped back with a helpless moan, hands digging into your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

You rolled again, deeper. He cried out—loud, desperate.

"Ahh—ahhh f-fuckfuckfuck—"

You picked up the pace, watching his jaw slacken, brows knit together. Sweat dripped from his jaw, down his neck. His Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to hold himself together.

His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Shit, baby—please..." he moaned. "Just like that—don't stop."

His voice cracked.

"Tetsurou~" you teased, teeth grazing his ear. "You gonna come for me like this? So easy?"

You shifted just slightly and he lost it—started thrusting up into you with abandon. His tip kissed your cervix and his pelvis rubbed your clit and he was so vocal. You were spiraling again.

"Mmhff— I—I can't—fuck, I'm—"

He slammed your hips down one more time and came with a shout—loud, high, wrecked. His whole body bucked, hot pulses spilling deep as he whimpered through his orgasm.

You came right after—shaking, fluttering around him so tight it dragged the last of his climax out with a helpless gasp. He didn't think it was possible to feel this good while still coming.

You slowed, rolling through the aftershocks. He twitched inside you, arms wrapping around your waist like he needed to keep you still or he'd unravel again.

You collapsed on his chest, lips brushing sweat from the curve of his neck.

Kuroo looked wrecked—kiss-bruised, hair sweat-slicked, eyes glassy. His hands shook faintly as they gripped your hips.

"You okay?" you murmured against his skin, nuzzling the dip between his collarbones.

He huffed a broken laugh.

"Define okay."

You grinned, smug and satisfied as you kissed along his throat, the edge of his jaw. He was boneless—soft, pliant, letting you mouth at him like he had nothing left to give. All that volume now a sad, sweaty flop, and you couldn't stop grinning as you dragged your nails lazily down his sides and he made a pathetic little sound.

"You get all whiny when I ride you," you murmured, nipping his throat. "It's cute."

"I do not—" he started, voice ruined.

"You do," you cut him off. "All needy and desperate and sweet. Gonna cry next time?"

He smacked your ass, more affectionate than punishing.

"Shut up."

You laughed, curling into him as he pulled the blanket over both of you. His hand dragged up your back, the other cradling your head as he held you tight against his chest, still catching his breath.

He was quiet for a beat, his thumb caressed the gauze over your knuckles. Then, softly:

"I've seen you fight before, you know."

You lifted your head slightly to glance at him.

"What, like... really fight?"

He nodded. Sitting up to tie the condom and throw it away.

"Out behind that sketchy little karaoke two stations over. You cracked some dude's nose with a mean left hook and then two jabs to his stomach. It was gnarly. He landed a punch on you but you just kept going until he was out cold."

You blinked.

"That was like years ago."

"I remember," he said, putting on his boxers and slipping into bed again. "You had blood on your knuckles and this look in your eye like you'd do it again."

You raised a brow, looking at him with a teasing smirk.

"Was I cool? Did that make you wanna fuck me?"

"That made me wanna know you," he said, voice soft but sure. "I remember the way you smiled when you wiped the blood off your lips. Like it wasn't a big deal. Like you'd done it a hundred times. Like you enjoyed it."

You rolled your eyes and buried your face in his neck.

"Don't get all poetic about it. I just fucked up a guy that grabbed Emi's ass."

"I'm not judging," he murmured. "I just think you're better than throwing hands in alleyways."

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. "Are you trying to get me to join a boxing gym or something?"

He shrugged, eyes flicking to the ceiling. "I dunno. Maybe. Just think you're wasting your punches on high school trash. You're strong. Smart too, when you give a shit."

You smiled faintly, letting his words settle before nudging his cheek with your nose.

"What, you want me to play volleyball?" You purred.

That made him snort, eyes crinkling. "You'd spike like a monster, I bet."

"Oh yeah?" you teased. "Gonna train me, coach?"

He looked at you for a second too long, the wheels in his head visibly turning. Then he sat up suddenly, startling you.

"Wait. Actually. I got the key to the volleyball gym. We should go."

You blinked. "What, like... now?"

"No, not now—Jesus, I can't even feel my legs," he groaned dramatically, flopping back into the pillows. "But tomorrow morning, before class, before morning practice. I'll teach you how to serve. Maybe a little footwork. You'll suck at first but I'll make you decent."

You laughed—genuine and full-bellied—and something about the way his face lit up made your chest ache a little.

He looked stupidly excited—like he was already planning drills in his head, imagining your form, your footwork. And beneath all of it, you felt the quiet thrum of what he wasn't saying:

I want you in my world. Stay a while.

You softened and kissed his cheek, then melted into the warmth of his chest again.

"Alright, captain," you said quietly. "You're on."

His arms tightened around you instantly. "You're serious?"

"Yeah," you murmured. "You matter to me. So... maybe volleyball will too."

He didn't say anything at first—just held you closer, burying his face in your hair like he wasn't sure how to respond without giving too much away.

"You should stay over," he said after a moment. "My grandparents won't even know you were here. They come back tomorrow night."

You hesitated, not wanting him to get in trouble—but the thought of falling asleep in his arms and waking up to him too was way too tempting to pass up.

"My, um..." you cleared your throat. "My underwear is ruined tho. Didn't bring another pair."

"We could... Wash it in the sink?"

You snorted.

"Sure? Why not."

You reached over the side of the bed, grabbed your phone and fired off a quick text to Emi:

: If my dad calls, I'm at your place.

It took her exactly ten seconds to reply.

Emi <3: ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ Emi <3: tell Kuroo I say hi~ Emi <3: tell him to use deodorant (·•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ )

Kuroo peeked over your shoulder, grinning. "She say yes?"

"She said you stink."

He dragged you down into the pillows again, groaning. "Tell her I'm a fucking athlete."

You laughed into his shoulder. "She knows. That's why she's judging harder."

Kuroo just hummed, content, his hand tracing lazy circles over your bare back. One arm was thrown lazily over your waist, fingers twitching now and then like he couldn't not be touching you.

You were curled into his side, cheek resting against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you. Your legs tangled loosely under the thin comforter, your bodies still radiating that heat that didn't quite want to fade yet.

Your thumb idly dragged over your screen, rereading Emi's last text.

Your brows knit, barely noticeable—but Kuroo caught it anyway.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice low and a little hoarse.

You didn't answer right away.

Instead, you dropped the phone onto the mattress and rolled half onto your stomach, face turned into his chest like you could hide in the warmth of him.

"I'm worried about her." you finally said.

Kuroo's hand stilled on your back.

"Emi?"

You nodded, lips brushing his skin. You lifted your eyes to his face. He was watching you—gaze sharp but soft around the edges, like he was already trying to figure out how to help, even before he knew the full story.

"She said Hebinuma's spreading rumors about her again. Like what she's doing to us. I asked if she could hold on and she said she was fine."

"But you don't believe her."

"I want to." Your voice cracked a little.

Kuroo didn't interrupt. His hand moved again—warm, steady—tracing circles on your skin like he could smooth the edges of your thoughts.

"She's my girl," you said quietly. "My ride or die. I want to believe her. But..."

You didn't say the rest. You couldn't.

Not your secret to tell.

Hebinuma has her pictures.

Kuroo shifted under you and gently tugged the comforter higher over your hips, like covering you could offer comfort. Protection. Something.

"You think she's scared to tell you?"

"I think she's trying to protect me," you murmured bitterly. "Even if it means letting herself suffer for it."

Kuroo exhaled slowly. His thumb brushed your shoulder blade, and he dipped his head so his mouth was closer to your hair.

"Sound familiar?"

You curled your fingers into the soft fabric of the pillowcase. "I hate that she's going through it alone. I hate that I didn't notice sooner. And I hate that bitch Hebinuma."

Kuroo didn't laugh. Didn't make a smartass comment.

He just pressed a kiss to your temple. Quiet. Firm.

"You're not a mind reader," he murmured. "You're doing what you can. Emi knows you love her."

"But what if it's not enough?"

"It is," he said, with more certainty than you could summon. "Because you see her. You protect her. That matters."

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his warmth.

Another kiss—this time to the crown of your head. His hand slid up to cradle your neck.

"I've got your back," he whispered. "Always. Hers too, if she'll let me."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to cry. "God, you're so fucking good."

He smirked into your hair. "I know right? I'm an angel."

Just as the quiet started to settle again, the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed faintly through the apartment.

Kuroo froze. You both did.

He blinked like he was trying to process it in slow motion, then cursed under his breath and rolled out of bed so fast the blanket tangled around your legs.

"Shit. My grandparents—"

You sat up, clutching the blanket to your chest. "They're back?"

"I thought they weren't coming home 'til tomorrow night," he hissed.

He crossed to his dresser in nothing but his boxers, abs taut, one hand running through his disaster of bedhead.

He opened a drawer and rifled through it until he pulled out a worn black shirt with a faded band logo.

He tossed it to you without looking back. "That one's the softest. I wore it out, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it."

He flinched when a voice called his name. He cursed again, dragging open a second drawer and yanking out the first pair of sweatpants he touched. "Crap, crap, crap—okay, just stay here. Don't move. Don't even breathe."

You raised a brow. "They gonna hear me breathing?"

"I'm just panicking, let me have this," he muttered, tugging on a hoodie over his head. He was halfway to the door before spinning back to kiss your forehead—fast, a little frantic. "I'll keep them downstairs. Don't come out unless it's to jump out the window."

"Kuroo—"

He turned, flashed you a grin that was half-charm, half-fear-of-god. "Y/N, I'm begging you. Just give me ten minutes before you start breaking house rules and parental trust... Grandparental trust?" he shook his head. "Anyway, I'll be right back."

Then he slipped out the door, gently easing it shut behind him.

You were left in his bed, tangled in the warmth he'd left behind, the scent of him still clinging to your skin and his shirt. You heard his voice downstairs a second later—bright, casual, like he'd totally not just been naked in bed with his secret girlfriend.

His grandfather's deeper voice responded, muffled by the floorboards, followed by the lighter chime of his grandmother's laugh. You could just barely make out the exchange:

"Back already?" "The roads were clear." "You eat yet?" "Was gonna heat something up."

You imagined him moving around the kitchen, acting natural, trying to block any conversation about "heading upstairs." Probably throwing himself in front of the microwave like it owed him rent.

You took the time to properly look at his space. His room was dim, scattered in the quiet aftermath of everything you'd done. A few textbooks were stacked haphazardly on his desk. His bookshelf was tidy—rows of science journals, a few cracked-spined novels, and manga hidden like guilty pleasures. The whole room smelled faintly like him: warm skin, cedar soap, the ghost of cologne, and something sharper—like ozone and summer air and sex.

You sank into the pillow, heart finally slowing, and reached for your phone. A new notification buzzed the screen.

Emi <3: u alive??? /ᐠ. .ᐟ\ Ⳋ Emi <3: also pls tell me Kuroo has deodorant. now i'm worried ( ˶óᯅò) Emi <3: also also i kno ur probably naked so i'll keep this short: hebinuma posted smth. i think it's about me

Your stomach dipped. You sat up slowly, blanket sliding down your thighs as you unlocked the screen.

: What did she say? You okay babes?

Emi <3: it's not super obvious. just a photo. hospital slippers. caption like "some people always end up back where they belong" Emi <3: she didn't tag me or anything. it's vague

: That's not vague. That's fucking intentional.

Emi <3: right.

Three dots. Then nothing.

You stared at the screen, jaw clenched, the muscles in your arms coiling up tight. Your first instinct was violence. The kind that came without thinking. You wanted to find Hebinuma and plant her face into the nearest wall until she got the message.

But.

You'd promised Kuroo you wouldn't. Promised him you'd handle it differently this time.

Your fists curled in the blanket. Your pulse was thudding in your ears.

: If she posts anything else you tell me right away.

Emi <3: i will. promise.

Another pause. A longer one.

: Don't do anything dumb. : I mean it.

Emi <3: ദ്ദി Emi <3: u don't loose your cool n beat her up, she might go coo coo and spread the pics around Emi <3: now go fuck ur nerd or smt. ur stressin me out (¬'‸'¬)(¬'‸'¬)

: Fuck you.

Emi <3: u love me (づ￣³￣)づ

You exhaled, slow and shaky, pressing the heel of your hand to your eyes.

Because the truth was—this wasn't just petty rumors or high school cruelty anymore. It was calculated. It was cruel. It was Hebinuma digging up things that should've stayed buried just to prove she could still make someone hurt.

And Emi?

Emi had already lived through more than most people knew.

You didn't care what Kuroo said. If Hebinuma pushed her again—if she so much as hinted at taking this further—

You weren't gonna stand back.

You'd try to find a way to burn her without breaking your promise.

But if you couldn't. Then something was better than nothing.

Because you weren't just gonna watch someone you love fall apart again.

Not this time.

You pulled Kuroo's shirt over your head, the cotton clinging to your still-warm skin like it had always belonged there. It hit mid-thigh and smelled unmistakably like him. Worn-in, washed a hundred times, soft as a sigh.

The collar slipped off your shoulder just enough to be criminal.

You padded to the window, phone still clutched in hand, watching the dusk creeping across the rooftops outside. The voices downstairs had faded into the hum of television and casual conversation. Laughter. The clink of plates. Safe, ordinary sounds that felt too far away from the cold twist still knotted under your ribs.

You turned, unsure whether to message Emi again or not—and froze when you saw him.

Kuroo stood in the doorway like he'd forgotten how to move.

His eyes dragged and locked on you. The oversized shirt. Your bare legs. The faint pink on your cheeks.

His own hoodie slung crookedly off one shoulder.

He didn't blink.

"...What?" you asked, glancing down at yourself.

His mouth parted like he was going to answer, but nothing came out. Then he closed his door and dropped to his knees, head low, ears pink, hand scrubbing down his face.

"That's actually not fair," he muttered.

You blinked. "You okay?"

He lifted his head, face flushed and a little wild. "No. No, I am not. You—wearing my shirt—looking at me like that? I'm actively malfunctioning." "This was your idea, genius."

"Yeah, and now I wanna drag you back under me and commit sins the pope couldn't forgive."

You laughed—quiet, full of relief you didn't know you needed. He crossed the room and flopped on his bed, you joined him under the sheets, your limbs brushing his immediately, heat passing between your bodies even through the fabric. You leaned in until your lips were just at his ear.

"Later."

He groaned like you'd stabbed him. "You're the devil."

You kissed the side of his throat, and he tilted his head like he was seconds away from changing his mind about "later."

But then you pulled back, eyes catching his, and your smile faded.

"Emi texted," you said softly.

Kuroo's posture shifted immediately—he propped up on one elbow, brow furrowing. "Yeah? Everything okay?"

You hesitated. That same weight came back—like gravity had doubled under your skin.

"She's not saying much. But Hebinuma posted something." You paused.

Kuroo's eyes darkened. "What did she post?"

You shook your head. "Doesn't matter. Not really. Emi knew it was aimed at her. And it rattled her."

His jaw ticked, and he sat up straighter. "Shit. You think she's okay?"

"I don't know." You looked down at your hands. "She's trying not to make it a big deal, but it is. It's Hebinuma poking old wounds. Ones I don't think ever really healed."

Kuroo was quiet for a second. Then he reached out and touched your thigh, grounding. "You scared?"

You nodded, barely.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

"I know I promised you I'd leave Hebinuma alone," you whispered. "But if she keeps going... if she keeps coming for Emi like this—"

"I know," he murmured.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his.

"I'll keep my promise," you said. "But I'm not just gonna stand back and watch her hurt someone I love."

Kuroo's breath caught a little at that—maybe the phrasing, maybe the fire in your voice.

Then he kissed your temple. His thumb traced idle circles into your skin.

"Hopefully it won't come to that," he said.

Eventually, the lights went out, and the room dimmed into quiet shadow. He slid into bed beside you, arm wrapping around your waist like it belonged there. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as your legs found each other again beneath the sheets.

The silence stretched, thick with everything neither of you wanted to say out loud.

You leaned into him, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you, steady and sure, and for a long moment, you just stayed there, wrapped in warmth and quiet.

Then his hand slipped under the hem of his shirt—fingertips brushing the back of your thigh like an idle thought.

"You are still wearing my shirt, you know," he said, voice low.

You smiled against his shoulder. "And?"

"I'm only human."

When you tilted your head to look at him, the air changed. His gaze caught yours—darker now, slow-burning, but softer than before. Less hungry. Fuller. Like you were something to be held, not consumed.

Maybe both.

He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear, his knuckles trailing down your cheek after.

"You've got no idea what you do to me when you wear my stuff."

You leaned in slowly, nose brushing his. "I think I'm starting to realize."

His mouth met yours with a tenderness that made your breath catch.

His hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss—gentle, unhurried. His other hand rested on your bare thigh where the shirt had ridden up, thumb tracing lazy circles into your skin.

You shifted, swinging a leg over his hips, and he groaned softly against your mouth, head falling back just slightly like he was trying not to lose it.

"You're killing me," he murmured.

"You started it," you breathed, brushing your lips over his again, slower this time.

His hands settled at your waist beneath the fabric, pulling you flush against him. "I was being good," he whispered into your neck, lips trailing just under your jaw. "Trying to give you space."

"I don't want space," you said, barely audible.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

"Just... stay with me," you whispered. "Like this. Don't let go yet."

That broke something in him. His hands tightened at your waist, and he kissed you like he'd never get the chance again. Deeper now. Needier. Still not rushing, but desperate in the way only someone trying to feel everything could be.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. His name slipped from your lips in between kisses, a breathless sound that made him shiver.

Shirt tangled between you, legs twined beneath the covers, he didn't press for more. Just kissed you slow, again and again, like he was reminding himself that you were here. Real. His.

And that you wanted him just as much.

Your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, playing with the edge of his hair, and he hummed against your mouth like he could melt into you if he tried hard enough. He shifted a little, careful not to make the bed creak too loudly.

"They'll hear us," you whispered, half-laughing into his jaw.

"Let them," he muttered, then sighed. "No, you're right. I'm being good. I'm so good right now."

You snorted. "This is you being good?"

"This is me being a goddamn saint."

But still, he didn't stop kissing you. Softer now. Slower. One hand curved against your back, the other resting at your waist beneath the shirt, like he couldn't stand to let go just yet.

Outside the bedroom door, the muffled clink of dishes and the low hum of his grandparents' voices filtered in through the old house walls.

But inside this room—this hush between two heartbeats—you were safe. Sheltered. Tangled up in Kuroo's shirt and his arms and the feeling that, maybe for now, this was enough.

He kissed your temple one last time and pulled you close, breath warm against your skin.

"You're trouble," he whispered.

You smiled against his collarbone. "And you like it."

Kuroo shifted just enough to tuck you both beneath the covers, curling one arm around your waist. His lips pressed to your shoulder in a lazy goodnight.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Just the sound of your breathing. The warmth of the sheets. The way your heartbeat gradually steadied in time with his.

Then, in the dark:

"...Tetsurou?" you whispered into the stillness.

"Hm?"

"You ever shared a bed like this before?"

He didn't answer right away. You could feel him thinking, the way his fingers slowly traced the curve of your back beneath the fabric.

"No." he said at last, voice quiet and honest. "Not like this."

You shifted closer, cheek against his chest, breaths syncing up.

"You?"

"Never," you murmured.

A pause.

"I like it," he said softly.

You smiled against his skin. "Yeah. Me too."

His hand slid into your hair, fingers combing slow and sweet.

"You feel good?" he said after a while.

You hummed, eyelids fluttering. "You're warm. And way better than my lumpy mattress."

"I knew it," he whispered dramatically. "You only came over to upgrade your bed."

You grinned. "That and this shirt. It's mine now, by the way."

"Figures. Everything else of mine is already in your hands."

That one hit deeper than either of you expected.

He tightened his grip around your waist.

"...We're really doing this now, huh? You're mine now," he murmured, a little vulnerable, a little awed.

You looked up at him, eyes still sleepy, but certain. "We are."

He smiled into the dark, a slow curve of lips against your forehead, and didn't let go.

The room softened around you, shadows gentling into corners, the fan humming above in quiet rhythm. He shifted closer until your foreheads touched, his hand curling around your waist like instinct. You nuzzled your nose into the curve of his neck.

You could feel how warm he was, how relaxed. The kind of comfort that only came when your guard was down. When you knew someone had you.

You didn't even realise when you drifted to a comfortable sleep.

Next chapter↪ (coming soon<3)

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111 @chaoticotaku

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mapsthewanderer · 2 months ago

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Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb

(The newbie POV)

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: 1300ish words. Spring cleaning who? Another old one. People seemed to like the law student, here’s a little POV switch—non-MC!reader as the barista newbie. Expect internal struggle, hot barista Caleb, banter, and flirting. Let me know which POV you prefer in the poll! Law student POV here.

Tags: @gavin3469

The newbie | Pilot

You are late.

Not disastrously late, not fireable late, but definitely jogging through the streets with your bag slapping against your side, desperately hoping that Caleb doesn’t notice late.

And the worst part? It’s his fault.

Because waking up this morning had been a battle. Not just against your alarm—which you snoozed four times—but against the absolute war of deciding what to wear.

You never put this much effort into work. Normally, it’s whatever sweater is clean, ripped jeans, and your usual piercings (nose, tongue, ears—your little armor against feeling too soft).

But today?

Today you stood in front of the mirror for fifteen entire minutes debating if a fitted turtleneck would be too much.

In the end, you went for an oversized sweater, tucked slightly into high-waisted slacks that fit just right. Enough to look put-together, but not like you tried. Because effort is embarrassing.

And now?

Now you’re barreling through the café doors, boots squeaking violently against the freshly mopped floor.

Caleb looks up immediately.

One eyebrow lifts. “Rough morning?”

You.exe malfunctions immediately.

“Uh—” You straighten, shoving your hands into your pockets like that will somehow rewind time and erase the last three seconds. “No. Just—y’know. Traffic.”

Caleb tilts his head. “You walk here.”

You want to crawl into the espresso machine and never come out.

“…Right.”

Caleb just smirks, shaking his head like he’s already entertained. “Hurry up, then. You’re with me at the counter today.”

You.exe malfunctions again.

——————————————————————————

The morning rush destroys you.

Not because of the customers—not really. It’s because of Caleb.

Caleb, who moves too smoothly, too easily. Who leans an elbow against the counter like he owns the place, rolling up his sleeves as he waits for the next shot to pull.

At one point, he steps behind you to grab a milk pitcher, one hand lightly grazing the small of your back as he passes.

“‘Scuse me,” he says, casual. Too casual.

You.exe malfunctions for a third time.

And then, as if the universe is personally targeting you, she walks in.

You know her now.

The law student.

The golden girl.

She always looks put together, but today? Today she’s got her hair in a tight ponytail, her lipstick fresh, her whole presence practically radiating confidence.

And she sees you.

Your eyes meet across the counter.

The recognition is instant.

Her expression: Yeah. You get it now, don’t you?

Your expression: Please. Take me out of this hell.

But you both know what’s about to happen.

Because Caleb notices her immediately.

“Hey, golden girl,” he says, already reaching for a cup.

You swear she glows.

“Hey,” she says smoothly, stepping up to the counter. “Tell me something scandalous.”

Caleb lifts a brow, lips twitching. “You mean besides your order history?”

She grins. “Low blow. I’m trying to be unpredictable.”

“Right,” he says, already reaching for a cup. “Green tea. Living dangerously.”

“Mock me all you want,” she says, resting her elbows on the counter. “But I need my brain intact.”

Caleb hums, pen hovering. “Name?”

She blinks. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Slipped my mind.”

She narrows her eyes, amused. “We’ve done this dance.”

Caleb just grins, writes something, and spins the cup toward her.

In bold, looping script: golden girl.

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, already turning to make her drink, “you keep coming back.”

You are standing right here.

Watching this happen in real time.

It is exhausting.

It’s not that she’s bad at flirting—she’s just fearless now. Like she’s gone all-in. Unbothered. Confident. She looks Caleb dead in his devastating face like he’s just some guy, not a full-fledged, government-certified problem

And the worst part? Caleb just rolls with it.

Effortless.

Like he’s used to this. Like it doesn’t even register as flirting to him.

Caleb twirls the cup between his fingers, the soft rasp of his rings brushing against the paper sleeve filling the quiet moment. With a practiced turn, he angles the lid so the sip hole faces her, then slides it across the counter.

“Same time tomorrow, then?”

She just lifts her drink in an easy wave before heading out, looking perfectly content with her life choices.

You exhale quietly through your nose and turn back to the counter, grabbing a stack of clean cups and beginning to restock the tower, one clink at a time.

The repetition helps. It’s mindless, mechanical. Stack, rotate, stack.

You refill the espresso hopper next, pouring beans in slowly, deliberately—anything to stay busy, to not look like you’re still thinking about the name Golden Girl swirling in Sharpie on a takeaway cup.

You’re fine.

This is fine.

Totally normal coworker moment. Totally normal shift.

And then—the universe delivers one final hit.

Caleb appears beside you.

Like he materializes out of thin air.

No warning. No footsteps. Just a sudden, smug presence.

He leans his hip casually against the counter, like you summoned him with your stress.

“So,” he says, tilting his head at you, all violet eyes and soft smirk. “I feel like I didn’t get a real answer last time—how bad did the tongue piercing actually hurt?”

You.exe blue-screens.

Because no, absolutely not, we are NOT doing this again. So instead, you swallow and mumble, “It really wasn’t that bad.”

Caleb hums, eyes narrowing just slightly like he’s really thinking it through. “Huh. You probably have a high pain tolerance, then. I’ve bitten my tongue before—that’s bad enough. Can’t imagine getting a needle through it.”

You nod, barely. Already floating above your body. Already somewhere far away where this isn’t happening.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a little too quickly, like your body answered before you could think.

And then—

“Got any other ‘hidden piercings?’” Caleb asks, fingers flicking the air quotes as he leans in just slightly—grinning.

Just like that.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it’s a totally normal thing to ask a coworker before 10 a.m.

Which—it is not.

It is absolutely not.

You could make a list of questions appropriate for early morning workplace conversations, and that would not be on it. What time do you clock out today? Acceptable. How bad was that last rush? Also fine. Hey, do you have anything sharp inserted through parts of your body that I can’t see? NOT FINE.

But Caleb asks it like he’s wondering if you have a dog.

He shifts his weight slightly, one hand braced against the edge of the counter. His eyes are on you. Open, curious, and way too calm.

And then—he winks.

It’s subtle. A flick of movement beneath lashes that are way too long for anyone’s safety.

You see it.

You don’t know what it is, but it’s not safe. Not for your heart. Not for your nerves. Not for your currently melting dignity.

And then—just like that—he’s done.

“Aaanyway,” Caleb says, already peeling away from the counter, heading toward the pastry case with a stretch that makes his shirt pull tight across his back. “I’m getting a muffin.”

Like he didn’t just ask you about hidden body piercings, wink, and obliterate your soul before breakfast.

He glances back over his shoulder, calm as ever. “You want one?”

You stare at him, borderline comatose.

You are hanging onto reality by a thread, and this man is just thinking about muffins.

You need to go home.

Immediately.

Except—you can’t.

Because you still have hours left on your shift.

Hours.

With Caleb.

And as if things weren’t already unbearable, he returns to the counter with a muffin in hand, casually tearing off a piece and popping it into his mouth.

You watch him chew.

Why are you watching him chew??

He wipes the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb and then licks it—licks it—without a second thought, and your soul immediately exits your body for the second time today.

He’s just eating.

Just existing.

Just… being hot and chewing at the same time.

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: So y’all have gently encouraged me into doing a little spring cleaning in my drafts—bahaha. Here’s the newbie! Hope you like them. I seriously can’t pick between the newbie and the law student, which is why they’ve just been marinating in my notes forever. I couldn’t bring myself to kill any darlings. Let me know which POV you prefer before I spend the whole bank holiday happily spiraling into both. The weather’s awful anyway, so it’s peak writing time! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

#SPRING CLEANING in my drafts lol #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb #you x caleb #fanfic caleb #fanfic love and deepspace #reader x caleb #non mc x caleb

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sunbeaminfo · 10 months ago

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sinnabarmoth · 6 months ago

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Tribute for the Dragon (2/18)

Pairing: Dragon|Sylus x Fem|Reader

Summary: Reader finds her footing as the servant to her new draconic master. Just like there is much of the mountain to explore, so there is much more to learn about the dragon.

Content Warnings: Adult language.

Length: 3k

Chapters: (1) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18)

Read on AO3

The following morning you woke up and sat with the reality that you were indeed still inside a dragon’s lair. You were now employed to a dragon that looked far more human than you expected a dragon to look. That did not make him any less dangerous. In some ways, you worried that it made him more so.

Without much other choice you slid out of bed and found the clothes that you had worn yesterday. Such finery was not meant for the day to day work of cleaning and cooking. You decided to makeshift one of the layers into a simple working dress and pulled your boots back on. Your first task of the day was going to be finding a bathing room or something.

As you walked about the tunnels you realized that in the years since the mine had closed down nature had taken back over immensely. There was an entire ecosystem in this mountain. Some poking around you found a room with a fresh water spring running through it so you knew you had a place to get drinking water. You took the time to get a drink and wipe some of the grime from your person before moving on.

You eventually found the dragon in one of the tunnels. He was carving a large X into the stone above an archway. He turned his head to look at you. “Morning, you slept late.”

“I don’t really know what time it is. There aren’t exactly windows in here or clocks.” you shrugged. “What are you doing?”

He gave you a look and you held back a groan. “Will you tell me what you are doing, master?”

He smirked and turned back to the arch. “I’m marking the rooms you aren’t to enter. Simple enough for you to understand?”

“Very.”

“Good.” he turned to you fully, his gaze raking you up and down much like it did yesterday. “Is that what you are wearing?”

You looked down at your makeshift dress and shrugged. “I didn’t exactly pack to stay. This is the best I could do.”

“I see. Follow me.” he started walking off without bothering to see if you were actually following.

You had to rush to keep up with his long strides. “Where are we going?”

“To find you something suitable to wear hopefully.”

“Oh…alright.” you kept behind him. “Um, master?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a bathing room in here? Somewhere I can relieve myself? I haven’t come across anything like that yet.”

“There is one down the tunnel to where your room is. I’ll show it to you after we are done here.” he kept walking.

You were led through the tunnels until you saw a bright golden light shining from around one of the corners. Upon turning the corner your jaw dropped as you took in the splendor before you. This was the largest room you had seen in the mountain so far and almost every square inch of it was covered in gold and jewels. It shined so brilliantly it was practically blinding. You guessed you’d be able to buy the entire country with just a quarter of this amount of treasure.

The dragon had stopped and was watching you with an amused smile. “Never seen a proper hoard, have you?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen more than a sackful of gold before. This is…intense.” your foot slipped on some of the gold coins and you slid forward.

Without blinking the dragon had whipped out his tail and steadied you once more. “Watch where you step.” he let go and moved further into the room.

Among all the jewels and gold there was a plain stone dais in the center of the room. There was no treasure on it which was strange considering that the wealth was so overflowing it trickled out into the tunnel. Why leave the dais untouched?

The dragon was rifling through the mountains of gold until he uncovered a chest hidden underneath it all. He pulled it out, sending an avalanche of jewels tumbling away. The chest itself was ornately decorated, inlaid with rubies and emeralds the size of your fist. He opened it and sighed, finding more jewels inside. “Wrong one.” he shoved the chest aside and started sifting through the piles of riches again.

“What are you looking for, master?”

“There is a chest in here somewhere.” he said, pulling out another chest from underneath an expensive looking carpet. He opened the lid and slammed it down again. “I can’t remember which one, but it had clothes in it.”

“Dragons hoard clothes?”

“Dragons take whatever they feel like taking. And I felt like taking a rather large chest that I thought would be full of jewelry but was instead filled with women’s clothing. Ah, found it.” he lifted the chest lid and inside was indeed a pile of clothes in nothing but black.

“Mourning attire,” you picked up one of the dresses. “Good fabric though. It should work.”

“So, what do we say?” the dragon leaned closer with a sharp smile.

“Thank you, master.” you slung the dress over your arm. “I will go get changed and start making breakfast if it is well with you.”

“Go on.” he shooed you away. You took one last look around the room and fled back to your room. You changed into the black dress, relieved that it fit as well as it did. The dragon came by a few minutes later lugging the chest over his shoulder and dropped it in the room for you. You thanked him again before going about your work.

The next couple of days you started to fall into a routine. You woke up, got changed, made breakfast, then started cleaning. You had made the kitchen your first priority. Back when this was a mine this must have been the place miners would rest and cook meals between shifts. Most of the meals you made involved just cooking meat but over time you had been able to find some edible plants around the mountain to help supplement your diet. The dragon could live as a carnivore but you could not.

Your other constant task was trying to find your way around the mountain. It was a labyrinth of tunnels and more than once you got hopelessly lost trying to explore. It was embarrassing to say the least when you ended up in some dark corner of the mountain unable to remember which way you had come from. In those moments you had to call out for the dragon to come find you to escort you back to more familiar sections.

“I’m going to have to put a bell on you one of these days.” he said after you had managed to get yourself lost again. What you really needed was a map.

One day you were exploring once again and came across a shaft of sunlight. You rushed towards it and came out onto the side of the mountain. There was a outcropping of a flat patch of land where a series of hot springs descended down the side of the mountain face, leading to the largest one at the bottom.

The dragon was lounging inside the spring, steam billowing up around him. “Exploring again I see.” he said when he noticed you standing there.

“You didn’t tell me there was a hot spring here!” you huffed. “I’ve been heating water over a campfire for days to bathe and these have been here the entire time? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You found it eventually, didn’t you?” he shrugged. “Besides, you never asked.”

“How was I supposed to know to ask?”

He quirked an eyebrow up at you. “You’re awfully haughty today. What has got a bee in your skirt?”

You straightened. “Nothing. Sorry for intruding, master.” you turned to leave.

“No need to scamper off.” he called you back. “Your appearance is actually well timed. Come closer.”

You took a deep breath and turned around to face him, walking to the edge of the hot spring. “Yes, master?”

“Wash my hair for me.”

“Really?” you had been doing a lot of work but none of it pertained to the dragon himself outside of cooking meals.

“Believe it or not but claws do not help a lot with grooming.” he crooked a finger at you. “Now stop procrastinating and get over here.”

You walked around to the edge of the hot spring where he was reclining and took up the soap he handed you. You hesitated for a moment unsure where to start or how to work around the horns. You decided to just go for it and started lathering his hair, taking care to avoid touching his horns. To your surprise he reclined into your touch, his eyes closed.

Any time you had come across the dragon in the days you’d been in the mountain he always looked bored or was grinning like a hungry mountain lion. You had never seen him look so peaceful before. There was something delicate about it, like it was an emotion he wasn’t used to. You started massaging his scalp as you lathered his hair and a content sigh left him. With those claws he probably wasn’t used to soft hands touching him, let alone being able to properly massage anything.

You could have stopped and rinsed his hair already but there was something soothing about it all. You kept going, enjoying the motion of washing his silvery hair, the suds sponging over your fingers and the small satisfied hums that left the dragon.

One of your hands got a little too close to where his horns sprouted though and you swore he growled at you. Your hands immediately sprang away and his eyes opened. “What are you doing?” he asked, his gaze intense. The black of his pupil almost overtook the red.

“Sorry.” you said, “I uh…should I be steering clear of your horns? I didn’t mean to touch them.”

“No. It’s fine.” he closed his eyes again, his chest heaved a deep breath. “They are…sensitive.”

“Oh.” You wouldn’t have guessed that dragon horns would be sensitive. You figured they were more like deer antlers or something like that. “So do I need to avoid them or not?”

“You do not. If anything, they probably need cleaning but I don’t usually take care of them.”

“Oh alright.” Carefully you went back to massaging his scalp, taking the time to actually massage the area around his horns. When you did more small growls escaped him but didn’t make it past his lips, more like a rumbling in his chest. They sent a shiver down your spine and you had to wonder. Were his horns sensitive like a bruise or were they sensitive like the center of a palm? If it was the latter you couldn’t understand why he wanted you to keep massaging them, if it was the former could he be enjoying it? And if so, how much?

You suddenly found yourself glad the steam concealed the fact that a new rush of warmth filled your face. You tilted his head back more to rinse out the suds finally. “There, all done.”

His eyes opened again and before you could step back he shook his head furiously like a dog trying to get dry. “Hey!”

He grinned again, the peaceful dragon you had seen once more gone. “Oh, did I get you wet?”

“You know you did.” you crossed your arms over your chest. “Do you not have a towel?”

“Not out here.” he said.

“Would you like me to fetch you one?”

“If you would.”

You nodded and took off back into the mountain to find a towel or something for him to dry off with. If he knew he was going to be getting in the hot spring why hadn’t he brought one with him? Was he just going to drip dry? And what about modesty? Was he going to walk around without anything on until he was dry? Was that what he usually did?

The more you thought about it the more flustered you got. You were no stranger to nudity. In the past you had lovers so it was not as if you were an innocent naive virgin. But you also weren’t comfortable just going about your chores knowing that your dragon master might be strutting around the mountain naked. For goodness sake, you didn’t even know the man’s name! You didn’t want to see him walking around in the nude. Not that you thought he would look bad but it was the principle of the thing.

You found a towel and made your way back out to the hot springs. Thankfully he was still in the spring so you didn’t need to worry about that. You left the towel next to him and made to leave again when something occurred to you.

“Master?” you turned around. “May I ask a question?”

“What is it?”

“Do you have a name?”

Curiosity lighted his face. “Of course I have a name.”

“May I know it?”

“Why do you need to know it? You already have something to call me.”

Your insides tightened. “I know, but a servant would still like to know their master’s name even if they don’t use it. It’s a common courtesy.”

“Human ways are interesting little things.” he tapped his claws against the side of the spring. “Very well, if you want to know you have to give me some information in return.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Do you miss your village?”

Not what you were expecting. “Yes. Of course I do.”

“Anyone in particular that you are missing? Should I be worried about someone coming up here to try and slay me to bring you back?”

“The only person I can think of doing something like that would be my father but he is old so I do not expect him to scale a mountain and face a dragon just to save me.”

“No lovers back home that may try to play the hero knight to save the damsel in distress?”

“No. I had past courtships but nothing ever serious. I certainly had no affiliations when I left the village.” Besides, anyone that you had feelings for in the past were off fighting in the war now. “Now, I’ve answered a lot of questions from you and you have yet to answer one.”

“Yes. Well, you may call me Sylus.”

“Call you Sylus? Is that your name?” It sounded far too human to be the name of a dragon. Was he lying perhaps?

He shook his head, bored once more. “My full draconic name does not translate well to the human tongue. So if you must address me by name, you may call me Sylus.”

“Thank you, master Sylus.” It felt nice to have a name to put to his face instead of just referring to him as the dragon or master the entire time. He felt a little less intimidating with a name.

Then, as if to punish you for having a quiet moment of gratitude he decided to stand up. You quickly averted your gaze but not quick enough to avoid getting an eyeful of his dick as he stood out of the water.

He chuckled, stepping out of the spring. “Such an adorable reaction.” he stepped closer, wrapping the towel around his hips. The heat of his body and the coolness of the air caused steam to rise off of him. You weren’t sure if it was the steam or his breath that dampened the back of your neck though as he leaned in close. “How much of a maiden are you, exactly?”

“Not that much.” you balled your hands into fists, “I just don’t appreciate being flashed.”

“Fair, I suppose.” he straightened to his full height. “Now that you’ve found the springs feel free to use them as much as you wish.”

“Mhm,” you nodded, trying to not think about how close your legs were to giving out on you.

Sylus left and the moment he was gone you relaxed, leaning against the wall for support. You had really hoped you were getting used to him and then he went and did stuff like that! Did the man enjoy tormenting you? You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself and his dick popped back up in your memory.

“Fuck me!” you groaned. “Get out of my head! I am not dealing with this!”

It was moments like this where you wished that he had just been a normal dragon that ate you instead.

Although, that did bring up something that you had been wondering about. Everyone had bid you farewell as you left the village and probably assumed you had died. You had no way to let them know that you were alive or that the dragon had agreed to protect them. What if they sent another woman up the mountain.

“Shit!”

You ran back into the mountain, determined to find Sylus. You needed to find a way to send a message to the village and do it fast. You were sprinting through the tunnels and eventually found him in your room.

“What are you doing in here?” you asked, out of breath.

“Getting some pants.” he said, tightening the drawstring that closed over the top of his tail.

“Why do keep pants in my room?”

“I need to keep them somewhere. Now why are you running about?”

“Right. I’m worried about the village.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “I promised I would defend them and defend them I shall. The bandits you are worried about are still far off so it will be some time before they are upon your village and you will actually need any defending. Why the concern?”

“I’m worried that because I haven’t been able to send word to the village that you accepted our deal that they may try to send another maiden.”

“Another?” his eye lighted, “That could be interesting.”

“No! You already agreed. You do not need more women!” you protested, forgetting for a moment that you were addressing a dragon.

“No? Are you worried about your position?” he stalked closer, pinning you against the wall with his presence alone. “Worried your master will not have use for you if another woman wandered these tunnels?” He tapped a claw under your chin, forcing your head up so you were staring straight into his eyes. The tip of claw stayed pointed on your chin, not breaking the skin but could be if a little more pressure was exerted.

The air around you was sweltering, you couldn’t suck in more than a wisp of a breath. The corner of his mouth cocked up in that damn half smile that you had become so familiar with over the last couple of days. “There’s nothing for you to fret over, my little wildfire. There’s far too little work to actually be done around here to justify having two servants. It would just make you both idle and then I may as well be letting you live here for nothing.”

“So you don’t want to accumulate a harem of beautiful young women to with as you please?” You were somewhat serious with the question.

He scoffed, “One of you humans is trouble enough. I don’t need more getting lost in the tunnels every other day.”

You wanted to argue that you didn’t get lost that often but you both knew it was a lie. “Rest assured, if someone comes they will be sent away. Does that please you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” When he stepped away his claw dragged lightly against the underside of your chin leaving a thin line of red that welled and dripped with blood and goosebumps that shivered down your arms.

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #lads mc #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #dragon sylus #lads dragon au

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milliesfishes · 9 months ago

Note

Can I request Billy takes his girl to the bar and some asshole inappropriately touches her and Billy goes batshit crazy beating him up so she’s crying because she’s worried about him getting hurt and then Billy is so gentle and protective afterwards 😭

⋆౨ৎbilly gets into a fight for you⋆౨ৎ fem reader x billy the kid

A cry wrenched itself from your mouth before you could rein it in as Billy's fist collided with the man's face, a sickening sound cracking the air. You gasped, hands covering your mouth, and a bystander tugged you back by the elbow. "Watch out!"

Ears ringing, you watched in horror as the man toppled over, hitting the ground, arms swinging for Billy. He had him pinned down, the barstool clattering to the ground behind him. The crowd was thick around the scene, every pair of eyes on the fight. It was a tangled mess of bloodied fists and noses, and in the candlelit darkness, you could hardly tell who was who.

It had been an incident so quick you could have missed it in the blink of an eye. The man could have been drunk, you weren't sure. All you had known was the feeling of an unfamiliar hand where you did not want it, and then two seconds later, Billy pushing you away while he said something you couldn't hear.

And now they were brawling, rolling around on the ground, hats discarded from the intensity. You wanted to stop them, but images of a wayward fist flying your way prevented you from stepping between them. So much for your evening.

You'd seen Billy upset before. But never angry. Never like this. No, with you he was always gentle, always careful that hints of his infamous outlaw's side were never visible. He'd been so careful, so mindful of how he presented himself. There had never been cause for you to be afraid.

It felt like watching a different man there on the floor, the shadows of boots unable to hide the fury in his eyes. Tears stung your eyes and you turned away, pushing through the crowd, your breathing faint. There were shouts in the background, but they were distant to you, a million miles away.

You found your way outside, gulping in burning mouthfuls of air that set your lungs on fire. Your heart was racing like a rabbit in the spring, and one hand flew to it, as if you could hold it still. The tears you'd attempted to hold back inside were now flowing freely down your cheeks, and you squeezed your eyes shut, a sharp, stuttering breath drawing itself from your lips.

Guilt doused you like a bucket of water, and you had an urge to go back inside, to see to Billy and make sure he wasn't hurt. But the glaring facet of that emotion reminded you that he'd gotten into a fight over you. This was your fault. You should have been more careful, should have stayed at Billy's side.

The creak of the door as it swung open pierced the night air, and you turned, terrified at the sound. The only thing out here right now with you were the tumbleweeds, and you cursed yourself for not having learned your lesson in the bar. It was a dangerous world, and you weren't fit to be alone in it.

But the man who stepped out wasn't a stranger at all. You still shrank back at the sight of him, at the blood around his nose, on the hand holding his hat. He shifted his weight to the other foot sheepishly, eyes focused on you.

You tried to hold back the tears still flowing down your cheeks as twin rivers, but it was helpless. Billy exhaled softly, tossing his hat aside and floating toward you, the sound of his boots heavy on the dusty ground. "Baby...baby 'm sorry. 'M so sorry..." he tried to reach for you, but you froze and he let his hands fall limp to his sides. "I shouldn't 'ave lost my temper like that. I know that was scary, 'm sorry."

"You hurt yourself," you breathed, eyes on his knuckles. "Billy..."

"I'm okay," he promised, turning his palms to face the sky, reaching toward you. "Ain't my first fight. I'm worried 'bout you, sweetheart."

Your eyes fell to his gun, and he took in a breath, tugging at the belt until it was loose and tossing it over by his hat. "I ain't ever gonna hurt you. Never. You're my girl. I'd die before I hurt you."

Billy took a step closer, looking like he was approaching a wild animal. When you didn't flinch or move away, he took another, and another until he was less than a foot away. Searching your eyes, he whispered, "Can I touch you?"

Nodding ever so slightly, you kept your vision trained on his shoulder. His hands found your cheeks, tilting your face up so you were forced to look at him. When you looked into his eyes, there wasn't a single trace of the man who'd knocked another to the ground and beaten him bloody. You only saw the one you loved, the one you'd kissed, the one you'd given so much of yourself to.

Thumbs clearing the tears from your face, he murmured, "I was tryna protect you but I didn't do it the right way. 'm sorry, baby. 'm so sorry you saw me like that. It's not your fault I did a bad thing."

A tense little cry escaped your lips, and he pulled you into him, arms engulfing you into their comfort. Your face was pressed to his chest, and you felt bad for wetting his shirt with more tears. One hand was flat on your back, following the path of your spine back and forth, the other at the crown of your head, just holding you to him.

You sniffled, and he let his body tilt from side to side, rocking you back and forth as was his way. Whenever you came to him in tears, whether it be over your monthly or a minor injury he did this, knowing every crack and nook of you like it was himself.

"I love you. 'm so sorry." Billy rubbed your back when you lifted your head from his shoulder like a snail peeking out of its shell. Your arms were wrapped firmly around his waist, likely squeezing too tight, but he didn't say a word.

The tiniest of smiles lifted your lips at the look of pure longing on his face. He was worried he'd ruined something. Just like you had been. You brought your hands to his collar, smoothing it down and looking into his eyes. "I love you."

He let out a breath, lips brushing your hair. "I love you." Billy brushed your hair over your shoulders, smoothing it down. "My girl."

You burrowed yourself back into his arms, the feeling of safety washing over you in waves. You'd forgotten it before, but now the candle was re-lit, the spark a warming fire once again. As he pressed his lips to your head over and over, murmuring that maybe it was time to go home and maybe he'd go into work a little later tomorrow, all you felt was love.

Outlaw or not, he'd make damn sure that you were loved.

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senualothbrok · 1 year ago

Text

A Show of Love

Summary: Sometimes, Gale doesn't seem sure how much you love him. So you decide to show him.

Word count: 1.4k

Disclaimers: 18+. NSFW. Smut. (Unascended) Gale x female reader/Tav.

AO3 link

More disclaimers: Hand and finger kink. Oral and vaginal sex. Vaginal fingering.

Note: This is the first time I've ever written smut (yes, the rizzard got me), so I hope it hits the spot. Any comments/feedback would be welcome so I can learn and improve!

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He is sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard. He crosses one leg over the other as he reads. As you undo the straps of your armour, you watch him from the other side of your room at the Elfsong Tavern. You remove your breeches, boots and gloves. He does not know what you have planned for this evening. That you have ushered your companions away until the early hours of the morning, so the two of you can be alone.

Over the past weeks, Gale has shown you an eternity of love and devotion. He has shown you realities beyond your imagining. You have no doubts about the depth of his love for you, the strength of his yearning. But when you tell him your feelings, you can see that part of him remains uncertain. He is still surprised that you could love him. Backfooted by how much you adore him.

So you have decided to rectify this. You cannot show him the astral sea, or the intricacies of the Weave. But there are some things you can show him.

“Gale?” you call out.

He looks up at you instantly. Always ready, always willing. You want nothing more than to show him that you, too, share the same unwavering focus.

You take slow, deliberate steps towards him. As you move, your cuirass and pauldrons fall to the floor. Your underclothes slide away. You stand before him naked, glistening in sweat, damp and flushed. Your breaths are shallow with anticipation.

His eyes widen.

“I want to show you something,” you say.

He swallows. The book falls from his hands, toppling off the side of the bed. He straightens, his lips curling into a smile.

“What could that be?”

“Well…”

You take a long pause, savouring how his gaze lingers on every inch of your bare skin, dilated with awe, lust and longing. You tingle with desire, its wet flame already flaring inside you. Before he can spring towards you, you crawl onto the bed. As you straddle him, you tremble from the grasp of his hands on your waist, the spread of his shifting thighs.

“I want to show you how much I love you.” You look at him earnestly. Innocently.

His cheeks blaze, his brown eyes burning. His nose grazes your collarbone. He closes his eyes as he drinks in your musk. “My love, I know-”

You bring a finger to his lips, tutting gently.

“I don’t think you do.”

You run your thumb over his lower lip. His tongue slivers against it. Instinctively, your hips roll against him. You can feel the quiver through his body.

“And that’s why I’m going to show you tonight.”

You take one of his hands in yours. You kiss the inside of his palm, drifting down his wrist, open mouthed and wet. He exhales heavily, biting his lip.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your hands?”

He watches as you take his forefinger inside your mouth. You take your time caressing it with your tongue, running your lips up and down its length. A groan escapes him as you wrap your mouth around his thumb, licking and sucking at each remaining finger in turn. Within your centre, you slicken with moisture and heat.

His other hand reaches up towards your face. He leans towards you, breathless in desperation. You buckle against him, your open mouths meeting each other’s hungrily. It takes all of your self control to push him gently back.

“Not yet,” you pant. “Not before I’ve shown you how much I want you.”

He stifles a moan.

Moisture pools in the space between his fingers, trailing down his wrist and the flickering veins on his forearm. You guide his hand down your neck and over your breasts. Your skin pulses and gleams where he has touched it. You whimper when his fingers clasp at your erect nipples, painfully hard. You can feel the bulge of his cock pulsing against you, growing with every sign of your arousal.

You move his fingers down, down, further down.

“Do you know how wet you make me?”

His gaze is wild as you press his fingers into your folds. You are so wet you can hear them slide into you, searching for the throbbing source of your pleasure. He does not need encouragement or guidance. Your eyelids flutter as he traces circles into that secret corner of your clit that he has so easily found. You are unravelling at the grin that plays on his lips. You throw your head back as you whine, your thighs clenching against his, bearing down into his twitching cock.

He lurches forward to push you back onto the bed. You resist with a little laugh.

“No.” You pout. “I’m showing you, remember?”

“Gods,” he murmurs. “If you keep showing me for much longer, I-”

He is cut short when you begin to lick your dampness off his fingers. First one, then two, then three fingers inside your mouth, your lips parted wide as you lap, your eyes fixed on his. He grimaces, his hips bucking into you. You find yourself grinding your clit against him like a plea. You desire is a fire now, burning through you.

“I love every part of you,” you breathe. “Have I ever said that?”

You edge down, off his lap. For a moment he looks shocked, bereft. But you are bent over now, desperately loosening his breeches to free his engorged cock. You look up at him as you take hold of it by the base, flicking your tongue against its tip, already leaking with desire. You lap up each bead slowly, so that he can see how you enjoy his taste. He flinches, his features clenched in anguish and relief.

“I love every part of you, including this part.”

You keep your eyes on him as you take his shaft deep inside your mouth, trembling each time it surges against the back of your throat. You slide it in and out, your tongue swirling against it, spit spilling down your chin and through your fingers. Your desire is reaching delirium, and your clit thrums, bursting for relief. You moan as he arches his back, ready to explode.

“Please,” he gasps. “I can’t-”

You stop for an instant. That is all he needs. He springs forward, pressing every inch of his body against yours. You rip his shirt off as he shoves his breeches down in a frenzy. His tongue glides and whirls against yours, ravenous. You weave your hands through each other’s hair, drunk on each other’s salt and sweetness. You wrap your legs around his back as he presses his cock into you. He is gentle at first, but when he meets no resistance, he thrusts into you, as if he cannot bear to wait any longer. You whimper at how his warm girth stretches you apart and rubs against the corner of your clit.

“Gale,” you pant.

You look into his eyes. His face is tensed with passion, but softens when you say his name.

“I love you. I’m yours.”

He kisses you with a fervour that takes what is left of your breath away. You grip him tight against you with your calves, your skin aching to touch more of him, to merge into him. You cry out as he plunges into you again and again, his groans growing louder each time he bottoms out. You lean your forehead against his as his face spasms, drawing closer and closer to the edge. He erupts in a shout as he cums inside you, collapsing onto your chest.

You are quiet for a moment, listening to each other’s laboured breaths. He falls onto his side, curling against you.

You chuckle. “What did you think of what I showed you?”

He sighs. He traces the line of your jaw, the dip of your clavicle, the tip of your shoulder blade. The soft underside of your breast.

“Good gods. Did I silence the great Gale Dekarios?” You gasp. “And all it took was-”

He laughs. His finger trails up to your lip, seeking re-entry. Your tongue slides against the pad of his finger as he pushes into your mouth.

“A bit more silence, if you please,” he rasps.

His other hand moves to nudge open your legs. His face drifts down to follow. You can feel your wetness and his cum trickling down towards the cleft of your ass. Your clit throbs in the cool air as he watches you widen.

“Now it's my turn to show you.”

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#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #gale fanfic #gale smut #gale fic #bg3 smut #gale x reader #gale x tav #baldurs gate 3 smut #gale dekarios smut #gale of waterdeep smut

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hrizantemy · 2 months ago

Text

Feyre stood at the edge of the forest, the morning mist curling around her boots like the fingers of something ancient and half-forgotten. The trees stretched tall above her, their branches heavy with dew, and the silence of the human lands settled over her like a second cloak. Lucien waited a few paces behind, his arms crossed, eyes sharp and alert as always, but giving her space. He hadn’t said anything since they crossed the last border marker—hadn’t needed to. They both knew this was something she had to face herself.

And deep inside her mind—scratching, scraping, clawing—was Rhysand.

His talons battered at her mental shields, crashing like waves against stone, again and again and again. The desperation in the bond was unmistakable. Panic. Anger. Fear. He probably thought she had been taken. That someone had dragged her from Velaris, from his side, from the safety of his arms. That another war was beginning and this time she had vanished without a trace.

But she didn’t lower the shield. Not yet.

She would explain everything when she returned—with her sisters.

She would walk through the front door of the townhouse, Elain and Nesta flanking her, and only then would she let him see. Let him feel through the bond what had been done, what had been undone. Let him know that yes, she had left. Yes, she had disobeyed. But not out of recklessness, not out of defiance.

Out of love.

She hadn’t been willing to lose them. Not again. Not after everything they had survived.

And gods help him if he couldn’t understand that.

They were in Spring.

The air was warmer here, thicker with the scent of blooming wildflowers and distant green hills. The ground beneath Feyre’s boots was soft with dew, the tall grasses swaying with a gentler breeze than she’d felt in weeks. Birds chirped overhead in lazy patterns, and the sunlight dripped golden through the canopy of willows and birches—too beautiful, too peaceful for how tense she felt inside.

Lucien had insisted she wear the cloak. Ordered her to, in that sharp, commanding tone she rarely heard from him, not unless he meant it.

“If you’re dead set on doing this without Rhysand knowing,” he’d said that morning, pulling the dark fabric over her shoulders himself, “then you’ll stay hidden. Shielded. Secure. You do not leave my side.”

Feyre hadn’t argued. Not because she agreed with the controlling edge in his voice—but because she knew he wasn’t doing it to control her. He was afraid. For her, for what Rhysand might do if he thought she’d vanished completely, for the chaos her disappearance might spark if the wrong person learned she was gone from Velaris.

So now, cloaked and quiet, she moved through the forest at his side, her hood drawn low over her face. Every step away from the border was a step closer to the past—to him.

Tamlin.

It had been Lucien’s first thought. And hers. Not because she believed Tamlin had taken Elain and Nesta—gods, she doubted he even cared what happened to them anymore—but because if anyone might know of strange movements across the human borders, of fae slipping into lands they weren’t supposed to, of old trails and hidden dangers… it would be him. The Spring Court was still riddled with spies, half-healed wounds, and memories that lingered longer than they should.

So they searched. Not for forgiveness. Not for comfort.

But for answers.

Feyre’s shields held firm against Rhysand’s clawing presence, his silent screams battering her mind, wild and thunderous like a storm desperate to break through the sky. He hadn’t stopped since he realized she was gone.

She would deal with it.

Later.

Once she had her sisters. Once they were safe. Once she stood before him not alone—but whole.

The trees here were different. Feyre could feel it in her bones, in the way the magic of the land clung to her skin like pollen—quiet, watchful, wary. The Spring Court had always been beautiful, impossibly so, and even now it clung to that beauty with desperation. The wildflowers bloomed too bright. The birds sang too sweet. The leaves above swayed with such serene grace that it made something in her chest tighten. This was a land trying to look untouched, unchanged—but she knew better. She had walked these roads once in a different life, when she was a different woman. She had painted these forests in her mind with wonder.

She had fled them, too, bleeding and broken and burning with rage. Now, years later, the earth beneath her boots remembered her, even if it said nothing.

Lucien walked ahead of her, his eyes scanning the woods, his steps light but tense. He had been quiet for most of the journey, more guarded than usual. And then—his voice broke through the hush, rough and low.

“Familiar,” he said.

There was something sharp in the way he said it. Not wistful. Bitter. It clung to the air like smoke, something long-smothered reigniting without warning. Feyre looked at him sharply, saw the muscle ticking in his jaw, the tightness in his eyes. She didn’t need to ask what he meant. This had been his home—once. He had walked these woods as a child, as a male learning to survive the cruelty of his father and the rules of courts that broke more than they built. And she had helped break this court further.

She exhaled, drawing her cloak tighter around herself. “You think I ruined this place,” she said quietly, not as an accusation—but a truth laid bare between them.

Lucien stopped walking. His back was to her, his shoulders rigid beneath his worn jacket. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he turned, his russet eye gleaming beneath the shadow of his hood, the gold one flickering with something she couldn’t read.

“I think you did what you had to do,” he said carefully. “But I also think you didn’t care who paid for it.”

Feyre flinched. The words struck deeper than she expected. But she didn’t let the guilt win. Not now. Not here.

“I did care,” she said, stepping forward, her voice tight. “Do you think I enjoyed what I did to the Spring Court? That I took pleasure in tearing it apart?” Her throat thickened. “Tamlin tried to drag me back. He would’ve kept me, caged me. I had to make him stop.”

Lucien stared at her, his expression unreadable.

“I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for a better way,” she said, softer now. “And maybe I didn’t do everything right. But if you’re asking me if I regret it?” Her voice hardened. “No. I don’t. I don’t regret choosing my freedom. I don’t regret surviving.”

Lucien’s jaw worked, as if he were biting down on words that had waited years to be spoken. His eyes narrowed, the wind catching the ends of his red-gold hair as he turned fully to face her, the quiet of the woods stretching taut around them. The sunlight breaking through the trees cast half his face in gold and the other in shadow, like the two parts of him were warring beneath his skin.

“You think it was just Tamlin you punished?” he said, low and sharp, the bitterness no longer veiled. “You think the cost of what you did stopped at the High Lord?”

Feyre stiffened, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

Lucien stepped closer, his voice rising—not loud, but cutting, honed by grief and silence and things long swallowed. “You turned this court into a war zone, Feyre. You played your games, you planted seeds of dissent, and you left it broken when you walked away. Do you know how many stayed behind to clean up the wreckage you left? How many lost their homes when the borders collapsed? How many servants—people I grew up with—were thrown into poverty or fled because the Spring Court fell into chaos after you gutted it from the inside out?”

His eyes flashed, raw with something she hadn’t seen in a long time. Not anger. Hurt.

“I know Tamlin hurt you,” Lucien said. “I’m not defending what he did. I saw what he did. But you didn’t just take him down. You took everything down with him. You didn’t just burn the house—you salted the ground so nothing could grow again.”

Feyre’s lips parted, her breath catching in her throat. The words slammed into her harder than she expected. Not because they weren’t true—she knew, somewhere deep down, that there had been collateral. She’d told herself it was necessary. That the court had already been dying. That Tamlin had already done the damage and she had only exposed it.

But Lucien’s face…

He wasn’t talking about politics.

He was talking about home.

“I was drowning,” Feyre said, her voice rough. “I did what I had to do to survive.”

“I know,” he said again, quieter now. “But so did we. And we didn’t all make it out.”

A long silence followed, heavy with grief.

Feyre looked away, her eyes stinging, not with regret—but with understanding. The kind that came too late.

“I didn’t know,” she said, and it was the most honest thing she could offer. “I didn’t know how many people would suffer because of what I did.”

Lucien gave a faint, humorless huff. “That’s the thing about power, Feyre. It’s never just about the one you aim it at. It echoes.”

And for once, Feyre had nothing to say.

Lucien didn’t wait for her to respond.

He just exhaled—sharp and quiet—and walked past her, boots crunching over the soft earth as he moved back onto the narrow trail between the trees. His shoulders were tight, his stride clipped, his body radiating a tension that had nothing to do with the threat they were searching for and everything to do with her.

Feyre didn’t follow right away.

She stood there, rooted in the middle of the sun-dappled clearing, the breeze tugging gently at her cloak, as if trying to pull her forward—but she couldn’t move. Not yet. Not with the weight in her chest pressing down so hard it made it difficult to breathe.

Guilt curled cold and sharp beneath her ribs.

Lucien’s words hadn’t been cruel. They hadn’t been meant to wound—not really. But they had cut her open.

Because he was right.

She had burned everything. Not just Tamlin. Not just his throne. She had shattered a court, shattered the people inside it. The servants who’d bowed their heads as she passed, the groundskeepers who had quietly trimmed the hedges outside her window, the cooks who had set extra bread on her tray when she couldn’t eat anything else. The guards who had once nodded to her with hesitant respect. The children in the villages, the healers, the farmers who had once lived in peace under Spring’s gentle rule—however flawed it was—before she’d turned it into a battlefield.

Feyre had told herself she was making a statement. Reclaiming power. Teaching Tamlin a lesson he would never forget.

And maybe she had.

But she had taught others a lesson, too.

That war didn’t always come with trumpets and blood. Sometimes it came dressed in silk and smiles and quiet sabotage. And it left behind more than ashes.

It left behind people like Lucien—

Walking ahead of her in a forest that no longer felt like his own.

She swallowed hard, forced her feet to move, and followed.

They walked in silence, the only sound the soft rustling of the forest around them and the faint, steady crunch of their boots against the moss-covered path. Spring stretched out in every direction—green and gold and impossibly alive. The smell of wildflowers hung heavy in the air, mingled with the faintest trace of water from a distant stream. Birds sang overhead, and the trees swayed lazily in the warm breeze, unaware—or uncaring—of the tension that lingered between the two figures moving beneath their boughs.

Feyre said nothing, and neither did Lucien. His face remained forward, expression unreadable, the tightness in his jaw now tempered to something more controlled. She didn’t know if he was still angry. Didn’t know if his silence was meant to punish her, or simply to contain everything that had nearly spilled out in that clearing. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

But Feyre’s thoughts had drifted inward.

Her hand brushed against her abdomen, light and instinctual. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it at first—just a simple movement, protective, thoughtful. The cloak shifted slightly with the gesture, the swell beneath barely noticeable unless someone was looking. The baby was still small, still early in its becoming, but she could feel it. Not just physically—though she did. The tenderness. The pull. The low, aching tiredness that never fully left.

But emotionally.

There was a life inside her. A quiet, patient presence she had not yet met, but already loved.

Lucien knew, of course. That was it. No congratulations. No questions. Just that—steady, solid, loyal. Now, walking beside him in the shadows of his old home, she felt the weight of it again. Not just her guilt over the Spring Court. But the life growing inside her. And the life she wanted to bring her sisters back into. She looked down at her stomach again, her palm resting against it, eyes softening.

I’ll bring them home, she promised the child. You’ll know them. You’ll know all of us.

Lucien’s gaze flicked toward her for the first time in miles, just briefly, before returning to the path ahead.

But in that glance, she knew—he hadn’t forgotten either.

The trail bent sharply, curving around a grove of ancient oaks with trunks thick as pillars and moss clinging to their bark like forgotten silk. The air had shifted—subtly at first. The scent of blooming things gave way to the drier, older smell of ash and earth, and the birdsong grew quieter, more distant, as if even the wildlife hesitated to cross this threshold.

Then the trees opened.

And Feyre saw the village.

What remained of it.

The forest gave way to an open clearing, and nestled within it was a cluster of crumbling cottages and half-collapsed structures, their roofs bowed inward from age and weather, their windows gaping like empty eye sockets. Weeds had overtaken the gardens, growing in wild, tangled clumps around broken fences and rusted tools. A once-worn cobblestone path cut through the heart of it, though the stones were scattered now, pulled up by tree roots and time.

Feyre stopped in her tracks, her hand automatically reaching for her cloak, drawing it tighter as she took it all in.

Lucien halted beside her, his expression grim. “This used to be thriving,” he murmured. “Thirty, forty families. I knew some of their names.”

Feyre swallowed. The wind brushed against her face, and even that felt heavy here.

“What happened?” she asked softly, though she already knew the answer.

Lucien didn’t look at her. His gaze swept the village, the quiet devastation. “They left after the court fell apart. After the borders were overrun. Trade stopped. Protection vanished. No one came to rebuild. And the ones who stayed…” His jaw tightened. “They couldn’t hold out forever.”

Feyre felt the guilt stir again—sharp, bitter. She had thought the damage had been contained to the manor, to Tamlin’s pride, to the political cracks in the court’s structure.

But this… this was the rot that had bled outward. Quiet. Forgotten. Devastating.

“Lucien,” she said, her voice rough, “I didn’t know.”

He nodded, still staring at the village. “No. You didn’t.”

They stood at the edge of the clearing, the sun casting long shadows over empty houses and broken lives. And Feyre couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest hadn’t opened to them—it had revealed them. Uncovering wounds that had never healed. Not truly.

And now, they were walking straight into them.

Feyre lingered at the edge of the broken village, the wind tugging at the hem of her cloak, stirring loose strands of her hair. The silence in the place was too complete—like the land had forgotten how to breathe. It was a graveyard in all but name. And Lucien, still staring across the collapsed rooftops and overgrown gardens, looked like he was mourning ghosts she could no longer see.

The guilt twisted inside her again, coiling low in her belly, where her hand instinctively drifted—resting over the quiet pulse of life growing there. She couldn’t stay in that feeling. Not now. Not while they still had work to do.

So she tried—too quickly, too obviously—to shift the weight of the conversation.

“Where do you think he is?” she asked, her voice carefully casual, though it came out too soft in the hush of the abandoned clearing. “Tamlin.”

Lucien didn’t turn. He just huffed a breath through his nose, but there was no humor in it.

“Where does a wolf go when it’s wounded?” he said. “Somewhere no one will follow.”

Feyre tilted her head. “Do you think he’s still here, in Spring?”

“He never left Spring,” Lucien said bitterly, finally glancing at her. “Even if he fled the manor, even if he turned feral and vanished into the woods—this land is still his. It’s all he’s ever had. He won’t abandon it, not truly.”

Feyre frowned. “Then why didn’t he fix any of this?” She gestured to the village—at the sunken roofs and shattered windows, at the homes too far gone to repair. “Why let it rot?”

Lucien’s eyes were hard, distant. “Because he doesn’t know how to fix things he’s broken. He only knows how to punish himself for them.”

Feyre said nothing. The breeze stirred the weeds, and the rustle of dead leaves scraping across stone sounded like whispering.

“He might be near the riverlands,” Lucien added after a beat. “The old hunting grounds. He always went there when he wanted to disappear.” He paused, and his voice turned sharp. “But don’t expect him to be glad to see either of us. Especially you.”

Feyre met his gaze evenly. “I’m not here for gladness.”

And Lucien nodded, the hardness in his expression softening just slightly. “Good,” he said. “Because I don’t think he has any of that left.”

Then he turned, stepping off the path and heading toward the treeline at the far end of the village.

Feyre followed.

And behind them, the ruins of the Spring Court watched in silence.

They moved through the village slowly, skirting collapsed fences and moss-choked wells, weaving between skeletons of homes that still clung stubbornly to their foundations. The deeper they walked into the remnants of what had once been a place of life—of laughter and hearths and market mornings—the heavier the silence grew.

Feyre could feel Lucien watching her. Not constantly, not with the open scrutiny of suspicion, but occasionally. A flick of his eyes when she stepped too carefully over broken stones. A longer glance when she paused to rest a hand on her lower back. And once, when she bent to examine a burnt-out doorframe, she caught him looking directly at her stomach.

She straightened slowly, her jaw tightening.

He didn’t say anything. But it was there in his face—that familiar tightness, that quiet tension in his gaze. Something cautious. Something worried. Something else.

And she snapped.

“What?” Her voice rang too loudly in the stillness, sharp enough to startle a few birds from the distant trees. She turned on him fully, the cloak swirling around her legs. “Is this going to be how it is now? You watch every step I take because I’m pregnant?”

Lucien blinked, clearly caught off guard, but his face didn’t change. “I’m watching you because we’re in a ruined court filled with old scars and gods-know-what still lurking in these woods,” he said evenly. “Not because I think you’re fragile.”

“Then stop looking at me like I might break,” Feyre snapped, her hand curling instinctively over her abdomen. “I made it through Amarantha, Hybern. I’ve bled and clawed and survived more than most people in Prythian. Don’t treat me like I’m suddenly—” her voice cracked, “—less because of this.”

Lucien’s expression shifted just slightly, a flicker of something deeper, more wounded. He ran a hand through his hair and stepped back, his voice lower now. “I don’t think you’re less, Feyre. I think you’re more. And that’s why I’m watching. Because you’re carrying something precious. And because Rhysand will kill me if anything happens to you.”

She stared at him, breathing hard, the adrenaline still simmering beneath her skin.

Lucien exhaled. “I’m not your enemy. I’m here because you asked me to be.” And Feyre—gods, she wanted to argue, to hold onto the fire that had been her armor for so long. But his voice wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t patronizing. It was tired. Honest. She looked away. The wind brushed against her cheeks, carrying with it the scent of dust and ash and something faintly sweet beneath it all—honeysuckle maybe, from a flower stubbornly clinging to a broken windowbox nearby.

And Feyre, after a long silence, gave the smallest nod.

They didn’t speak after that.

Not once.

The argument lingered in the air between them, sharp and unfinished, too full of things neither of them could unpack without ripping open something deeper. So instead, they let silence settle. Heavy. Purposeful. Not quite hostile—but thick with the ache of unspoken truths and everything they’d both endured.

The path wound on, stretching out of the abandoned village and into the woods beyond, where the trees grew denser and the light thinner. It was cooler here, the shadows longer, and the Spring Court’s famed beauty began to return in glimpses—a patch of wild roses sprawling over a fallen fence, clusters of golden primroses swaying in the breeze. But neither Feyre nor Lucien pointed them out. Neither slowed. They walked as though pursued by ghosts.

Feyre kept her eyes on the trail, her hood low, her thoughts a storm behind her ribs. Her hand strayed to her stomach more often now—not protectively, not to shield—but because it anchored her. Something real amidst the grief and guilt. Something that reminded her why she was here. Why she had to do this.

Lucien remained a few paces ahead or just beside her, his expression carved from stone, his russet eye constantly flicking through the woods, alert. He didn’t glance at her again. Didn’t ask if she was tired. Didn’t offer his hand when the slope grew steep or the path narrowed. She wasn’t sure if it was distance or respect—or perhaps some delicate combination of both.

It took hours. The sun dipped lower, staining the sky in soft shades of peach and rose, and still they said nothing. Only the sound of their boots through leaves and the low murmur of the forest accompanied them.

Then—finally—the trees parted.

The riverlands.

A great stretch of open terrain rolled before them, dotted with tall, sweeping grasses and distant groves of willow. And cutting through the heart of it was the river, slow and winding, its surface catching the fading light like a mirror.

Feyre stopped at the edge of the hill overlooking it, her chest rising with a slow breath. The air was cleaner here. Colder. The hush of water filled the world.

Lucien came to stand beside her, his golden eye catching the glint of the river below.

Still, they didn’t speak.

But they both knew what came next.

If Tamlin was anywhere in this court, this would be where he’d be.

The light had thinned to gold and ash by the time they reached the edge of the riverlands, and for a long while, they simply stood there, shoulder to shoulder in the hush of a court that remembered them both too well.

The river moved slow and dark below them, winding through the tall reeds like a serpent half asleep. On the far bank, a copse of willow trees leaned low over the water, their branches swaying gently in the evening breeze, brushing the surface with long, delicate fingers. The world felt suspended—caught between day and night, past and present.

Feyre stared out across the land, her eyes tracing every bend of the water, every flicker of movement among the reeds. There was something sacred about this place. Not the kind of beauty she’d known in Velaris, all starlight and sweeping views—but something older. Wilder. Like the forest itself had pressed pause to let her breathe.

But she didn’t breathe.

Because he had walked these lands. Had hunted here. Had kissed her by the riverbank, once. Had promised her safety beneath these very willows. And she had believed it. Had clung to it, to him, until belief turned to a cage and love to a weapon.

“His scent’s old,” Lucien said quietly, crouching to touch a patch of flattened grass. His fingers brushed it carefully, like he was afraid to disturb the stillness. “Maybe a few days. He was here, though.”

Feyre didn’t answer at first. She kept her gaze on the trees across the river, her throat tight.

“Do you think he knows?” she asked finally, her voice quiet, almost lost to the breeze.

Lucien rose. “About you being here?”

She shook her head. “About them. Nesta. Elain.”

Lucien considered. “I doubt it. Tamlin’s many things, but a spy he is not. If he knew the sisters were missing, if he had anything to do with it… we’d have heard. He’s not subtle. And he doesn’t have allies left to help him hide something like that.”

Feyre nodded slowly. It was the answer she expected.

But it didn’t ease the knot in her chest.

Lucien shifted beside her, casting a glance across the river, where the willows bowed low over the dark water. “There’s a hunting lodge just beyond that ridge. It was Tamlin’s fallback when the manor got too loud. He used to disappear there for days after his father died.”

Feyre didn’t move. “Do you think he’ll be there now?”

“I think,” Lucien said carefully, “if there’s anything left of him worth speaking to… it’ll be there.”

The river whispered softly below. The sky began to darken.

And Feyre, cloaked in old memories and the quiet fire of a promise still unfulfilled, said, “Then let’s go.”

Lucien exhaled, long and slow, as the wind off the river rustled the tall grasses around them. The light had grown dimmer still, bleeding into dusk, and the land was beginning to blur at the edges—shadows thickening between the reeds and tree trunks, the horizon fading to bruised lavender and steel. He stared at the willows on the far bank, then upward toward the forest ridge beyond, as if weighing something heavy in his mind. His jaw tensed before he spoke.

“I’ve got one more winnow in me today, maybe two.” He said finally, his voice low but steady. “After getting us out of Velaris, through the border and into Spring… I’ve been pacing it, saving it. If you want to go to the lodge, we can do it now. But after that, I’m spent.”

Feyre turned toward him, surprised. He hadn’t mentioned how much the travel had taken out of him. She’d known they’d covered a great distance when they’d left under the cloak of darkness, slipping out of the city like thieves, her shields clamped down so tightly Rhysand couldn’t get a single thought through the bond. She’d assumed Lucien had rested, recovered—but she should’ve known better. There was always a cost. Even for him.

She looked at his face now—drawn and pale beneath the golden hue of his hair, faint lines of exhaustion threading the corners of his eyes. And still, he stood firm, ready to burn the last of his power to bring her closer to the male they once called friend. To the answers they needed, no matter how fractured the path might be.

Feyre hesitated, her hand resting lightly against her stomach, grounding herself. The weight of the baby growing within her was not just physical—it was a reminder of why she was here. Of the family that still lingered out there, scattered and hurting. Of the sisters she refused to lose. And if there was even the smallest chance that Tamlin had seen something, heard something, remembered something—she had to try.

She met Lucien’s eyes and gave a single, silent nod.

Lucien stepped closer, drawing on that last flicker of magic coiled beneath his skin. The air shimmered faintly around them, a ripple through space, and then—crack—they vanished from the river’s edge, the wind swallowing the empty space they left behind.

The world snapped back into place with a sharp rush of wind and a burst of cold air.

Feyre staggered slightly as they emerged from the winnow, the tall grass beneath their feet flattened by storms long passed. The sky here was darker, a slate-colored dome pressing low over the hills, heavy with the promise of nightfall. The air carried a dampness that clung to the skin, thick with the scent of moss and old trees. They were deeper into the woods now, farther from the river and the open light—this place felt hidden, forgotten, tucked between hills like a secret someone had meant to bury.

Lucien didn’t move immediately. He stood with one hand braced on his thigh, his chest rising and falling a little too fast, sweat already beading at his brow. His jaw was tight, but his face betrayed the effort it had taken—the cost of pushing his magic that last time. Feyre didn’t need to ask to know that was it. He wouldn’t be winnowing again tonight.

They stood before a narrow ridge, half-covered in brambles, with a thin game trail leading up its side. Nestled into the trees at the summit, barely visible through the hanging limbs, was the hunting lodge.

It looked smaller than she remembered. Weathered.

Its sloped roof was darkened with moss, a few wooden shingles missing, and the tall stone chimney was cracked halfway down, leaning precariously to one side. The windows were shuttered, the steps warped with time. But the door—old and thick and still painted that faded forest green—was intact.

And there was light.

Faint. A flicker, like candlelight or a small fire, leaking through a crack in the shutters.

Feyre’s heart tightened.

He was here.

Lucien straightened slowly, following her gaze. His expression shifted—not surprised, not entirely. Just tired. Quiet.

“You should let me go first,” he said. “He won’t talk to you—not at first. Not if he sees you before he hears me.”

Feyre hesitated, her hand still hovering near her stomach, the weight of old wounds pressing on her like a second skin. But then she nodded. “Fine,” she murmured. “But I won’t wait long.”

Lucien gave her a small look—half warning, half understanding—before turning toward the path.

The leaves whispered overhead.

And ahead of them, a ghost waited behind a green door.

The moments that followed were strangely still.

Feyre remained tucked beneath the trees just off the path, half-shadowed by an overhanging oak bough, her fingers curled loosely over her cloak and her other hand resting lightly against her abdomen. The silence that surrounded the lodge was almost too peaceful. A soft breeze stirred the tall grass at her feet, carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke and pine. Somewhere nearby, an owl called once—low and distant. The candlelight still flickered from behind the cracked shutters, casting shadows that shifted slowly across the warped wooden siding.

She couldn’t hear them speaking. Lucien had slipped through the lodge’s front door nearly five minutes ago, his footsteps silent, shoulders tense with the kind of wariness that came from years of knowing when someone was just one heartbeat away from snapping. Feyre had trusted him to handle it—to be the first voice Tamlin heard, to give the situation space to settle before she showed her face. She knew what she represented to Tamlin. What her presence might ignite.

So she waited.

And waited.

And then—everything exploded.

The door slammed open.

Lucien came flying out of it—not winnowed, not leaping—thrown.

He hit the packed earth in front of the lodge with a thud that shook the ground, rolling once in a blur of limbs before landing hard on his side, the wind knocked clean out of him.

Feyre surged to her feet, already halfway up the trail before she could even think.

And then Tamlin followed.

He emerged from the door in a fury, shirt half-unbuttoned, barefoot, his hair wild and his golden skin flushed with rage. His eyes—green and gleaming and too bright in the fading light—were wide, feral, glowing faintly in the darkness.

“You dare bring her here?” he roared at Lucien, his voice so loud it rattled through the trees like thunder. “You?”

Lucien coughed, already pushing himself up on shaking arms. “You stubborn son of a bitch,” he snapped back. “I came to talk—you used to know how to do that before you let your spine rot.”

Tamlin lunged again.

Feyre’s magic surged before her mind could catch up—light blooming beneath her skin, her shields slamming into place more firmly. She winnowed halfway up the hill, appearing in a rush of breath and crackling power just as Tamlin reached Lucien again. Her voice rang out like a blade drawn across stone.

“Stop.”

Both males froze.

Tamlin’s head snapped toward her—and when he saw her, really saw her, the rage in his eyes twisted into something else entirely.

Shock.

Pain.

And beneath it all, that simmering, crackling madness she remembered too well.

Feyre stepped fully into view, her shoulders squared, her hand protectively over her stomach.

“We’re not here to fight,” she said coldly. “We’re here because we need answers. And because we thought, for once, you might actually give them.”

Tamlin stared at her as though he were seeing a ghost.

And the forest fell silent again, watching, waiting.

For a moment, Tamlin said nothing. The golden light of the dying day clung to the edges of his hair, turning him into something that looked almost human again. Almost familiar. But his chest was still heaving, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with disbelief.

Feyre could see it—feel it—the war inside him. Anger and longing, grief and fury, tangled so tightly that even now, even years later, it radiated off him like heat from a forge. He hadn’t changed much. Still tall and lean, still the embodiment of everything Spring had once stood for. But there was something frayed in him now. The wildness behind his eyes had deepened. He looked like a male barely keeping himself together—and maybe not even trying anymore.

Lucien groaned on the ground, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth as he sat up. “So much for the warm welcome,” he muttered.

Tamlin’s eyes didn’t leave Feyre. “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was low now, not shouting, but colder than before. Brittle. Tired. “You’ve done enough to this court. You don’t get to come back.”

“I’m not here for the court,” Feyre said, her voice sharp, unwavering. “I’m here for my sisters.”

Something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe—but he didn’t respond.

“They’re missing,” she went on. “Nesta and Elain. Gone for days. We believe they crossed into the human lands, and we believe someone helped them do it.”

Tamlin’s expression didn’t change, but Feyre caught the shift in his body—the slightest straightening of his spine, the faint tightening in his jaw. He knew something. She felt it.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly. “Not now. Not about this.”

“I haven’t left the court,” Tamlin said at last, his voice like dry leaves. “I’ve been here. Alone. I haven’t spoken to anyone outside the borders in weeks.”

“That doesn’t mean someone didn’t come to you,” Lucien snapped, finally rising to his feet, his lip split and bruised. “Someone with questions. With offers. With reasons to take two Archeron sisters and make them disappear.”

Tamlin looked between them, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. “You think I would help someone take them?”

“I think,” Feyre said, her tone hardening, “that you’re one of the few people who still knows how to move between the mortal and fae lands without being noticed. And I think you hate me enough to look the other way if it hurt me.”

A pause.

Then—

“I don’t hate you,” Tamlin said. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t soft. It was just a fact, worn down by years of silence.

Feyre didn’t blink. “Then prove it. Help us.”

The wind whispered through the trees again. Tamlin looked at her hand, the one resting over her stomach, and something shattered in his eyes.

But he said nothing.

Not yet.

Tamlin’s gaze dropped to her hand—still resting protectively over her stomach—and his entire body seemed to go still. Not rigid with anger, but with something quieter. Something older.

Recognition.

Pain.

He looked at her, really looked, as though he could see the shape of the future that had no place for him. The life she’d built away from him. The family growing inside her.

And for a moment, Feyre thought he might say something—anything—that would crack the wall between them. But his mouth only pressed into a thin, hard line.

Then he spoke, voice hollow as wind over a ruined field.

“The ports still work.”

Lucien’s head snapped toward him, surprise flaring. Feyre straightened.

“What do you mean?” she asked carefully.

Tamlin’s eyes were dark now, his features unreadable. “The smuggling channels to the human lands. The old river routes. They were abandoned after the war, but not all of them collapsed. There are captains who still take coin. Quietly. Desperate enough or defiant enough to make those runs.” His jaw flexed. “If your sisters left Prythian… they likely went that way.”

Feyre exchanged a quick look with Lucien. That was something. A trail. A place to begin.

But before she could speak—thank him, press him further, ask—Tamlin turned away.

“Now get out of my court.”

The words were flat. Not cruel, not shouted. But they landed like a closing door.

Feyre stepped forward. “Tamlin—”

“No.” He faced the lodge again, one hand braced on the doorway, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion. “You came for answers. I gave them. That’s all I have left to give.”

Lucien shifted beside her, clearly biting back whatever sharp remark danced on his tongue.

“Go home,” Tamlin added, without turning around. “Go back to your city of stars. Go back to your mate. Your… child.” His voice caught, just barely, on that word. “This court isn’t yours to walk anymore.”

Feyre’s throat tightened. She didn’t reply.

Because in that moment, she knew there was nothing left to say.

So she turned, cloak billowing in the wind, and began the long walk down the ridge.

Feyre had barely taken three steps down the ridge when Lucien lingered. Just enough to make her pause, her back still turned toward the broken lodge, her ears straining in the silence that followed. The wind stirred her cloak and the moss beneath her boots, but Tamlin didn’t move—still standing with one hand braced against the warped doorframe, head bowed slightly, his silhouette caught between shadow and fading firelight.

Lucien stood straighter, wiping the last of the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His voice, when it came, was low. Graveled.

“Thank you,” he said. Simple. Measured. Not for the past. Not for forgiveness. Just for now��for this.

For the one piece of truth Tamlin had managed to offer through the wreckage of what had once been a court, a friendship, a home.

Tamlin didn’t turn. Didn’t even lift his head. But his voice carried clearly through the quiet clearing, steel beneath its weariness.

“Tell your mate,” he said, and it came like a blade pulled from its sheath, “to stay out of my court.”

Lucien tensed, but didn’t interrupt.

Tamlin’s shoulders squared slightly, his fingers curling against the wood of the door. “He’s done enough. You all have.”

Then, softer—hoarser: “Just leave it be.”

And with that, Tamlin disappeared inside the lodge once more, the door creaking shut behind him like a final breath.

Lucien stared at it for a moment longer, the shadows swallowing his features as the last light drained from the sky. Then he turned, silent and grim, and made his way down the ridge to Feyre, who stood waiting—eyes on the trees, the weight of what they’d just witnessed pressing heavily into the earth around her.

They walked through the deepening dark, the trees around them thinning as the ridge faded into a gentle slope, the forest swallowing the last glimpse of the lodge behind them. The air was heavier now, touched by the scent of the river once more and the encroaching chill of nightfall. Feyre didn’t speak for a long while, the ache in her legs dulled by the heavier ache in her chest.

Tamlin’s words still echoed in her head.

But it was the silence after them that lingered more.

The stillness of a male who had once held the world in his hands and had chosen, in the end, to let it all rot rather than try to build again.

She adjusted her cloak, pulling it tighter as she stepped over a tangle of roots, Lucien moving beside her like a silent shadow.

Finally, her voice broke the quiet. Low. Steady. But uncertain.

“So,” she said, eyes on the path ahead. “Where are we going now?”

Lucien didn’t hesitate. “The ports. If Tamlin was right—and I think he was—they wouldn’t have taken any of the major crossings. Too many eyes. Too much risk. But the old river routes… they’re closer than you’d think. Still used. Still quiet.” He paused, brushing a low-hanging branch out of the way for her. “We’re not far. A day, maybe less, if we move fast.”

Feyre nodded, jaw tight. “And if we’re lucky?”

Lucien gave her a grim smile. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find someone who remembers them. A captain. A dockhand. Someone who knows where they were headed—and who helped them go.”

The quiet stretched between them again as they crested a small rise, the glow of moonlight casting silver shadows on the path ahead.

“And if we’re not?” Feyre asked quietly, her hand drifting again to her stomach. “If we’re too late?”

Lucien didn’t answer right away. His steps slowed slightly, his eyes scanning the woods, as if the answer might be written in the branches overhead.

Then, finally, he said, “Then we keep going. Court to court. Shore to shore. Until we stop being unlucky.”

Feyre said nothing. But she walked faster.

The light bled slowly from the sky as they walked, twilight melting into the thick blue haze of oncoming night. The forest around them grew darker, the once-vivid greens of Spring fading into shadows, the trees now nothing more than tall, dark silhouettes against the dying light. Birds had long gone quiet, replaced by the occasional rustle of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush. The river’s distant murmur guided them east, a soft, ceaseless whisper in the dark, but otherwise, the world felt still—too still.

Feyre tightened her cloak around her shoulders, though the chill hadn’t quite reached her skin. She kept her eyes fixed on the path ahead, one bootstep after another crunching softly over leaves and roots, but her thoughts drifted back, drawn against her will to the image of the lodge. Of Tamlin’s silhouette framed in that doorway. Of the way he hadn’t screamed at her in the end. Hadn’t begged, hadn’t fought, hadn’t even tried.

“He looked so… empty,” she said quietly, almost to herself, though she knew Lucien was listening. “Not just angry. Not like before. Just… gone.”

Lucien said nothing for a few paces, his jaw tight as he stepped over a gnarled tree root and adjusted the strap of the satchel slung across his back.

“I don’t think he’s tried to put anything back together,” Feyre went on, her voice a little stronger now, even as the night thickened around them. “I think he just… stopped. Let everything fall apart after we left. After I tore it down.” She exhaled sharply. “He hated me for it, and I thought I’d made peace with that. But now—seeing him like that—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

Lucien let out a long breath. “It’s not just you he blames, Feyre. He blames himself more. Has for a long time.”

Feyre shook her head slowly, eyes narrowing at the path as if trying to read the future in the lines of the trail. “He said he didn’t hate me.”

Lucien glanced over. “He doesn’t.”

“That’s worse,” Feyre muttered. “It would be easier if he did. If he could just let me go.”

Lucien was quiet for a while before he said, “He lost everything. But he didn’t know how to grieve it. So he just… let the rot spread. You tried to escape it. He sank into it.”

The river’s sound grew louder as they neared, but it still felt far off. Feyre kept walking, eyes fixed forward, her hand occasionally brushing against her stomach, grounding herself with the small, steady life growing inside her. Her child would never know Tamlin. Would never know Spring the way she had. And some part of her—a small, guilty part—mourned that. Not because Tamlin deserved a place in her life now, but because once, long ago, he had saved her when no one else had. That version of him was long gone.

But still, his absence now felt like another death.

Feyre said nothing else after that. And neither did Lucien. They just kept walking into the night.

By the time the sky turned fully dark, the stars were smeared like paint across the heavens, scattered and brilliant, untouched by city light or court glamour. The moon hung low on the horizon, a pale crescent watching quietly as they descended the last of the hills. The trees had thinned, the terrain flattening out, and the damp, briny scent of water grew stronger with every step. Feyre’s muscles ached with the journey, with the weight of everything that had come before this night, but still she pressed forward—driven by purpose, by fear, by hope she didn’t yet dare name.

Lucien raised a hand, his palm flexing. Flame bloomed from his fingers with the ease of an old trick, the fire bright and steady in the darkness. It wreathed his hand in gold, casting shadows across the surrounding brush and catching the edge of his sharp cheekbones, painting his scar in deep crimson and copper. He didn’t say anything as he lit the way, just narrowed his eyes and scanned ahead, the tension in his frame coiled and ready.

Then, through the trees, they saw it.

The port.

It appeared like a phantom rising out of the dark—row after row of crooked buildings leaning into the edge of a wide, sluggish river. Boats rocked gently at the docks, tethered by fraying ropes, their hulls patched and weather-worn, some barely more than driftwood bound together by rusted nails and defiance. Lanterns flickered from windows and posts, their light casting a faint, oily glow across the water.

And beyond the boats—life.

Bars with doors flung wide, music spilling into the night in drunken waves, thick with laughter and shouting. Men and women lounged against doorways, peddling things both legal and not, smoke curling from pipes and fire pits. There were brothels with low-lit signs carved in multiple languages, and bodies pressed together in corners, faces blurred by shadow and desire. The scent of cheap wine and frying meat mixed with the stench of fish and wet stone, and overhead, the stars looked down like they were trying to pretend none of it existed.

Feyre slowed to a stop, her eyes wide. “I thought this place was abandoned.”

Lucien gave a bitter, knowing huff. “The war made the high courts forget places like this even existed. But these people—” He gestured toward the port, the thrum of life echoing from every cracked window and alleyway. “—they survived. They always do. Trade, vice, smuggling, ferrying souls who don’t want to be seen. You could live a hundred years and never know this place was here unless someone showed you the path.”

Feyre stared at it all, the forgotten heartbeat of a border world, the rough, lawless pulse of the river that had carried people like her sisters away from everything they knew.

And now—finally—maybe toward answers.

They moved through the port like ghosts—careful, watchful, unseen unless they wanted to be. The people here were used to keeping their eyes down, their mouths shut. Feyre and Lucien asked no names, offered no coin at first, only quiet questions spoken beneath the low hum of music and the flickering gaslight that bathed the alleyways in gold and shadow.

Two women. Hooded. Traveling light. Had anyone seen them?

At first, the responses were shrugs, narrowed eyes, drinks raised in disinterest. But then an old man near the end of the docks—a sailor nursing a chipped mug and a badly healed leg—gave them a long, assessing look. He leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning beneath him, and tapped the side of his temple with one thick, weathered finger.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he said, his voice slow and slurred by drink, but his gaze sharp as a knife’s edge. “And you sure as hell don’t sound like you’re here for the food or the company.”

Lucien didn’t bother denying it. “We’re not.”

The old man glanced at Feyre, at the sharp angle of her jaw beneath her cloak, then at Lucien again. “You’re looking for the ones the Vassilis took.”

Feyre’s breath caught. “The Vassilis?”

He grinned with half his teeth missing. “Old river barge, slow as sin but it sails clean. Captain’s a bastard, but he’s fair. Doesn’t ask where you’re from if you’ve got the coin. He left port a few days ago. Already had on two women. Paid well. Too well.”

Lucien leaned forward slightly. “Where was he headed?”

The old man shrugged. “Said something about the southern forks—beyond the boundary. The human lands.”

Feyre’s heart began to pound.

“Where do we find him?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

The sailor lifted a finger, pointing toward a larger ship docked farther down the river—low and broad, its hull blackened from years of soot and salt. “He’s back. Came in last night. That’s his ship. The Vassilis.”

Feyre didn’t wait. She was already walking. Lucien followed close, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his knife.

Standing at the far end of the dock near a ship with chipped blue paint and a mast that leaned ever so slightly to starboard, a man watched the water. He was older than they were, his body broad and strong but not youthful, not soft. The lines of his face were carved deep from years at sea, his skin darkened and weathered by salt and sun. A thick beard, streaked with gray, covered his jaw, and his coat hung open over a heavy sweater, despite the humidity in the air. His eyes—dark, unreadable—flicked toward them as they approached.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched. Like he already knew why they had come.

Lucien stepped forward first, calm but assertive. “Captain of the Vassilis?”

The man gave a small nod, then returned his gaze to the water.

Feyre’s voice was steady. “You took two women aboard last week. Fae. They paid in gold.”

The captain didn’t flinch. Didn’t feign ignorance. After a long pause, he simply said, “Aye. I did.”

And just like that—confirmation.

Feyre’s heart slammed in her chest. Lucien’s hand hovered near his coat, ready. But the captain didn’t seem startled. He didn’t seem threatened.

“They alive?” Feyre asked quietly.

The captain looked at her again, those sea-worn eyes finally meeting hers. “They were when I left them.”

Feyre’s breath caught. “Where?”

The captain stepped back, toward the gangplank of his ship.

The captain turned toward them fully now, the lantern light swinging gently beside the dock casting sharp lines across his weathered face. Up close, the lines in his skin were deeper, the dark beard more streaked with silver than black, and the glint in his eye was not the weariness of an old sailor, but the smug calculation of a man who knew his worth—and how far he could push it.

“The human lands,” he said, shrugging one broad shoulder like it was no great thing. “Dropped them two off just north of the marsh border. There’s a town there. Half-sunk and miserable, but no one asks questions. Just how they wanted it.”

Feyre’s mouth went dry. The human lands. They really had gone back. Nesta, who had loathed her mortal life more than anything. Elain, who had died—died—after being Taken. They’d chosen that.

The captain watched her carefully, as if reading the storm building in her face. But then he smiled—crooked, self-satisfied.

“They paid well enough,” he said. “But I don’t run my ship on kindness and stories, so I made ’em pay again.”

Feyre blinked. “You what?”

“For discretion,” the captain added, casually pulling a flask from the inside of his coat and taking a long, slow swig. “For silence. That kind of privacy costs extra. Always has. They didn’t argue.”

Lucien’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

Feyre stepped forward, voice cutting through the fog like a blade. “You robbed them.”

The captain snorted, unbothered. “No, girl. I run a business. They came to me, wanted passage without questions, no names, no records. That’s a premium service. I didn’t pull the coin from their pockets. They handed it over, same as anyone.”

Feyre’s blood simmered beneath her skin. “They were running. You exploited that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And I got them where they needed to go. Alive. Safe. I kept my end.”

Feyre’s hands curled into fists at her sides, power flickering faintly beneath her skin. Lucien placed a quiet, grounding hand on her shoulder, a silent reminder: not here, not now.

The captain watched the flicker of power with faint amusement, but there was no fear in his expression. “You want a refund?” he asked with mock generosity. “Talk to them. I’m just the boat.”

Feyre’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, but she didn’t speak again.

Because now she had a location. A direction.

And the bastard could keep his coin.

She would take her sisters.

Feyre stared at the captain, her breath sharp and shallow as she tried to contain the power curling under her skin. Her magic wanted to rise—to crack his boat in half, to throw him into the filthy, churning water for daring to grin while her sisters were missing. But she held it back, barely, because Lucien’s hand remained firm on her shoulder, his presence grounding her like the anchor she didn’t realize she needed.

She turned to the captain, her voice cold. “You’re taking us there.”

The man didn’t flinch, only tipped his flask toward her slightly, amused. “Now why would I do that?”

“Because,” Lucien cut in, stepping beside her, his own tone measured but edged with warning, “you’ve already taken them once. You know the route. You know the waters. And we’re not here to haggle or plead.” He paused. “Unless you’d like to find out what happens when a High Lord finds out you extorted and stranded two Archeron sisters.”

That made the captain pause.

He raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. “Is that what they were? Archerons?” He laughed, long and low. “Well. That explains the edge to them. Thought they looked too clean to be from around here.”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “You knew they were running.”

“I didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. But I don’t ask because I don’t care. It’s what they paid for.” He tucked the flask away and leaned one shoulder against a weather-beaten piling, sizing them up. “I can take you. Same cost. Maybe more, since you’re in such a rush.”

Lucien didn’t blink. “You’ll be paid.”

The captain’s grin widened, flashing too-white teeth in his sun-darkened face. “Then I’ll be ready by dawn. Storm’s moving in tonight. We sail early. Be on the dock when the bell rings once, or I’m gone.”

Feyre didn’t thank him.

She turned away, cloak swirling behind her as she stalked back toward the shadows of the wharf, Lucien close behind. The captain’s chuckle followed them like smoke.

But Feyre didn’t care.

Because they had a name. A direction. A path.

By this time tomorrow, she would be in the human lands.

They moved through the quieter end of the port as the noise of the bars and brothels faded behind them, swallowed by the river fog and the creaking lull of the tide against the docks. The lanterns here were dimmer, the buildings fewer, and the ground turned from wooden planks to packed dirt and gravel. Feyre’s heart was still pounding, her fingers twitching faintly with the remnants of the power she hadn’t unleashed. She could still feel the captain’s voice in her bones—that smug, soulless drawl, talking about her sisters like they were no more than cargo.

Like they hadn’t been two women desperate enough to hand over gold twice just for the promise of silence.

Lucien walked beside her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his golden eye flicking toward her every so often. He hadn’t spoken since they left the dock, but Feyre knew the look on his face. Not anger. Not fear. But wariness. Thoughtfulness. He was running through possibilities, through maps, through calculations. Through memories.

Finally, as they passed an old mooring post wrapped in seaweed and moss, Lucien asked, quietly, “Do you know where they were going?”

Feyre slowed, her boots crunching over broken shells scattered in the mud. She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked out toward the river again, where the boats rocked gently in the tide and the water stretched into the misty unknown.

“No,” she said finally. “Not exactly.”

Lucien stopped beside her, waiting.

Feyre exhaled slowly, the breath curling in the cool night air. “But if I had to guess… the cabin.”

He tilted his head. “The one from your mortal days?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice steady now, more certain as the thought solidified. “It’s isolated. Familiar. Half-rotted, but still standing. It’s the last place we all shared before everything changed. Nesta… Elain…” Her throat tightened. “They’d go there because no one would look for them there. And because it’s the one place in the human lands that’s ever truly been ours.”

Lucien’s brows drew together. He looked out across the dark river, silent for a long moment.

“It’s far,” he said finally. “Remote. Dangerous. But… it makes sense.”

Feyre nodded once. “That’s where they’ll go. Or where they started. Either way—we’ll find them.”

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt and smoke and the ghosts of the past.

And beneath her hand, the life growing inside her turned gently, quietly, like it too was listening to the rhythm of the river and the pulse of her resolve.

The wind blew stronger now, sweeping down from the river in brisk, briny gusts that lifted Feyre’s cloak and sent stray strands of her hair lashing across her face. She didn’t move to tuck them away. Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon where the water met the night, where the fog swallowed everything into gray oblivion. The port behind them kept its low thrum of music and voices and life, but it felt distant now, muffled. The world had narrowed to the steady sound of the waves and the weight of the question she knew was coming.

Lucien was silent beside her, his sharp eyes watching her face. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice softer than usual, edged not with challenge but curiosity.

“What’s your plan,” he asked, “when you find them?”

Feyre didn’t answer right away. She felt the question sink into her bones like a stone thrown into still water, ripple after ripple echoing through her chest. What was her plan? She had followed shadows and whispers, had gone behind Rhysand’s back, had crossed a continent on instinct and fear and hope, all because of the two women she had spent her whole life loving—and failing. She had lied to the ones she trusted, risked her own safety, all of it for Nesta and Elain. And still, the answer came to her as easily as breath.

“I’m going to drag them back,” she said.

Lucien blinked, his brows rising. “That’s it?”

Feyre turned to face him, her jaw set, her voice iron-hard. “Yes. That’s it.”

She stepped forward, closer to the edge of the dock, her eyes blazing with a quiet, furious certainty. “They left thinking we wouldn’t come. That we’d just let them disappear. That we’d debate it, argue about it in a sitting room while they vanished into whatever shadows they could find. I’m not giving them that. Not after everything we’ve lost. I don’t care if Nesta burns the cabin down in my face or if Elain begs me to go back. I’m not leaving without them.”

Lucien studied her for a long moment, eyes narrowed, searching her expression. “Even if they don’t want to come?”

Feyre’s throat worked around something raw. “Especially then.”

She looked away again, toward the dark stretch of water that would carry them to the place where her sisters might be hiding—where they might be waiting, angry and broken and scared. Or maybe not waiting at all.

“I didn’t protect them before,” she said quietly. “Not when I should have. But I will now. Even if they hate me for it.”

Lucien’s jaw flexed, his golden eye catching the faint light of the moon as he turned fully toward her. The silence between them stretched for a beat longer, thick as fog, filled with the weight of everything they weren’t saying. His hands clenched at his sides, not in anger, but in restraint. And when he spoke again, his voice was no longer quiet—it was sharp, edged with something that had been building since Velaris.

“I’m not helping you drag them home,” he said, each word clipped and certain. “Not like that. Not against their will.”

Feyre blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. But Lucien pressed on before she could speak, the fire in him finally rising. “You think I’m going to help you force your sisters back into a life they ran from? That I’ll stand beside you while you drag my mate—Elain—back into a world she clearly wanted to leave?”

His voice cracked slightly on her name, but he didn’t stop.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said, voice low and hard, “years, Feyre. Years for her to look at me like I’m not a stranger. I never pushed. I never asked for more than she wanted to give. I gave her space, time, choice—dignity. And now you want me to follow you into the human lands and haul her back like some runaway child?” He took a step forward, eyes burning now. “I won’t do that. Not to her. Not after everything.”

Feyre’s mouth opened, a protest on her tongue, but she paused. She saw it in his face—the ache. Not just of rejection, but of deep, patient love. The kind that had been forced to grow in silence, in the shadow of a bond that was never wanted, never welcomed. He wasn’t defending Elain just as his mate—he was defending her right to decide, even if that decision broke him.

“I’m not saying they’ll never come back,” Lucien said, softer now, but no less firm. “But they have to choose it. You don’t get to make that choice for them.”

The wind stirred the river again, lifting the edges of their cloaks as silence fell between them. Feyre looked at him—truly looked—and saw not the emissary of the Spring Court, not the clever, tired male who followed her into battle. But a brother, a friend, and a male finally drawing a line.

Feyre’s breath hitched—once, sharply—then steadied into something colder, tighter. The kind of stillness that came before a storm. She took a slow step forward, the moonlight carving a silver line along the edge of her jaw, her fingers flexing at her sides. Her heart thundered in her chest, her blood roaring in her ears, and when she spoke, her voice was low and lethal.

“They’re my sisters,” she snarled, the possessiveness in her tone crackling like lightning behind her teeth. “Mine. Not yours. Not the court’s. Not the Mother-damned world’s. You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do when it comes to protecting them.”

Lucien stood his ground, but Feyre saw it—the faint flicker of surprise in his eyes. She hadn’t raised her voice in days. But the fury now was like a dam breaking.

“I bled for them,” she hissed. “I’ve almost died for them. I broke myself into pieces over and over again to keep this family alive while they turned their backs. And now they run—without warning, without telling me—and I’m just supposed to let them go?”

Lucien opened his mouth, but Feyre cut him off, stepping even closer. “You speak of dignity? Of choice? What about mine? What about what it cost me to survive all of this while trying to hold the two of them together?” Her voice wavered, then hardened. “They don’t get to walk away. Not from me. Not again.”

She was breathing hard now, chest rising and falling with the weight of her fury. Her magic stirred at her fingertips, not summoned but restless, itching beneath her skin like it knew what she was willing to unleash.

“You think you love Elain?” Feyre spat. “Fine. Then love her. But don’t pretend for one gods-damned second that you know what’s best for her better than I do. You didn’t raise her. You didn’t starve beside her. You didn’t see the way she wasted away after the Cauldron—how Nesta pulled her out of it while I was trying to keep all of us alive.”

Her voice broke there, just barely, like a hairline crack running through stone.

“I won’t lose them,” she said, quieter now, but still shaking. “Not after everything. I won’t.”

Lucien didn’t move at first. Not even when Feyre turned away, the silence pulsing between them like a live wire. Her words had struck—cut deep, dug into places he’d kept carefully buried. But he wasn’t going to let them go unanswered. Not this time.

So he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and when he spoke, his voice was no longer soft or measured. It came sharp and hot, every word burning.

“You think I don’t know what it means to fight for someone?” he growled. “You think I haven’t bled for people I love? Don’t stand there and act like you’re the only one who’s suffered, Feyre. Like your pain gives you the right to decide what everyone else needs.”

Feyre’s spine stiffened, but she didn’t turn. Lucien wasn’t finished.

“You say they’re yours. That you won’t let them go. But they’re not children, Feyre. They’re not girls playing pretend in the attic of that cabin anymore. Nesta and Elain are women—grown, grieving, furious women—and if you think you can just drag them back to Velaris like broken dolls you forgot how to love, you’re wrong.”

Now she turned, eyes blazing, but Lucien met her stare with equal heat, his voice rising.

“You claim you know them better than I ever could? Then listen to them. Because they’re telling you something with every step they take away from you. They don’t trust you to protect them—not the way you used to. And that’s not just on them, Feyre. That’s on you, too.”

His voice dropped, lower now, but more dangerous for it.

“You say I didn’t starve beside them. You’re right. I didn’t. But I would have, if I’d been there. Just like I would have carried Elain out of that Cauldron myself if it meant she didn’t come out looking like a ghost. I wasn’t there then. But I am now. And I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch you strip them of the only thing they still have—their choice.”

Feyre’s breath was coming fast now, her chest tight, her power rippling just under her skin. But Lucien didn’t flinch. He stared her down like he had nothing left to lose—and maybe he didn’t.

“I won’t help you break them,” he said, quieter now. “Not for your peace of mind. Not for your guilt. And not because you’re scared to let them grow without you.”

He turned then, finally, pacing a few steps away, his shoulders tense. “You’re not the only one who loves them, Feyre. You’re just the only one who hasn’t figured out that love means letting go, too.”

Feyre took a step after him, her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. The wind off the river whipped through her cloak, tugging at her like it wanted her to let him walk away—but she couldn’t. Not now. Not when the fury inside her was shaking loose every careful restraint she had left.

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped, her voice sharp and cracking like a whip. “You think I don’t know what it means to let go? I’ve done it. Again and again. I let them pull away. I gave them space. I stayed out of their rooms, their choices, their pain, even when I wanted to scream. I let Nesta destroy herself. I let Elain disappear into her own silence. I gave them room to breathe while I suffocated watching them fall apart.”

Lucien turned back toward her, eyes unreadable.

Feyre stepped closer, her voice rising, shaking with more than rage. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you’re the only one who knows what love costs. I let go when it nearly killed me. I kept pretending everything was fine so they wouldn’t see how much it hurt. I gave them time because I thought they needed it—and maybe they did. But I needed them too, and they didn’t care.” Her breath hitched. “So yes. I will drag them back. Because someone has to. Because they’re still my family even when they don’t act like it.”

Lucien’s face darkened, but Feyre pressed on, the words coming too fast now, the flood finally breaking through the dam.

“I’ve said my piece,” he muttered, voice rougher now, the fire cooling into exhaustion. “We leave at dawn. You do whatever you want with your sisters. But don’t ask me to help just so you can sleep at night.”

He turned sharply on his heel, the gravel crunching beneath his boots as he strode away—toward the row of buildings nestled near the far end of the docks, where a crooked wooden sign hung above a low-lit doorway, swaying slightly in the breeze. An inn.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t wait.

And Feyre, standing alone in the dark, watched him disappear into the glow of flickering lanternlight.

That night, they didn’t speak.

They checked into the inn without a word. Lucien paid for both rooms, handed her the key without meeting her eyes, and climbed the stairs first. His door shut with a firm, final click. No questions. No goodnight.

Feyre’s room was plain and narrow, the floor creaking beneath her boots, the mattress smelling faintly of salt and old wood. She didn’t light the fire. Didn’t bother undressing. She simply collapsed onto the bed and curled on her side, one hand resting over her stomach.

And eventually, sleep came.

But it wasn’t kind.

The dream started quiet—too quiet. Feyre stood in a field she didn’t recognize, the grass waist-high and swaying in a wind that carried no scent. The sky was a flat, featureless gray. Endless. Still. She turned in place, searching, her body somehow aware even in sleep that this wasn’t real. That something was wrong.

“Elain?” she called.

Her voice was swallowed by the air, but a figure emerged in the distance, walking slowly through the grass. Pale dress. Bare feet. Long brown hair that tangled in the breeze like silk.

“Elain!” Feyre cried, relief surging in her chest as she ran toward her—but something in her sister’s gait was off. Too smooth. Too slow.

She stopped just a few feet away. Elain’s face was serene, unreadable, her eyes the same soft hazel Feyre remembered—but colder. Detached. As though they were looking through her, not at her.

“Elain, I’ve been looking for you,” Feyre whispered, reaching for her.

Elain didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Stop looking for us,” she said.

Feyre froze. “What?”

“Stop looking,” Elain repeated. Her voice was flat. Not angry. Not scared. Just… empty. “You were never supposed to follow.”

The wind shifted.

The grass turned black.

Feyre stepped back—but the sky cracked open above them, not with lightning, but with shadow. Thick, roiling shadow that poured down from the heavens like smoke, like blood. The field warped beneath her feet, twisting and fracturing. The air turned hot. Sulfurous.

“Elain?” she whispered, but her sister was gone. In her place stood a figure with her face, but the eyes were hollow. Bleeding. Feyre’s name echoed on the wind—distorted, wrong, drawn out like a scream trapped in a cavern.

She stumbled back, her foot catching on something soft. She looked down—

—Nesta, eyes wide in terror, her throat torn open, reaching toward her with fingers blackened by fire.

“You weren’t supposed to follow.”

Feyre screamed.

And in the real world, she jolted upright in bed, soaked in sweat, breath heaving, her hands clawing at the sheets like she could rip herself out of what she’d just seen.

But even awake, even safe—Elain’s voice still echoed in her head.

Stop looking.

Pain exploded behind her eyes the moment she sat up—blinding, white-hot, like claws raking across the inside of her skull.

Feyre cried out, her hands flying to her temples as the sheets twisted around her legs. The dream hadn’t faded yet, hadn’t even released her fully, and now—now—came the tearing pressure, the weight of him.

Rhysand.

His mind slammed into hers like a battering ram. Not gentle. Not probing. Demanding. Furious. Terrified.

She doubled over on the bed, her forehead pressing against her knees as the world spun. She could feel his panic—like waves crashing over her, merciless and endless. He had found her. Knew she was gone. And he was clawing into her mind without grace, without permission, scraping at her shields with the desperation of someone unraveling.

Where are you?

What have you done?

Come back—come back now—

“Stop,” she gasped, her voice hoarse, tears spilling unbidden from her eyes as the pressure worsened. Her magic tried to rise, to slam the door shut again, but she was too tired, too shaken, and the remnants of the dream still clung to her like frostbite.

Her body bowed inward from the weight of it, chest tight, stomach twisting. It felt like he was inside her head with fists instead of fingers, like her very soul was being shaken.

“Stop,” she whispered again, trembling. “Please—just stop.”

But Rhysand didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

The pain sharpened—deepened. Not just pressure now, but raking, tearing. His talons—mental and magical—sank into her mind with violent desperation, not slicing delicately as he once had when he coaxed her thoughts with tenderness, but ripping, like he meant to dig her out of herself.

Feyre screamed through clenched teeth, hands tangled in her hair as if she could physically claw him out. But Rhysand was already inside. His voice thundered through her skull, not spoken but felt, shuddering through her bones like a command from a god.

Where are you—who brought you there—

And then, sharper—colder—

Lucien.

His name hissed like venom through the bond.

He took you. I swear, Feyre, if he laid a hand on you—if he brought you into danger—

“No!” she gasped aloud, her voice ragged. “It wasn’t like that!”

But Rhys wasn’t listening.

His fury surged through her like a wildfire, the full weight of the High Lord behind it now, his power wrapping tight around her thoughts, around her memories, searching—grasping for where she was, for who had touched her mind, who had shielded her from him.

I’ll rip his head off.

Feyre’s stomach lurched.

You don’t understand— she tried to send back, her thoughts jagged, her fear tasting like iron on her tongue.

But Rhysand wasn’t listening to words. He was listening to wrath.

He took you from me.

And Feyre, body wracked with pain, with grief, with the crushing heat of her mate’s fury, knew she couldn’t let this continue. Couldn’t let him hurt Lucien. Not for a choice she had made.

Her magic surged again—painfully, violently—ripping her end of the bond shut like a slammed door.

The moment she slammed the bond shut, he tore it open again, not through finesse or connection, but through sheer, brute force. The Cauldron-blessed power of the High Lord of the Night Court ripped through her shields, breaking through the cracks with the fury of a storm let loose.

It wasn’t his voice now—it was his rage. His terror. His need.

And it hurt.

Feyre collapsed onto the floor, knees cracking against the warped wood, her palms flat against the boards as her scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged and helpless.

Where are you—where are you—come home—come back—

His power clamped around her like chains, his talons raking through her mind as though he could pull her to him with thought alone. Like he would burn down the world to get her back—and didn’t care who else burned with it.

“Stop!” she sobbed, forehead pressed to the floor, her entire body trembling. “Rhys, stop—”

Lucien is dead.

The thought snarled through her like a blade. Whether it was a threat, or a promise, or simply the place his mind had gone, she couldn’t tell—but it made her vision blacken with panic.

Her magic flared, wild and cracking, unhinged, and she screamed—not with power but with voice, high and broken and desperate.

“I’M FINDING MY SISTERS!”

The words echoed through the room, through the walls, through the still, sleeping port beyond. Her voice tore from her throat like a creature trying to escape her body. “Do you hear me? I’m finding them!” she screamed again, sobbing now, shaking uncontrollably. “I’m not coming back without them!”

The pain in her mind surged one last time—one final claw of grief and fury and unbearable love—before her power surged forward and blasted the bond shut again.

This time she didn’t just close the door. She sealed it.

The room fell violently still.

And Feyre collapsed against the floor, gasping, sobbing, shaking so hard her teeth chattered—alone in the dark, with only her ragged breath and the echo of her own voice screaming back at her from the corners of the room.

The door slammed open so hard it ricocheted off the wall with a thunderous crack, and Lucien was there.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t pause. Just stormed into the room with fire flickering at his fingertips, panic and rage written across every line of his face. His golden eye darted wildly across the cramped space until it landed on her—crumpled on the floor like a broken thing, her face pale and soaked in sweat, her chest heaving in gasping, erratic breaths.

“Feyre,” he breathed, crossing the room in two long strides. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands hovering but not touching—like he didn’t know where to start, like he was afraid any touch would make her shatter more.

“What happened?” His voice was sharp, urgent, too loud in the silence she had forced into the room with that final, brutal slam of power. “What happened?”

She couldn’t speak. Not yet. Her throat burned from screaming, her tongue thick, her mind still echoing with the scars Rhysand’s presence had left behind. The bond had gone dark now, dead quiet, but the pain of his intrusion still sang through her bones, through every shaking breath she took.

Lucien’s hands finally settled—one on her shoulder, the other gently curling around her wrist, grounding her. “He found you,” he said softly, and there was no question in it. Just grim certainty.

Feyre managed a nod—barely.

Lucien cursed, something vicious and guttural in the old tongue, his fingers tightening around her wrist for a heartbeat before he loosened them again. “He was in your head?”

She gave another nod, but this time her voice came—cracked and raw. “He was tearing through it. He wouldn’t stop.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles trembled. He looked her over, saw how small she looked on the floor, curled in on herself, how she gripped her stomach like she was afraid she’d lose the child within her just from feeling that much pain.

“I sealed him out,” she whispered. “He threatened you. He—he said you were dead. Or would be.”

Lucien didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look surprised. “He thinks I took you. That I’m keeping you from him.”

She laughed bitterly—short and broken. “I told him I was finding my sisters. That I wasn’t coming back without them.”

Lucien looked at her for a long moment, firelight flickering across the sharp cut of his features, and then without another word, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her from the floor.

Feyre didn’t fight it.

Didn’t pretend to be strong.

She just let herself be held as Lucien carried her to the bed and laid her gently atop the blankets. He sat beside her, silent, his palm resting over the back of her hand as her breathing slowly began to ease. No questions. No lectures.

Just presence.

And in the hollow dark of that room, where pain still echoed in her skull and Rhysand’s fury haunted the space behind her ribs, Feyre gripped Lucien’s fingers with all the strength she had left.

Lucien sat beside her for a long while, his eyes fixed not on her, but on the shadows dancing across the floor from the low-burning lantern in the corner. The silence between them had turned heavier, more settled—less explosive, more exhausted. Feyre lay still on the bed, her fingers still loosely curled around his, her breath evening out, though her chest still hitched now and then as remnants of the pain echoed through her body like aftershocks.

It was Lucien who finally broke the quiet.

Softly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t entirely sure she could take another word—but knew it needed to be said.

“It’s the baby,” he said.

Feyre blinked, turning her head slightly toward him, her brow furrowing in confusion. He didn’t look at her. His gaze was distant, golden eye darkened, the scar around it twitching faintly.

“That’s why he’s acting like this,” he went on, voice low, each word slow and deliberate. “Why he’s ripping through your mind like that. Why he can’t stop.” He finally looked at her, and there was no malice in his expression—just understanding. Weariness. “It’s the bond. The mating bond. You’re carrying his child. And that kind of instinct—especially in a male as powerful as Rhys—it goes beyond reason. Beyond thought.”

Feyre’s throat bobbed, the soreness in it still raw. But she didn’t interrupt.

Lucien continued, quieter now. “He’s panicking. Every second you’re gone, it’s a threat to him. Not just to you, but to what you’re carrying. He’s thinking in instinct, not logic. You’re mate, mother of his child, High Lady of his court—and you disappeared without warning.” His jaw tightened. “I’m not defending him. I’m just saying… I’ve felt what it does to a male. The fear. The hunger. The need to possess, to protect, to know you’re safe every second of the day.” He looked away again. “And he’s stronger than any of us. It’s probably taking everything he has not to tear the world apart looking for you.”

Feyre stared up at the ceiling, eyes burning, throat aching all over again. But Lucien’s words slid through her—not comfort, but clarity. They didn’t erase what Rhys had done. Didn’t soften the brutality of his intrusion. But they explained it. They made it make sense. And somehow, that made the pain easier to bear.

Still, her voice was hoarse when she finally whispered, “That doesn’t make it okay.”

Lucien nodded once, solemn. “No. It doesn’t.”

And they sat like that, in the dim light, two people bound by others’ choices, their own burdens heavy as iron. One with a child growing in her womb and the weight of an entire court on her back—and the other, still holding onto a bond that may never be returned.

Tag list: @viajandopelomar @nocasdatsgay @litnerdwrites @annaskareninas @littlemisssatanist @dashedwithromance @booklover41802

#anti acosf #anti inner circle #anti acotar #anti rhysand #anti feysand #anti cassian #pro nesta #anti azriel #nesta archeron deserves better #anti amren #anti morrigan #anti nessian #feyre archeron deserves better #elain archeron deserves better

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