#I long for this part of my life so much it aches | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shamefilledsnzblog · 2 days ago

Text

Aaand Third and Final Part! After holding in all those sneezes, Perry has given himself a nasty sinus infection. Luckily Serafina has followed through on her promise to pay him a visit. Enjoy Perry battling some stuck sneezes and being a miserable wreck!

When Serafina knocked on Perry’s door, it was with the hope that he would answer it looking somewhat recovered since last night’s dance. Her hopes were promptly dashed by the sounds she heard within.

“Just… HehhHEEhhh… SNRF! … Just a moment…”

That, at least, was what she assumed he had tried to say. She had never heard a voice so muddled with congestion in her life. She flinched at the sound of someone stumbling, cursing, and something made of glass meeting its untimely end.

When Perry finally opened the door, Serafina’s heart ached for him. His hair was coming loose from its ribbon, and he had plainly dressed with no care whatsoever. His waistcoat was unbuttoned and possibly just thrown on due to the unexpected company, his cravat hung untied around his neck, and one side of his collar had come unbuttoned. Feverish red patches contrasted the pallor of his complexion, the shadows under his eyes were a dark purple, and his nose had been rubbed to a truly miserable shade of red, practically glowing in its intensity. His lips were parted, his nose plainly allowing no air through whatsoever. Serafina had never seen an expression so heavy with congestion.

“Miss… Hehh… Miss DeVille. SnfFF! I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Then you’re even more muddled than you look. I told you I’d call on you when we bid farewell last night, remember? Now, are you going to invite me in?”

Perry hesitated, rubbing at his nose with a handkerchief that clearly needed to be exchanged for a fresh one, wincing as it touched the raw skin. His mind seemed slowed by the weight of the congestion filling his head.

“I’m not fit company for anyone right now, Miss DeVille. And things are rather a mess, and… Huhhhh… SNF! Guhh…”

“Whether or not you’re fit for company, you need it. You look miserable, Peregrine. Let me in, and let me see if I can’t make things better. You needn’t fear contagion. I spent a significant part of last night tickling your nose with a feather. I think that ship has sailed.”

Peregrine’s attempt at a reply was cut off by a twitch of his nose, and a familiar desperation in his eyes. His breath caught, and his chest expanded with an urgent hitch.

“Ghehhh… HEHHh… HhihhYEHHH…”

Serafina stepped around him as he struggled, and found herself in a flat that looked exactly as she had imagined it. Bookshelves everywhere. A dining table that appeared to serve more as a desk, with open books, maps, letters, tea long since gone cold, and discarded handkerchiefs. And a truly dazzling array of mushrooms displayed on every surface. Serafina examined one, a magnificent coral pink specimen in a glass terrarium, as she waited for Perry to sneeze and return his attention to her.

The sneeze, however, was putting up a fight. Perry held his handkerchief at the ready, his eyes closed in expectation, his lips parted, but no matter how many urgent, trembling breaths he drew in, the sneeze refused to make an appearance. At long last, after several long seconds of desperate hitching, he sighed and attempted to blow his nose, seemingly without much success.

“It’s not like you to have to fight for a sneeze. Usually you’re doing your best to fight them off.”

Peregrine’s shoulders slumped miserably as he tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket. He sighed, and the sigh became a damp, rattling cough that left him panting for breath, a hand pressed to his chest.

“I’ve barely been able to sneeze all day. It’s my sinuses. I don’t think holding in all those sneezes last night did me much good. Please, erm… Make yourself comfortable? I’d offer you tea, but…”

He trailed off, coughing again, but Serafina understood. The man looked far too contagious to be handling anything to be consumed by another, even though she was almost certainly already infected. Seeing that he was at something of a loss for what to do, and clearly unused to receiving company, Serafina took control. Shrugging off her coat and hanging it by the door, she went to the table and picked up a teapot that had long since gone cold.

“I’m quite capable of brewing tea myself, and you clearly need some. Sit down and let me look after you. Something tells me it’s not just your sinuses troubling you. That cough sounds miserable.”

Perry shook his head, clearly struggling to keep up. Serafina wondered how high his fever was; his temperature plainly wasn’t normal.

“Just let me tidy up a little. SNF! Ugh, apologies, I sound revolting, and I’m sure I look a wreck as well.”

He knelt down and began collecting broken glass from what appeared to be some sort of beaker or flask, clearly what he had knocked over before answering the door. Serafina noted a pained expression as he leaned forward, and as he straightened up he rubbed a hand against his forehead and cheekbones. His sinuses were infected for sure.

“What on earth were you doing out of bed? You’re in no condition to be up and about, and I distinctly remember telling you to do all in your power to recover.”

Perry sighed gloomily as he disposed of the broken glass and took a rag to mop up whatever had been contained within.

“I was making a sterilizing solution for some substrate. Need to start a new batch of spawn, and the ideal temperature window for this one is narrow. Can’t leave… leave it too… hhhgyihhh… hyehhh… iyehhghhh…”

Serafina watched sympathetically as she filled the kettle and set in on the small stove in the area that served as a kitchen. Perry, on his knees on the floor, leaned back, raising the cloth he had been cleaning with, barely seeming to register that it wasn’t his usual handkerchief. She had never seen a man so desperate for a sneeze. His lips parted, his chest shuddered with shaky inhales, his nostrils flared, eyes closed and watering, and…

“HhHeh-HEHhhh… hmm… Guhh. I’m sorry, this is rather undignified.”

“I don’t care whether or not it’s dignified, I care that it looks terribly uncomfortable. Will you please sit down? I don’t care about the mess, and I’m sure your spawn can wait just a little longer. Really, could you not have stayed in bed for just one day?”

Perry shook his head, pulling out a seat at the table and slumping into it.

“Lying down makes it worse. My head throbs, and nothing I do can clear it. And I can’t breathe through my nose, so just when I start nodding off, I start coughing and wake myself up again. It’s all perfectly miserable.”

Leaving the kettle to boil, Serafina came to sit beside him. Reaching out, she brushed the loose hair behind his ear, and rested her hand against his brow, and then his cheek. Both burned with fever, and Perry closed his eyes with a sigh, leaning into her touch. She ran her thumb along one cheekbone, applying a little pressure, and Perry winced.

“Poor thing. You’re quite right, I think it’s your sinuses that are the trouble. You’re tender here?”

“Extremely. I feel like if I could just be allowed one sneeze, something might shift, but I can’t manage it, so my head feels full of mud.”

He looked up at her at last, looking as if he was dreading her judgement, and instead found Serfina arching an eyebrow.

“… Please don’t get the quill again?”

“Not to worry, I won’t subject you to that again. I think we can find a gentler way to clear you up. But first, you’re going to drink a cup of tea and some water. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything?”

Perry shook his head, eyes lowering once more. Serafina felt her heart ache for the poor man. She had seen him ill before, of course, but never so completely miserable. She rested a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly and squeezing his shoulder, trying not to be worried by the heat radiating from him.

“I haven’t had any appetite. I couldn’t taste anything even if I did.”

“Well, I must insist you eat something later, but I won’t force you for now. All I want you to do for the moment is to go and put yourself to bed, while I prepare tea and something to help you breathe. Can you do that for me?”

Pery gave a miserable snuffle, and winced as it seemed to hurt his head even more.

“I suspect you’re not going to give me a choice.”

“You suspect quite right. To bed with you, at once, and leave everything else to me.”

Perry nodded wearily and got to his feet. Judging by those grimaces, he was aching from the fever. Serafina kept her hand on his shoulder as she guided him to the bedroom. Unsurprisingly, it too was filled with various fungal specimens, and a remarkable quantity of books.

“Extraordinary. The air in here must be full of spores, and you still can’t manage a single sneeze?”

Perry’s nose twitched at the mere mention, his eyes fluttering closed and his lips parting. Worried he might lose the sneeze under too much scrutiny, Serafina turned her attention to a particularly attractive mushroom blooming from a suspended piece of wood. Delicate, fan-like structures, the purest white… Once upon a time it would never have occurred to her to even look at such a thing. Now, she was beginning to see what Perry found so fascinating.

“Hiehhh… Hgyiihhhh… Hmm… HehhhHEH! HEHH! Hhhh…”

Serafina turned to see Perry teetering on the very edge of a sneeze. Mouth open, lip curled in an agonized snarl, eyes squeezed shut in desperation, nostrils flared wide and shining with leaking congestion… And just as it seemed he would be granted relief, the breath escaped him in a frustrated sigh, and he slumped in defeat. Nose running, he attempted to sniffle, his shoulders rising with the effort of it.

“Damn. I thought I had it.”

“I thought so too. Poor thing, it must be maddening. Now, you get changed and put yourself to bed at once, while I see what I have that might help.”

Closing the door to give Perry some privacy, Serafina went to retrieve the bag she had hung up along with her coat. Not sure Perry would have what was required to hand, she had stopped to buy some things along the way. She took a jar of salve and a bottle of medicine, and went to attend to the whistling kettle. Perry’s kitchen was sparse, and she suspected he rarely cooked anything substantial for himself. Making a note to return later with soup, she found a tin of tea leaves and set to work brewing them.

Finally, with medicines, tea with lemon and honey, and water on a tray, she knocked on the bedroom door.

“Are you decent, Peregrine?”

“I’m dying, but please, come in.”

Perry was tucked up in bed, somehow looking even more ill now that his hair was loose and he was dressed in a nightshirt. He had propped himself up on what looked like every pillow and cushion he had been able to lay hands on, and was busy dabbing at his raw nose, trying to stem the relentless dripping. Every touch looked terribly uncomfortable.

Serafina set down the tray, and passed Perry a cup of tea.

“Drink that first, and try to breathe in some of the steam. Now, where are your spare handkerchiefs? That one’s starting to do more harm than good.”

Taking a sip of tea and seeming surprised by the honey it contained, Perry indicated a drawer on the nightstand. Serafina opened it, and found it filled with handkerchiefs. Each was embroidered in one corner with a mushroom of some variety, each in intricate detail. Serafina had seen the embroidery before, and thought it an endearing quirk. To her surprise, next to the handkerchiefs, she found a small box of embroidery supplies, with another handkerchief half finished.

“Peregrine! I never knew you embroidered these yourself!”

Perry blushed, taking another sip of tea to hide his embarrassment.

“Oh. Well, yes. My mother taught me. I was ill so often as a child, and couldn’t stand staying in bed. She taught me to embroider to keep me occupied, and so we would have a hobby in common. These days, whenever I’m bedridden, I find myself returning to it. Keeps my hands busy. And it’s a way to remember her.”

Serafina selected a handkerchief with a cheerfully coloured toadstool in the corner and ran a finger carefully across the delicate embroidery. She found herself smiling, imagining the young Perry being instructed in the art of needle and thread, and pressed the handkerchief into his hand.

“How thoroughly sweet! You do keep finding ways to surprise me. Now, I’m afraid I have to ask you to take a dose of this. Vile-tasting stuff, I know, but it might loosen up that dreadful cough.”

Perry grimaced as she poured a dose of the thick, dark syrup.

“I’d really rather not. Medicines always seem to make me so sleepy.”

“Good. Sleep is precisely what you need. Sleep, and some relief from that pressure in your head. Go on, swallow it down.”

Perry looked dubious, but broke out into another painful bout of coughing that nearly spilled his tea with the force of it. Seemingly convinced, he accepted the medicine cup and downed it with a look of revulsion.

“Ugh. How is it I can’t taste food, but I can still taste that?”

“It’s cruel, I know. Finish your tea, and then I’ve something else that might make you more comfortable.”

As Perry swallowed down the last of his tea, eager to chase away the taste of the medicine, Serafina opened up the jar of salve. It released a sharp, pungent menthol aroma, and even before it was brought near him, Perry twitched his nose in response. Even Serafina found herself momentarily overwhelmed, and quickly turned away with a carefully controlled sneeze.

“H’tshew! I do beg your pardon.”

Not quite the unrestrained, indulgent sneeze she would have preferred to allow herself, but it seemed cruel to enjoy such satisfaction when Perry was fighting so very hard for it. Smiling gently, she settled herself on the side of Perry’s bed and reached for the collar of his nightshirt. He flinched back, eyes wide.

“I can put it on, Miss DeVille. Really, I ought to. It’s likely to make a mess of me, and you doing so, when it’s just the two of us here, doesn’t seem entirely proper.”

There was something so endearing in his wide, nervous eyes, and the way he pulled the blanket up to his chest a little defensively. Serafina reached out and took his hands, stroking the back of one with her thumb as she gently lowered them.

“I know you can do it yourself. But I want to take care of you. Look at yourself, Peregrine. How many times have you been ill here, all alone, and just had to do your best by yourself?”

“I… erm… Snff-SNRF!... Well, Janessa usually looks in for a chat, and sometimes brings something to eat…”

“I want to care for you. I mean it. And as for propriety… Peregrine, last night I concealed you in my bedroom, hid you from my father, used my quill to make you sneeze until you were spent, and powdered your nose for you. I think we’re a little past propriety, don’t you?”

Perry seemed lost for words. It was hard to tell if those bright red spots on his cheeks were from being flustered or fevered. He looked down at Serafina’s hands, gently holding his own, attempting to sniffle and crinkling his nose as doing so made it threaten to drip. He looked back up, meeting her eyes.

“I don’t understand. Why?”

Unable to help herself, Serafina leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to one flushed cheek.

“Does that help you understand?”

Perry flushed even redder than before, stammering and avoiding her eyes. Just as he was finally able to meet her gaze and attempt a reply, his expression grew distant, and his nose twitched.

“I think… I… Ihhghyiehhh… Ehh… SNRF!”

As he fought a losing battle to bring the sneeze to a satisfying conclusion, Serafina reached for his nightshirt again, unlacing it and exposing his chest. Perry shivered, though whether from the cold air touching his fevered skin, or from Serafina’s touch, she couldn’t say.

“That’s it. Now, this might feel a little cold, but it’s what you need.”

Scooping some of the salve onto her fingers, Serafina dabbed it onto Perry’s chest and began to spread it, working in slow, gentle strokes. The pungent scent grew stronger as it contacted the overheated skin, and before long, began to have the desired effect. Perry’s sniffling became more frequent, more damp, more urgent… He tried to raise his handkerchief, but Serafina caught his wrist, gently pushing it back down.

“Don’t try to rub the itch away. We want it all out, remember?”

“Hh… SNF-SNRFF! T-tihh-tickles…”

“I know it does. Let it happen.”

With her hand massaging Perry’s chest, she could feel every unsteady breath. The salve was doing its work, but hadn’t quite breached Perry’s defenses yet. Serafina watched as he wrinkled and twitched his nose, sniffling with increasing urgency, his eyelids constantly fluttering closed. He let out a low whimper, raising his handkerchief and holding it at the ready. Serafina let her hand still, feeling his chest expand, breathing deeper, deeper…

“Hehhh… Yhhieehhhh… Hh… Hm… Hff!.. Hmm… Hhhyehhh…”

He was on the verge of losing it again. She could tease him, Serafina found herself realizing once more. Let him keep coming to the edge, growing increasingly desperate each time he failed to bring the maddening urge to its conclusion. She could keep rubbing at his chest, perhaps gently, carefully running her claws over his skin, watching to see if doing so raised goosebumps. She could let that poor, tormented nose quiver and twitch and drip.

It would be an appealing idea any other day, but it was quickly replaced by a desperate need to free the poor dear man from his misery. Serafina dipped a finger in the salve, and before Perry could once more let out a final disappointed groan and lose the tickle entirely, she rubbed a smudge just beneath those leaking nostrils, and gave them the lightest flick with her claw for good measure.

The intense aroma, directly beneath his nose, breached the barrier at last. Perry’s eyes opened, wide and desperate, then squeezed abruptly shut. His mouth yawned wide open, the bridge of his nose crinkling, nostrils twitching wider and wider, hitching in one last, desperate breath, and…

“GHHHYIESHHHIEWW!”

The force of it flung him forward, throwing his hair into disarray, leaving him clutching his handkerchief to his nose with both hands, as if he feared one alone could not contain the sneeze. Serafina rested a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly.

“Well done. That was a struggle, wasn’t it? More?”

Perry nodded, face hidden by hair and handkerchief. Serafina felt the muscles in his back move as his chest began to expand once more.

“Hgyehh… Guhhh… Hehhh… HeeEHHGHSHIEWW!”

It was as violent as the first, and by the sounds of things, as wet. Perry attempted to draw in enough breath for a blow, but after being denied so many sneezes, his nose was not going to be satisfied with two. Serafina turned and took another handkerchief from the drawer in readiness. Then, hearing a desperately liquid snort, took another as well just to be sure.

“You’re doing well. Let them all out.”

“Hff… Hheffhhh… Hyiehhh… Hm… EhhhESHYIEWW! HGSHIEWW! Guhhh…”

Perry shook his head slightly, as if trying to shake loose further tickles, or to shift the congestion that sounded as if it was coming loose at last. Another wet, snorting attempt at a blow, and Serafina pressed a new handkerchief into his hand. Perry accepted it with a distracted nod, dropping the other at his side, plainly trying not to let her see the state of it.

“HeeHEGHHSShieww… Ugh… HhhGHSHIEW… H’SHIEW!”

Another blow, and this one sounded tremendously productive. Serafina heard damp squelching as Perry blew and blew, urgently seeking dry spots on his handkerchief after each soaking blow. And with more air finally reaching his inflamed passages, it only fueled the fire burning within.

“IIhhhIEYSHEW! YISHIEW!”

Serafina stopped counting each sneeze that burst forth, simply rubbing Perry’s back, murmuring soothing encouragements, passing the new handkerchief as the last was left soaked. Perry was unable to speak, all his attention focused on sneezing and blowing out the congestion that had been plaguing him. At long last, he drew a final, trembling breath, and let out a sneeze that seemed to scratch the itch at last.

“Hehh-hihhehhSHIEW!”

Panting from the effort, Perry let out a final, draining blow, and slumped back against his pillows, utterly spent. Smiling tenderly, Serafina brushed the golden hair from his face and, taking one of her own handkerchiefs from her pocket, gently dabbed away the sweat now shining on his face. Perry, looking both relieved and dazed, blinked up at her.

“I’m sorry. You must think me…”

“Peregrine. If you say one more unkind thing about yourself, I am going to be truly upset with you.”

“I… I’m sorry. I don’t seem to be feeling quite myself.”

Serafina rested the back of her hand on his brow, finding it warmer than before. Whether from the fever rising, or the sheer exertion of the sneezing fit, she couldn’t say. She stroked her fingers gently through his hair, and his eyes closed at the touch.

“Of course you don’t feel quite yourself. You’re exhausted, and running a fever. But you’re quite as lovely as ever, and I’ll not have you saying otherwise.”

Perry managed a sleepy smile, and a feeble attempt at a laugh that dissolved into a weak cough.

“You have a strange definition of lovely.”

“This coming from a man who sings the praises of mushrooms that look as if they sprung up from the hells. There’s a thing on the wall over there that looks like a section of brain, yet you chose it to adorn your bedroom. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I happen to find the sight before me quite beautiful.”

Perry’s cheeks flushed a darker shade of pink. He opened his mouth to reply, but his words were lost to a yawn.

“Apologies, Miss DeVille. I don’t find your company boring, I promise.”

“Of course you don’t. But you’ve not slept, and you said the medicine makes you sleepy. I suggest you take full advantage of that side effect, and get some rest. I’m going to go out for a little while, alright?”

Perry frowned, weariness claiming him as he considered her words.

“You’re coming back?”

“Naturally. There’s not enough in your kitchen to sustain you in fighting off whatever you’ve contracted, and our cook does a wonderful chicken soup. I’ll bring you some, you will eat it or answer to me, and you’ll let me care for you until I’m satisfied you can rest for the night. If that’s quite alright with you?”

Perry smiled sleepily, leaning further back into the pillows and allowing his eyes to close.

“Once again, I don’t think you’re going to allow me a choice in the matter.”

“Once again, you’re quite correct.”

A Desperate Cover-Up

So, this was meant to be for @lostatsneeze 's Sick at a Ball prompt game (linked here), but it ended up being nearly 4000 words and I never even got these poor fools to the ball! That might need to be Part Two...

Characters are my DnD OCs: Perry, a human of minor nobility, a self-styled Gentlman Druid with a fascination for all things fungal and a terrible immune system. And Serafina, a purple tiefling, the bastard (but beloved) daughter of an immensely wealthy lord, who happens to have the kink.

Perry has an utterly miserable cold, but Serafina is still determined for him to make a good impression. Featuring some inducing, some mess, some sneezing while hiding.

“Again? And now? Peregrine, I really do feel awful for you, but this is the third time in as many months, and your timing couldn’t be worse!”

“Believe me, I’m distressingly well-aware. But surely it’s not too.. t-hhiieehh… HIESshhHYIEEW! Snf… Too obvious?”

Serafina refused to dignify that with a reply.

She had come to meet Perry at the gate of her father’s townhouse, all excitement. For months, she had been urging her father to finance Perry’s Underdark expedition. Months of carefully explaining to him how the discovery of newer, safer trade routes and outposts could be invaluable to his business (and, of course, he would be aiding in the advancement of science via enabling Perry and his companion Janessa’s studies, but as she had repeatedly stressed to Perry, that was not an aspect likely to win her father’s interest). Months of sitting with Perry, watching with increasing endearment as he plotted routes and consulted notes of prior expeditions.

Her father had grown increasingly interested, and multiple meetings with Perry had convinced him of the young man’s intelligence and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, they had not convinced him of Perry’s resilience. Between his numerous allergies, asthma, and two truly brutal head colds, he had sneezed, snuffled, coughed, and wheezed his way through nearly every meeting. Each time, as soon as Perry left, Serafina’s father turned to her, shaking his head.

“I’m not doubting that his heart is in it, and he’s got the brains. But surely he’s too frail for such a dangerous journey?”

Tonight, at a small, formal dance, her father had agreed to give Perry one chance to make his case. And Perry had shown up with the most glaringly obvious head cold Serafina had ever seen.

“I… I’m sorry. We could say I was kept away by some emergency?”

“Which he’ll expect you to explain next time, and we both know you’re an utterly miserable liar. Oh, Peregrine…”

Perry’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he dabbed at his red, raw nose with a handkerchief, wriggling it and sniffling wetly in irritation. His sinuses sounded full to the brim with congestion, and by the looks of that twitching nose, he was just desperate to sneeze it all out. His voice was hoarse, and he muffled constant ticklish coughs into his handkerchief. Pronouncing any word with an ‘n’ or ‘m’ sounded utterly pitiful. His skin, always pale, was chalky white, dark, bruise-like shadows lurked beneath his eyes, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. He had no hope whatsoever of convincing anyone that he was well.

Well, not without help.

Serafina turned to her shy elf maid, Mayna, keeping her voice low.

“Mayna, go and check that there’s no one around the back door, and let me know when the coast is clear. I’m taking Peregrine to my bedroom to see if I can’t work a little of my magic on him. You’re to give me a warning should you see anyone coming. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss. Good luck, and feel better, Sir Peregrine.”

Perry’s reply was lost in a miserably wet sneeze. Mayna hurried around the side of the house. Serafina grabbed Perry while he was still in the process of blowing his nose, dragging him out of sight.

“We’re going to make this work.”

“I… IiieESHIEEW! Guhh… I’ll do my best, Miss DeVille.”

Mayna returned shortly, her eyes wide and nervous, gesturing for Serafina and Perry to follow. Dragging the snuffling, coughing Perry behind her, and hiding from a few servants on the way, Serafina finally reached her bedroom and shoved Perry inside. With one last look at Mayna, who nodded with timid determination, she shut the door and turned to look at her project.

“We have a lot of work to do. Starting with that voice.”

She pulled up a seat at her dressing table and gestured for Perry to sit, which he did with some relief. Poor thing, if he was running a fever, as she suspected he was, he must be awfully achy. Not to mention, he would usually be immensely flustered at finding himself somewhere so intimate as her bedroom. Instead, he just seemed exhausted. Serafina squeezed his shoulder encouragingly before going to her bedside table.

Sure enough, there was a packet of lozenges in the top drawer. An enthusiastic singer, proud of her voice, Serafina always tended to keep some on hand. Taking the packet and pouring a glass of water from the bedside carafe, she passed both to Perry.

“Drink that. All of it. And suck on one of those. Right now, you sound as if you’ve gargled broken glass. We’ve half an hour before you’re expected to arrive, so let’s make it count. How many handkerchiefs do you have with you?”

Perry, drinking the water and grimacing with every swallow, stopped and tried to catch his breath. He seemed to be having a hard time drinking with his nose so badly blocked.

“Four.”

“And how many are left in a usable condition?”

“Two.”

“That won’t be enough. I’ll fetch some of mine; don’t worry, I’ll make sure they’re unscented.”

Perry tried to respond, but the even with the lozenge and water, the tickle in his throat became too much. He doubled over, coughing until he was red in the face. Already Serafina could hear a damp rattle that suggested this cold would be going to his chest, and probably making its home there for a good long while.

“Deep breaths, Peregrine. Finish that water, then I want you to have another glass. How’s your head?”

“Aching t-terribly. HhhHIESHOO!”

“Probably even worse after that. Poor thing, they do seem to sneak up on you when you’ve got the sniffles, don’t they?”

Retreating into her ensuite, she opened the medicine cabinet, rifling through the contents. Headache powders. Cough syrup. Balm for chapped lips. She grabbed all three, soaked a flannel in water, and returned to find Perry blowing his nose. It sounded as if there was no end to what he needed to clear out.

“I think that’s that handkerchief spent. Sounds as if you’re still awfully stuffed. Say something for me, let’s see how you sound.”

Giving his nose one final wipe and wrinkling it with a damp snuffle, Perry sighed.

“I’m so terribly sorry. Even if I do manage to pass myself off as healthy, I’ll still no doubt get you sick, and probably poor Mayna as a result.”

“You may pay me back by naming a new discovery after me when you get to the Underdark. Not some foul slimy toadstool, either. Ideally something purple and magnificent. As for Mayna, I’ll see that she’s given all the time off she needs, and is thoroughly pampered. We need to clear you out a bit more, though, if we’re to convince Papa. You still sound miserably stuffy. Take a new handkerchief. Blow again.”

Obedient as ever, Perry took another handkerchief from his pocket and began another weary series of blows. As he did so, Serafina mixed one of the powders with water, and poured a dose of cough syrup.

“Both of these down, quick as you can. We still need to get to work on covering all that red.”

Perry grimaced as he looked at both medicines, but obediently downed the cough syrup, spent a few moments grimacing at the taste, and set to work sipping at the medicine-laced water.

“Speak for me again?”

“You deserve more than just a fungus named after you, Miss DeVille. But of any I discover, I promise, I’ll name the loveliest after you.”

“I’m not sure I trust your judgement on that. I’ve seen you go misty-eyed over something that looks like a cauliflower with a skin condition. I shall expect full illustrations and descriptions first. Unfortunately, I think we’ve got more work to do on those sinuses first.”

Perry turned to see her going to her writing desk, and taking up a delicate feather quill. His nose twitched at the mere sight.

“Please, no.”

“You know a good sneeze tends to clear you up when all that congestion is being stubborn, and even as sensitive as you are, I don’t believe you can do it on command. I know it’s unpleasant, but we’re running low on time, and all that blowing is just giving me a redder nose to fix.”

Perry let out a slight whimper, but sighed and nodded, allowing Serafina to draw close. She came to stand before him, cupping his cheek and tilting his head so that he was looking up at her. Unable to resist, she gently stroked his cheek with her thumb. It really was unhealthily hot.

“Poor thing. That’s quite the temperature. I know you must be feeling so unwell. You just need to do your best a little longer, and we’ll try to make your excuses early so you can go home and rest. Now, close your eyes.”

Perry did so, leaning slightly into Serafina’s hand, seemingly seeking out the relative coolness of her skin. How wonderful it would be, Serafina mused, to lead him to her bed, and join him there, letting him seek the touch of as much of her as he wanted.

Those thoughts would have to wait. With her free hand, she set the very tip of the quill to that poor, long-suffering nose. The reaction was immediate.

“HeEhHH! IehehHEH! Hm.. hff… Iehh-hihh… HEH!”

“That’s right. Sensitive, aren’t you? Relax. Let it happen.”

Perry couldn’t reply even if he wanted to. His lips parted, revealing a slightly curling tongue. His eyes squeezed shut, a tear of irritation rolling down his cheek. And that poor nose… Serafina kept gently brushing beneath those delicate nostrils, watching them flare in torment. Almost as if inviting her to go deeper, begging for release from the tickling.

Another time, she might have teased. Let the quill linger, just enough to tickle, not enough to bring him satisfaction. Let him hitch and gasp and squirm, let him plead for release. Another time she would enjoy drawing things out, letting that nose grow redder and redder, letting it sniffle and twitch and leak, before finally enveloping it in a handkerchief and letting the poor man sneeze until he was satisfied.

Tonight was not the night for teasing. With a deft twist, she inserted the point of the quill deeper into a flaring nostril, drawing forth a gasp of irritation, a great, flustered snort, and…

“HhhHGYIESHIEW!”

Perry barely got his handkerchief up in time, sneezing wetly into its folds. Serafina rested a hand on his shoulder, gently stroking with her thumb.

“Well done. You’re not finished, are you?”

“GHHIYIESHOO! SHIEEWW! Guh… Pardon me… SNRFff!”

“Don’t sniffle it back. We want it all out, remember? Nice gentle blow, that’s it. Good, I can hear things loosening up. Now, there’s a few more sneezes in there, I think.”

Perry nodded, finding a clean spot in his handkerchief to nuzzle into, his nose plainly tormenting him. Her hand still on his shoulder, Serafina felt him breathe in great unsteady gasps, plainly trying to bring on another sneeze. Taking his hands, gentle but firm, she pushed them down, removing the handkerchief barrier hiding his face.

“There. Don’t fuss at it, just let that poor sore nose do what it must.”

Perry nodded, eyes closed, crinkling his nose, lips parted, plainly battling a truly torturous tickle. Even after emptying a good quantity of in into his handkerchief, moisture still pooled beneath his raw nostrils, clearly irritating them further. He sniffled desperately against the irritation, and tried to raise his handkerchief again.

“Hhyiehh�� Hehhh… SNF! Hfff… Ghhihhhehhh… Hyehhh…”

Serafina pushed his hands back down once more, and raised the quill to his nose.

“It’s teasing you, isn’t it? Not to worry, we’ll soon have it out.”

This time he let out a strangled whimper as the feather touched his sore nose. Serafina could feel his breath, hot and urgent against her hand, and once again cupped his cheek, tilting his head up to face her. She flicked the quill back into place, seeking the sensitive spot in those inflamed nostrils, while Perry snorted in irritation again, another tear spilling over his cheek as he began another round of desperate hitching.

“Ghhyieehh… Hhihhh… HYiehhh… HEHhhh… SNRF!”

The feather was becoming too damp to do its job. Serafina twitched it more insistently, scratching against the raw, sensitive walls of Perry’s nose, while he plainly struggled not to pull away. When she withdrew it and set to work on the other nostril, a string of mess came with it.

“HhH-Hhh… Hhyieehhh… I… I can’t… Hghhyyiehhhh…”

“You can, and you will. A little deeper…”

Another deft flick of the quill, and Serafina seemed to have found the spot at last. Perry’s face contorted in ticklish agony, and though he pulled away and raised his handkerchief as quickly as he could, Serafina still felt the mist of the resultant sneeze on her wrist. A slight shiver ran through her, and warmth stirred in her belly.

“HhHGYIESHHEWW!”

It was the wettest yet, and Perry seemed spent. Breathing heavily, avoiding Serafina’s eyes, he once again began soaking his handkerchief with the newly loosened congestion. When he could at last speak again, his handkerchief was rendered useless, but his voice was noticeably less congested.

“I’m so very sorry. You must find this utterly repulsive.”

You poor man, if only you knew.

Serafina fondly brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. The relentless sneezing had caused a few to come loose from his ponytail, framing his face rather nicely.

“You aren’t repulsive in the slightest. You’re just miserably ill. Sounds as if you’re a little cleared up, though. Let’s get to work repairing the damage.”

Taking the damp flannel, she carefully wiped Perry’s face, being careful of his raw nose and chapped lips. Perry leaned into the cool cloth, and Serafina held it in place for a moment, allowing him a moment’s relief after his efforts.

“Poor Peregrine. No dancing for you tonight, I think. Your partner would feel you burning up immediately.”

Opening her cosmetic drawer, Serafina began to go through the contents. Perry looked on with weary eyes, taking the flannel himself and holding it to his overheated brow.

“I don’t know much about cosmetics, but surely yours are some shade of purple, to match you? I don’t know that it’s going to help me.”

“Most of them are. But I ‘borrowed’ this one from Delia one day when she was being especially unpleasant. She hides from the sun at all costs for fear of developing freckles, so she’s almost as pale as you.”

Removing the ‘borrowed’ powder, and a jar of moisturizing lotion, Serafina opened both, and swatted Perry’s hand away when he reached for them.

“Oh no you don’t. You said yourself, you know nothing about cosmetics. You’ll leave this to me, thank you.”

“You’re having entirely too much contact with this wretched nose of mine. I’m sure you’re going to catch this.”

“Then you shall have to find a way to make it up to me. I’m sure between us we can think of something. Now, hold still, please.”

Perry flinched as Serafina dabbed a little lotion on his nose, beginning to gently rub it in. It felt even warmer than the rest of him, and twitched charmingly. Once again Serafina had to remind herself that now was not the time to tease.

“It feels odd. Is it having an effect?”

“Not on the colour, I’m afraid, but it might soothe you a little, and it will make it easier for the powder to stick.”

At the mere mention of powder, Perry gave a nervous sniffle. He watched and swallowed hard as Serafina picked up the powderpuff, disturbing a fine cloud of the cosmetic.

“I know. You need to try not to breathe in while I apply this. Close your eyes, and try not to think about it.”

Perry did as he was told, holding his breath and refusing to look. Even so, his nose scrunched and wriggled as Serafina applied powder in deft, careful dabs. It was going to require more powder than she had imagined.

“Alright. Take a breath now, then we’ll try some more.”

Perry let out the breath he had been holding, together with a few ticklish coughs that made him wince and press a hand to his chest. His nose twitched again. And again, more desperately. His eyes began to develop that familiar, distant look.

Serafina pressed a finger beneath his nose, giving him a stern look.

“No. If you sneeze, your handkerchief is going to undo my work.”

Perry sniffled. Serafina gave his nostrils a firm rub, feeling them twitch and flare. A tentative hitch. Another.

“Peregrine. No.”

At last, Perry’s breathing settled, and he opened his eyes. It was hard to tell if the flush on his cheeks was from fever or embarrassment.

“I think it’s under control.”

“Good. You need some more powder. Hold your breath again.”

The second application seemed even more irritating than the first. Perry’s tormented nose scrunched and wriggled, and his chest shuddered with the urge to take in a great hitching breath. Serafina finished the second coat, and once again pressed a finger beneath his nose.

“You’re doing well. Deep breaths. Try not to think about it.”

“I-ihh… it won’t le-hehhh-t me think of much… much else…”

Before Serafina could reply, Mayna’s timid voice sounded from outside the room.

“Good evening, Lord DeVille! Miss DeVille is just getting ready!”

Perry froze in horror. No matter how innocent the circumstances, being caught in the bedroom of Lord DeVille’s beloved daughter would be a disaster, even if he was in perfect health. Seizing him by the arm, with no time to hide him anywhere safer, Serafina dragged him to his feet and shoved him behind her bed, hissing in his ear.

“Not a word from you, and for the gods’ sake, not a sneeze!”

Serafina seated herself at her dressing table just as her father knocked on the door.

“Are you decent, my dear?”

“Just putting on some finishing touches, Papa. I’ll join you shortly.”

The door opened, and Serafina forced herself not to glance nervously at Perry. She didn’t need to see him to know that he was struggling. Her father, elegantly dressed in his evening attire, entered, greeting her with a fond smile.

“I don’t know why you fuss about with all that makeup. You look perfectly lovely to me.”

“A lady is always on display. One must attend to the details. Did you need something, Papa?”

Maddeningly, Lord DeVille seemed in a mood to linger.

“Your young man hasn’t arrived yet. Odd, given he’s usually early. I hope he’s well this time.”

While her father looked over her array of cosmetics with fond amusement, Serafina chanced a glance at Perry. Her heart sank. He was huddled as far out of view as he could, but from what she could see of the part of his face not buried in his handkerchief, he was on the verge of giving himself away. His shoulders shuddered with desperate hitches, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sure he’s perfectly well. He’s been most enthusiastic about this evening.”

Lord DeVille gave a huff of amusement.

“I’m not sure what he’s more interested in. My finances, or my daughter.”

“Peregrine’s always perfectly respectful on both subjects.”

Lord DeVille frowned, nodding to the open powder sachet and bottle of cough syrup on the dressing table.

“You’re not unwell yourself, are you?”

He reached out and felt her forehead. Ordinarily Serafina would have been touched by his concern. Right now, she struggled not to squirm in frustration.

Hold on, Peregrine. No matter how it tickles!

From behind the bed, she heard the desperate “hmp!” of a painfully stifled sneeze, and she coughed slightly to cover the noise.

“A slight sore throat, Papa, nothing more. Given I’ll likely be asked to sing tonight, I thought I ought to take some precautions.”

That, at least, would take the blame off Perry when she inevitably caught his cold.

Lord DeVille looked unconvinced, but he patted her shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I’ll not have you pressured into singing if you’re not up to it. And early to bed for you tonight! No lingering to discuss toadstools with that poor besotted fungal fellow!”

“As you wish. Was there anything else?”

While her father looked elsewhere, she chanced another glance at Perry, and her heart began to race. He stifled another sneeze into his handkerchief, managing to keep it perfectly silent, but that would not be the case for long. Even pinching his nose harshly and forcing his mouth closed, he was on the verge of coming undone.

Lord DeVille picked up the jar of powder, giving a hum of amusement.

“This wouldn’t be the powder Delia was throwing a tantrum about, would it, my darling?”

Another muffled “hnk!” from behind the bed. Serafina suspected she had moments to act.

“Is it? Oh dear, I must have picked it up by mistake! Here, I’ll see that it’s returned to her!”

She reached for the powder, and in doing so, allowed her sleeve to catch the glass of water she had poured for Perry, deliberately knocking it into her lap. She leapt up with a cry of alarm, her voice covering up a muffled “HM-ph!”.

“Oh! My dress!”

“There now, my dear, it’s just a little water, I’m sure there’s no damage done!”

“Perhaps not, but I can’t wear this now! Better let me change, Papa, if you want me downstairs by the time guests arrive!”

Lord DeVille nodded, turning back to the door.

“I’ll leave you to it. Not to worry if you’re a little late, I’ll make your excuses for you.”

The moment the door closed, Serafina dived behind the bed, dropping to her knees. Perry did not even seem to notice her. He was lost to the build-up of a sneeze that had no hope of being silenced. Serafina hurriedly seized a pillow from the bed and pressed it over his face, praying that between the muffling effect and the closed door, her father would not hear.

Perry lurched forward, delivering a flurry of violent sneezes into the pillow.

“HHIEMMMPHHH! MMPHH! HHhuHMMPH!”

Serafina rested a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly as he sneezed again and again, the explosions gradually growing weaker until he was left panting, raising his head from the pillow at last. His eyes streamed, as did his nose, and all traces of powder were thoroughly removed. The cool silk of her pillow had been left damp and darkened from the results of his sneezes.

“Miss DeVille, I’m so very…”

“No apologies, please. Bless you.”

The stifling had undone her efforts in making him sound less ill. He sounded just as congested as he had when he arrived, and looked utterly defeated, as well as humiliated, as he took out his handkerchief and gave his nose an exhausted blow.

“Truly, though, I am sorry. I really think I ought to go home.”

Serafina helped him to his feet, and guided him determinedly back to the dressing table, where she picked up her quill once more.

“We’ve come this far, and I’m not one for admitting defeat. Let’s try this again, shall we?”

#dnd snz #snzfic #oc: perry #oc: serafina

59 notes · View notes

oddestishottest · 2 months ago

Text

Indian Meadows

Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness, ID

August 2014, by me

#my photo #photography #nature #trees #my photography #wilderness #backpacking #conservation #idaho #isolation #backcountry #trails #beautiful #wildfires #I long for this part of my life so much it aches #miss this #landscape #landscape photography #smoke

15 notes · View notes

journeyman-tier-fibercraft · 24 days ago

Text

I'm a little late for WIP Wednesday but I haven't knit since Wednesday so it still counts right?

I have absolutely smashed this underarm portion of the back panel, on row 153/160 (95%!!!). However. My goal for the underarm length is 24 inches. And I'm currently at 22. T-T I will Increase My Total (168 will probably work but I'll report back when I have motivation)

I'm already looking ahead to the upper back portion, which will be about 64 rows based on my gauge. Plus a couple more rows for shoulder shaping.... I'm Actually on row 153 out of 238. 64% finished.

I'm usually a Process Knitter but this is very much a Product Knitter's project. I keep daydreaming about all the lace shawls I could be knitting (but never wear). But the Evil Pink Cardigan.... My precious...

#knitting #wip #wip not wednesday #lace rot #lace knitting #i lost the plot on this. i have been awake for so long #sadly we had a heat wave which caused my arthritis to flare something awful. I wanted to finish the underarm before posting #but alas it was not to be. my adhd ass hates nothing more than finally getting 100%. i have abandoned so many things at 95%#(plus like the full body aches but that's like life or something idk. chronic illness core.)#there's so many things i need to do for this cardigan. I still haven't blocked the second sleeve.#it's been below freezing and when it's not i'm in too much pain to do pinning. :/#I also gotta knit the pocket inserts. Linings? The Whole Ass Pocket #actually i typed that and then i checked and i have one half done. ok brain how did you not notice that #i'm knitting them in the round starting with judy's magic cast on.#but I'm kinda uhh apprehensive? that its going to wear out really fast. it would probably be better to knit two parts separately and seam #but if the point of failure is where it connects to the cardigan body it won't matter what cast on I use :)#I'm going to put in a semi permanent life line in the pocket (and probably in the rows right before and right after the opening)#and say fuck it we ball. when it develops holes i'll just replace it (and cry and scream and eat my yarn stash)

30 notes · View notes

lab-gr0wn-lambs · 2 years ago

Text

Steven Universe.. hit different and I don’t really understand why? Thinking about any of my other old hypefixations, I smile. But Steven Universe just makes me a deeply uncomfortable kind of sad that latches onto my brain like a leech and doesn’t let go for many hours. And I have no idea what it did to deserve that lmao

#I guess this show was a much more massive part of my life than I realized?#it's not my favourite show but I think it's. part of me now #if I'd watched it all in one hit for the first time now I'd think ''woag that was awesome'' and proceed to be normal about it #I had a hard time being normal about things I really liked as a kid and 'cause this show went on for so long and I followed it religiously-#for the ENTIRE time it was airing-#I think it became a permanent resident in my brain along with the emotional state I was in when I started watching it #when I think of Steven Universe I'm flooded with all the ways my childhood self took it way too seriously #I think about things I just MADE UP about the show through theories and implied backstory- all the deeper things that never even happened #and it gives me this unscratchable itch. this weird sense of longing #wughfgdh anyways #my ears ache from getting weirdly choked up about this lmao #just did a shortened rewatch of the whole show through watching Scoot's reaction videos #and like #bruh #the show is y'know. REALLY GOOD. But not THAT good jesus christ #nothing is THAT good #it's kinda cool that I used to have such deep emotions about literally everything but man I'm glad I'm not 13 anymore bahah #mannnnnn I really set this show up for failure by expecting it to reach this impossible unachievable level of depth #and then being kinda bummed when it didn't #it's a CARTOON Cas. a reallly fucking good one just the way it is. calm down child #anyways might draw Greg because he's the goat #steven universe #rant #(?)

23 notes · View notes

alittlebitofrainbyyourside · 6 months ago

Text

#the mental illness is really mental illnessing tonight #it's just... my period. it's just the hormones in my body. that's all #it's just the reoccuring aching feeling of.... that weird feeling I get stuck in #people have always wanted to be my friend but never wanted to be my friend #just an idea of me #and I know. I know. I know it's the /fucking/ DID probably and how long it went undiagnosed and unexamined #how was I *ever* expected to believe that a friend truly wanted to be my friend when each piece forms their own relationships with people-#but everyone else only forms a relationship with what they view as a Singular Me #years of reading messages and feeling like they're meant for someone else #years of conversations where I could tell someone was reaching for connection that I didn't feel. And either fumbling the ball terribly #or faking it #not understanding what was *wrong*#and I know the problem now but not how to fix it #I don't even know who I am. I don't. I don't.#Sometimes it feels so obvious. Sometimes the pieces click and I *know*#part of me feels so desperately like.... like this would be easier if it was the more mainstream-recognized presentation #if there was a paula and a mike in my head-#not just the endless versions of myself- crystallized by their necessity.#mona lisas side by side- can you tell which one was painted by which apprentice?#chunks of my life- chunks of my memory- of my connections to others seperated out because the other option was-#I'm not sure what the other option was #I have a psychotic break down as a small child? Unable to tell the authorities what was wrong?#like anyone would have believed me.#like anyone believed me #I can't blame my brain for doing this. I know too much about child development to pretend like it should have been able to handle it.#sometimes I just.... sometimes I wish she'd been successful #that's all #but what an unkind thing to wish upon my parents.#'Everything would have broken... everything but you.'

0 notes

classyrbf · 18 days ago

Text

thinking about jerking off nerd!gojo with your tits in his dorm room. You couldn’t care less for the loser, forced to have him as a tutor because you were failing your chem classes and needed an easy way out of your parents bitching at you. Quite literally you’ve gotten tired of hearing him talk and talk about stupid elements, formulas and equations because you’d rather much see the look on his face when he’s about to cum and hear how he sounds when he’s begging.

So that’s how you ended up on your knees in front of him, shirt unbuttoned and your tits covered in his pre cum, his thick and veiny cock pulsing between the two mounds of flesh as you move it up and down his sensitive shaft. His breath hitches, cheeks flushed a bright red, hands shaking as he struggling to push his glasses back up only for them to slide back down. “F-fuck,” he so sweetly whimpers, licking his dry lips. He loves the way you’re looking up at him, like you’re staring into his soul while simultaneously taking it. His heart pounds against his chest, relishing in the feeling of your soft skin hugging his aching cock, your warm tits only giving him an idea of what your pussy might feel like.

“Nngh, oh f-fuck…we’re…supposed to be…studying,” he managers to croak out through his pathetic moans and whimpers. His sucks in a breath, eyes rolling back when you go even faster, the sound of wet flesh smacking against each other makes the perverted part of his brain go into overdrive. He’s so fucking close.

“Awe, but don’t you wanna cum, Toru?” You teasingly ask, watching the way his throbbing red tip leaks another bead of precum only adding to the lubrication. The nickname alone drives Gojo crazy. He fists the sheets below him, jaw slack, a dazed look in his eyes. “We’ll make a deal, yeah? I’ll let you cum and do this as many times as you want as long as you do my chem work for me.” You smile, holding your tits tighter. “Deal?”

“Ok, ok, ok.” He ferociously nodded, biting down on his bottom lip. “I wanna cum so badly, please.” He let out a ragged breath, falling back on the bed as his body began twitching, hips jolting upward to create more friction. Just in mere seconds, ropes of sticky, hot cum shot up, landing on your tits. “Shit, shit! Ah, ah, nngh!” Gojo’s eyes rolled back. This feels like the most he’s ever came in his life. His legs began to shake the longer his orgasm lasts, groans and whimpers escaping his throat, filling the small room. His raspy breaths fall short, finally coming down from his high. He can barely even think straight now.

“God, you made such a mess!” You huff, looking down at your coated tits.

“Oh, uh—I’m sorry!” Gojo quickly sits up, panicking as he searches around for something to help you clean up. He swiftly hands you one of his shirts, handing it to you. You snatch it from his hands, wiping up every last drop of cum before tossing his shirt to the side. “Are you…um—”

“I gotta go.” You stand up, buttoning your shirt. “Thanks for agreeing to the deal.” You lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Gojo watches as you leave his dorm room without a care in the world, acting like you didn’t just milk him dry with your tits. At least he has something to look forward to every few days now.

#—☆classyrbf #jjk #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk smut #gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo smut drabble #gojo drabble #gojo satoru smut drabble #jjk x reader smut #jjk smut drabble #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #jjk gojo

7K notes · View notes

monstersholygrail · 4 months ago

Note

very classic but summoning a demon to fuck you and he gets a little obsessed 🙏

Imagine Himbo Demon was one day just casually going about his business, torturing a mortal with the agonizing act of small talk when suddenly a flash of white explodes across his vision. The next thing he knows he’s standing in a magical circle of your own design and he can’t get out.

You ask if he’s an incubus and that’s when he notices the book in your hand, ‘How to Summon Incubi With Your Friends: The Party Guide.’ He also looks you over and notices how painstakingly pretty you are and thinks… he could be an incubus.

That night he has what he claims as the best sex of his eternal life, no doubt about it. The way your body moved as you rode him within an inch of his life made him swear he was being taken back to heaven. The way you tasted sweeter than the finest nectar till it burned permanently into his senses. Every last bit of you was addicting.

When the summoning spell’s time was coming to a close, the demon actually felt an ache at the idea of leaving you and your sweet, sweet holes. He tried to reach for you once more but with a flash of white he was back in hell. His heart and his cock aching for you.

The minute he can he’s scouring hell’s library for the book he saw in your grasp. He reads it like a man possessed, ironically, looking for the spell you must’ve used.

As he’s reading the book, an Incubus just so happens to look over at him. Sensing eyes on him he looks up and their gazes meet. The Incubus reads the cover of the book he has and his eyes widen. He begins slowly inching away from Himbo Demon before turning and quickly rushing off.

Himbo Demon tilts his head, curious as to why the Incubus gave such a reaction. But after a moment of brief confusion, he goes back to reading the book. His eyes brightening as he finds the spell.

That night he clumsily performs the spell. His mind foggy with lust. His cock red, angry, and dripping with precum as he thinks about drowning in your holes, lapping up your essence like it’s the only food he’ll ever need and then fucking you until you’re raw and swollen, only to soothe any pain with his tongue.

Himbo demon growls, reaching down and lazily stroking his cock with one hand and performing the spell with the other. Somehow by a true miracle, it works. He appears back in the same fading circle he appeared in last time. His eyes ignite with feral need and his gaze flickers around the low-lit room before a door opens and you come waltzing in wearing nothing but a towel.

“Miss me, baby?” He snarls in excitement, knowing now he has a way to keep coming back to you.

You yelp, jerking back against the wall in surprise. Not expecting the demon to be here again but you’re not exactly upset about it either. Himbo Demon smiles wickedly, but in truth he’s just so happy to see you! He moves at the speed of lightning and he’s on you in an instant. His tall lithe body caging you in against the wall. You exhale shakily, your body tingling with need and your belly churning with arousal as you glance down at his fat cock bobbing and dribbling with his own arousal.

The scent of you floods Himbo Demon’s senses and he growls, fangs flashing in the moonlight that peaks in from the window. Feeling beyond thrilled that the spell worked. That he can go to you whenever he feels like it now. So long as you keep the summoning circle up, that is. But he’s too focused on your new easy access to even try and realize that.

“Don’t worry, sweet human. I’ve found my way back to you and your glorious body. From now on we shall never be parted and I can properly fuck your weak mortal shell ragged as much as I desire. And there is much… much desire,” Himbo Demon rasps heatedly, looking down at you with a fire in his eyes.

Before you can even think to respond, the demon is shredding your towel into two, revealing your body to him in all its glory. He barely takes the time to appreciate the view and suddenly he’s pressing into, rubbing his length along the height of your belly.

And you know this is the start of a wild adventure. One you’re sure is bound to last more than another night.

5K notes · View notes

pencil-n-pen · 1 month ago

Text

TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ . °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

2K notes · View notes

illyrianbitch · 12 days ago

Text

Are We Still Friends? — Part Six

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: The night of the gratitude banquet arrives. Your life will never be the same after it.

Warnings: insecurity and overthinking, deep introspection, reader processing every feeling ever, IC friendship dynamics, Az is in his jealousy era, reader chewing him out, a kiss, a confession and more!!

Word Count: 12.6k (happy finale!)

Part Five | Series Masterlist

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The days slipped by quickly. You spent most of them in your head, avoiding social interactions except for the ones you deliberately made time for—helping Adrin pick out his clothes for the banquet and shopping for a dress with Mor and Feyre. Azriel had been busy. You hadn’t seen him.

You felt guilty for being relieved. But you were. You couldn’t handle seeing him.

It hit you last night, after Mor dropped off your dress—neatly wrapped in its protective bag—and you crawled into bed. When your gaze landed on your wrist, on the hair tie still there, everything suddenly became clear. You couldn’t run anymore. You couldn’t ignore it.

You were in love with Azriel.

There was a certain discomfort that came with realizing you had been walking through your life half-blind. Like a fog had lifted, revealing a path you had already been traveling, except now you could see it for what it was. And you wondered—how long had this been true? How long had you been this blind?

All these years of knowing Azriel, of loving him in some way—platonically, protectively, whatever it was—you had never truly seen it. But now that you did, you couldn’t unsee it. And it ached. Deeply.

Your fingers pressed absently against your sternum, rubbing small circles over the bone as you made your way down the hall. Over and over, like it might ease it. Like you could massage the feeling away.

You knew better.

It didn’t subside. If anything, it settled deeper, curling into your ribs. Lingered. Even as you reached the kitchen—and faltered.

Because you heard him.

A quiet hum, soft and unhurried, the way he always did on slow mornings when he thought no one was listening. And his shadows—they slipped past the doorframe, curling like wisps of ink, reaching. They knew you were there. They always did.

You thought about leaving.

But before you could turn, the humming stopped. A beat of silence. Then—

“Y/n?”

You exhaled sharply, bracing yourself before stepping inside.

Azriel was already watching you, his expression unreadable for a moment before it shifted into something softer. Familiar.

“Good morning,” you murmured.

He smiled—small, easy, like nothing between you had changed. Like your world hadn’t tilted on its axis.

He lifted a cup in offering. “Tea?”

You accepted it with a quiet thanks, leaning against the counter as Azriel took a seat, his own cup cradled loosely between his fingers.

Silences like this weren’t unusual. They were often comfortable—the kind of quiet that settled when you were both still waking up and bracing for the day ahead. But this morning, it was different.

Azriel glanced at you. “You okay?”

You were almost tempted to laugh at the question, but you suppressed it.

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. Just… lots on my mind.”

He hummed in understanding. His gaze had yet to leave yours.

A beat passed. Another. You shifted your weight against the counter, eyes flicking down to your cup. “You ever feel like you have too many thoughts, and it’s just… disorienting?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Another stretch of silence. It wasn’t quite tense, but it wasn’t easy, either. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat. “So, tonight…” He hesitated. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to get something beforehand. I’m assuming the finger food will be too extravagant for us, like usual.”

You hesitated. His words were fumbling a little, but you didn’t think too much about it. You had been overthinking everything lately.

“I would, but I’m actually bringing someone tonight,” you said. “I’ll be waiting for him.”

Azriel stilled. “Oh.” His head tilted slightly. “You’re bringing a date?”

“It’s not exactly a date. I just asked him to come with me.”

Azriel nodded slowly. “Who?”

“Adrin. I invited him the other day.”

“Adrin,” he repeated, like he was testing the name on his tongue. “Madja’s apprentice?”

"That's the one."

You could practically see the wheels turning in his head, but he said nothing at first, just watched you, his shadows flickering across the floor like they knew something you didn’t.

He studied you like he was waiting for something more. When nothing came, he frowned, his voice turning cautious. “And he’s coming with you… tonight?”

“Yeah,” you replied, “I thought it’d be nice. He’s helped us before. He's nice.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, but you saw it—in the way his breath hitched, in the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. He had something to say.

You exhaled sharply. “Okay. What is it?”

His gaze shifted, like he was considering denying it.

“Hm?” he hummed, feigning innocence. “Nothing.”

You leveled him with a look. “Az.” A beat. “Just spit it out, yeah?”

A frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. It just feels... strange, don’t you think? I mean, inviting him to something like this?”

You bristled at the words, at the insinuation that you needed a reason to bring someone. Needed to justify it to him.

“Az, it’s just a regular banquet, and I wanted to invite someone. That’s not a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

"Then what is this judgmental look you have?" Your voice came out more defensive than you meant. “I’ve known him for a while. It’s not like he’s a stranger.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like it’s just some casual get-together, either.”

You hated that this conversation made you wish for something else. Made you wish it was a date. A real one. That tonight was light and exciting—the kind of night that made you blush, that made you feel wanted. The kind of night that made you feel like someone falling in love, not someone realizing they already had. So deeply, so entirely unreciprocated that you hadn’t even noticed it had happened.

“I’m not making some huge statement by inviting him. It’s just a banquet.” You swallowed, forcing the irritation down. “A banquet to show appreciation for those who help us. I thought it’d be nice. He’s helped us before, you know that.”

You thought back to what Azriel had said about not wanting to be the last one standing, like love, companionship, was a prize to win before someone else did. A race. And maybe, mentioning you were bringing someone made him defensive, made him feel like he needed to be looking again. The thought made something bitter rise in you. Something akin to embarrassment.

Azriel didn’t reply right away. When he finally spoke, there was a resignation in his voice. "Right. I do know that."

You couldn’t find the right words to reply, so you settled for silence once more. You finished your tea, rinsed out the cup, and set it in the sink. You felt his eyes on you as you turned and told him, “I think, for now, maybe we should stay out of each other’s personal lives. Not comment on any romantic prospects.”

It sounded like a good idea—like a boundary you could hold, something to protect yourself.

But Azriel’s expression flickered, a discomfort settling across his face. “So Adrin is a romantic prospect?”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Well, that's not–that’s not the point.” You pressed your fingers to your temples, willing away the irritation clawing at you. Then you dropped your hand, looking at him again. “Way to pick and choose what you hear, by the way.”

"I'm just clarifying."

"Look. I know I was right about Selene. But I think we have very different approaches to our personal lives.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. "Well, I do. It might be better for us to keep our opinions to ourselves."

Azriel blinked. Then, quietly—“I don't want you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was careful, his fingers curling slightly around his cup. “Your opinion is the most important thing to me.”

And then your chest tightened. Azriel couldn’t say things like that to you.

The words slipped out before you could stop them. “Maybe it shouldn’t be.”

Silence.

Azriel’s grip tightened around his cup.

You swallowed. “I should go.”

And with Azriel’s eyes still following your every movement, you left— the ache in your chest even deeper than before.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The entrance to the banquet hall was a grand display of velvet-draped archways and soft golden faelight. You spotted Adrin just beyond the doors, hands tucked neatly behind his back, his casual, loose, linen clothes traded for deep navy formalwear. He looked up as you approached, a large, bright smile forming.

"You clean up well," you teased, stopping beside him. "I could’ve picked you up from your apartment. Like a proper date."

Adrin huffed a quiet laugh. "And risk making the citizens of Velaris burn with jealousy over how we look together? I’d never be so cruel."

You rolled your eyes and laughed. The lightness of the sound surprised you. "I suppose we do look rather stunning."

His gaze lingered for a moment before he said, softer, "You do. That dress is quite beautiful."

You barely resisted the urge to fidget, instead smoothing your hand over the fabric.

Mor and Feyre had helped you get ready at the river house, the way they always did before events like these. The three of you, despite everything—despite mates, despite growing older, despite how much life had changed—still made time for it. A tradition you refused to let go of. It was something sacred, in a way. The girlhood none of you had ever really gotten to experience, stolen by war or circumstance.

You suspected Mor had noticed you were in your head more than usual, that something about tonight felt different. She kept checking in, little glances through the mirror, hesitation when you’d asked her to help pin your hair up. Her fingers had lingered as she tucked the final strands into place, ensuring the hairpiece she used hid the infamous hair tie beneath it. She hadn’t asked, but you could feel the question lingering in the way she looked at you.

“Mor chose it for me,” you said, offering Adrin a playful curtsy. "I’ll let her know her taste is still undefeated."

A few more guests drifted past.

"This home is beautiful," Adrin murmured, his gaze sweeping over the high ceilings and intricate paintings covering the marble walls— all painted by Feyre herself. "I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Your High Lord and High Lady have elegant tastes. I must admit, I feel slightly out of place."

"It’s just another event," you said lightly. "Don’t let the elegance scare you. Most of the guests already know you, anyway. The ones that don’t will have the pleasure tonight. Nothing to stress about."

Adrin exhaled, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "I wouldn’t say I’m stressed. Out of practice seems more fitting. I haven’t been to many events like this."

"Oh? Does Thesan not throw many?"

He tilted his head. "Some. But even then, I wouldn’t attend. Not everyone is as close to their High Lord as you."

You blinked. "I never thought of it like that."

Adrin smiled faintly. "It’s not a bad thing. It’s quite beautiful, really. It humanizes Rhysand—far more than the stories some might hear about Night."

For you, Rhysand had never been just High Lord—he was Rhys, the friend who stole the last pastry off your plate just to be an ass, who gave the best advice when you needed it most, who once drunkenly tried to shove more marshmallows into his mouth than Cassian. You knew he was powerful. Knew that the weight of his title was immense. But it was easy to forget. Easy to take for granted just how rare it was to have a ruler who felt like family. A ruler who was family.

“I appreciate your open mind. It’s not easy for many people to see past Rhys’s past.”

Adrin’s eyes softened. “I can see the heart beneath the power.”

You glanced around the hall, watching as laughter and conversation rippled through the guests. When you turned back, you caught Adrin scanning the crowd as well. You took the spare moment to examine him further.

Adrin had the kind of beauty that belonged to the quiet hush of morning. His golden-brown skin carried a softness—not kissed by the sun, but by first light, the gentle warmth before the world fully woke. Vitiligo traced around his right eye, trailing down his cheek, leaving a streak of white in his dark curls. Even his eyelashes and brow were dusted pale. There was nothing severe about him, nothing unreadable.

You wondered how many admirers he must have. How many people in the streets of your city turned to gawk when he passed. How many hearts he’d left broken when he left his home and moved to Velaris.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” you said, drawing his attention back to you. When his warm eyes met yours, you continued. “What made you come here? From Dawn?"

He titled his head, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

"When I heard that Night and Dawn were fostering more exchanges—trade, apprenticeships—I jumped at the chance," Adrin said. "It seemed perfect. It’s been an honor to train under Madja, to learn from one of the most talented healers of all Fae alike." He shot you a look. "I have you to thank for that opportunity."

You raised a brow. "Me?"

"I heard it was your diplomacy that strengthened those relations between our courts," he said. "That made Velaris known for the oasis of opportunity it now is, rather than the secret gem of Night it once was."

You hummed, a smile pulling at your lips. Even now, after all these years, it still felt nice—validating—to be acknowledged for your work. For the vision you had continually strived to achieve for your court, for Prythian.

"Well then," you mused, "you’re welcome."

It was fascinating, really—how simple his answer had been. That he had made the choice to leave home with such certainty. You didn’t think you could ever do the same.

"Do you miss the Dawn court?"

Adrin exhaled, thoughtful. "Yes, but not how you might think. I rather love change." He glanced at you, curiosity flickering in his expression now. "Do you?"

"What—miss Dawn?"

He laughed. "No. Do you like change?"

The answer should have been easy. You’d never been afraid of new things—your entire life had been built on pushing forward, on carving out space where there was none. But lately, change felt like something different. Like something looming. Like something you weren’t sure you wanted.

You fought the urge to glance over your shoulder, to scan the crowd for a familiar figure wreathed in shadows. You hadn’t seen him since this morning.

"No, actually," you admitted. "I despise it. I know it’s necessary for growth, but… I like things the way they are. I don’t think I’d want to leave my court. Not for long."

Adrin nodded. "With a life like this, I’m sure I wouldn’t either."

You let the words settle between you for a moment before exhaling. "Come on. Let me introduce you around."

Adrin extended an arm, eyes gleaming with humor. "Lead the way, shepherd of change. I am your sheep for the night."

You chuckled, looping your arm through his as you stepped into the light.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Adrin had slipped easily into conversation with Cassian and Nesta, asking them about their mating ceremony with a curiosity so good-natured even Nesta had warmed to him. You’d been content just standing there, watching as he made the connections you’d hoped he would.

When he left to get you both drinks, you lingered, half-listening to Cassian’s exaggerated retelling of something Nesta had told him from a recent book of hers. Your eyes drifted across the scene—the candlelit tables, the swirling gowns, the food laid out in delicate arrangements that looked more like art than a meal. Unlike most elaborate events Rhysand and Feyre threw, tonight had hors d'oeuvres that actually appealed to you. You made a mental note to try some of the rosemary and honey tartlets once your stomach felt less uneasy.

You let your gaze drift once more, scanning the crowd without much thought—until you saw him.

Azriel.

For a second, everything else faded. The music, the conversation, the clinking of glasses. The world narrowed to the space between you and him.

He looked good—unfairly so. He’d cleaned up well, the sharp lines of his suit making him look effortlessly put together, dark hair styled just enough to look like he hadn’t tried at all.

If Adrin had been handsome in a way that was warm, inviting, then Azriel was beautiful in a way that stole the breath from your lungs. It was gut-wrenching, disarming, the kind of beauty that felt borderline sacred.

And gods, the way he was looking at you. Not just looking. Watching.

Your stomach flipped, something deep inside you tightening painfully. The air between you stretched thin. Humming. Waiting. It made your fingers twitch at your sides, made your feet shift like they might carry you forward without your permission.

And yet, somehow, you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—

“Here you are.”

The moment shattered. You blinked, the noise of the banquet rushing back in as Adrin reappeared at your side, pressing a glass of champagne into your hand. You took it with an appreciative smile, downing half of it in one go and ignoring the way your fingers trembled around the delicate flute.

Adrin turned back to Nesta, launching into another carefully respectful question, something about her Valkyrie training, but you barely heard it.

Not until Adrin nudged you, drawing you back. “Should I be concerned?” he murmured.

You blinked. “About?”

“That the Shadowsinger is currently glaring at me like he wants me dead. Have I offended him?”

Confused, you followed his gaze—

Azriel was still watching. Only now, the look was different. The sharpness of it, the intensity—it was aimed at Adrin.

A full glare.

You barely swallowed down the sound of disbelief that threatened to escape. What the hell was his problem?

Heat rose to your face. You forced yourself to breathe, to roll your shoulders back. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, waving it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

But when you turned back, Nesta was looking at you. A direct, knowing look. You glanced back at Azriel, still staring, then back at her. She knew.

You gently brushed your champagne flute back into Adrin’s hands. “Excuse me for a minute?”

"Of course," Adrin said easily, though concern flickered in his warm gaze. Nesta took the opportunity to step in, calling over Gwyn—a plan you’d both briefly gone over before the night began.

"Adrin," she said, "let me introduce you to my friend and fellow Valkyrie."

Adrin’s voice drifted after you as you stepped away.

“Oh, by the Mother, is that an Invoking Stone?” His breath caught, reverent. “Beautiful—I’ve only ever read about them.”

You didn’t need to turn to know Gwyn was smiling, could already picture the soft pink dusting her cheeks. But the moment barely registered, drowned out by the weight of the gaze still burning into you.

You had more pressing matters.

You didn’t spare Azriel a glance before grabbing his forearm and dragging him into the nearest empty room.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Azriel barely moved as you pulled him in, letting you manhandle him like a bag of heavy rocks. His brows had only just begun to furrow when you spun on him, still gripping his wrist. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, the corded muscles of his forearm shifting under your grip—but you refused to let that distract you.

Not now.

It took you half a second to realize where you had dragged him. A library. A new one, judging by the scent of fresh wood and the pristine bookshelves lining the walls. You hadn’t even known this room existed. Your gaze flicked over the tall windows, the deep blue rug, the shelves still waiting to be filled. You hadn’t explored the house since the construction finished, too preoccupied with—

No. Focus.

You turned back to Azriel, finally letting go of his wrist. His wings twitched slightly, and his shadows curled at his feet like smoke, their edges sharper than usual.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded, crossing your arms.

Azriel blinked, his head tilting slightly. “What?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No,” he said flatly. “Or else I wouldn’t have asked.”

A heavy breath caught in your throat as the words lodged themselves somewhere between your teeth and the pit of your stomach. Azriel’s voice was cool and even. It only made you angrier.

“Are you serious right now?”

His hazel eyes studied you. A flicker of something passed through them, quick as a shadow in candlelight, but then it was gone.

Fine.

You squared your shoulders. “I’ll spell it out. Why are you glaring at Adrin like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I wasn’t glaring.”

You forced a breath out of your chest—through your nose, just to keep yourself from losing it. A sharp, humorless laugh left you. “If that wasn’t a glare, I’d hate to see what you classify as one.”

His expression didn’t change, but his wings tucked in a little tighter, hands flexing at his sides. You noted that his shadows had stilled, barely a ripple in the air now. They’d decided to be a quiet, unassuming audience, it seemed.

“I have known you long enough to recognize a glare, Azriel. Stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

You huffed, your fingers twitching at your sides. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but you need to fix it. Now.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked, and for the first time, his expression hardened. He remained silent.

“If this is about me bringing someone and you being here alone, then you need to get over it,” you said.

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence once more.

His shadows stirred again, coiling around his boots, floating across the ground beneath you two. You could see the muscle in his jaw tightening, but he didn’t speak.

You sighed, pressing your fingers to your temples before meeting his gaze again. “Okay, well, whatever it is, I need you to find the reason, and I need you to swallow it. And if you can’t swallow it, I need you to shove it so far up your ass that you’re too focused on the discomfort to glare at him like that again.”

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to respond, but nothing came out. His eyes flickered, scanning your face. Then they glazed over, as if he’d been pulled deeper into his own mind.

It didn’t stop you from continuing.

“Adrin is a guest here,” you went on, voice firm. “I invited him. He is kind, he is nice, and he hasn't done anything to you. In fact, he has helped you. So do not treat him like shit.” You stepped closer, tilting your head. “You haven’t even bothered to talk to him. The least you can do is not look at him like you’re imagining his head on a spike.”

Azriel’s gaze met yours, his voice low as he finally spoke, “I just think it’s rude that your date isn’t paying attention to you. He’s had his eyes on Cassian more than you tonight.”

You blinked, disbelief tightening your chest. “What?”

“You heard me.”

You scoffed. “Adrin has been perfectly attentive and respectful. What, did you expect him to have his hands all over me? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Azriel didn’t respond, but his shadows gained speed as they curled closer to his boots—like they were restless now, waiting for an order.

“This event is supposed to be about harmony,” you continued, “You’re embarrassing this court. You’re embarrassing me.”

That seemed to land. His lips pressed into a thin line, and something flickered in his expression—something raw, something almost like guilt.

“Do not give me a reason to be mad at you,” you added, voice low. “Because I will take it. You have no idea.”

A long beat of silence. Then—

“…Alright,” Az muttered. “Fine. I’m sorry. That was not my intention.”

The apology came so easily. You narrowed your eyes, studying him. He was still too quiet. But for now, you’d take it.

“Good. So, we go out there, and if you interact with him at all, you need to be pleasant. Maybe even smile.” You tilted your head. “And if you can’t do that, at least fix your face.”

Azriel blinked, brow twitching. “My face?”

“Yes. The one you’re currently wearing. You look like I just asked you to kill yourself.”

“I’m not wearing a face,” he said dryly.

“Yes, you are.”

“This is just my face. I don’t have many faces.”

“Well, find a new one.”

The sharpness faded from his eyes and the frustration in your chest loosened slightly, giving way to something else—exhaustion, maybe.

“Okay, okay,” he said after a moment. “Fine.”

You nodded once, steadying yourself before turning for the door.

Right before you stepped out, you glanced over your shoulder. “Fix the face.”

Azriel exhaled through his nose, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Consider it fixed.”

Then, he gave you a large grin—so obviously forced it made you cringe.

You rolled your eyes. “That is not what I meant.”

Still, you smiled despite yourself. A little amused, a little tired. And for a brief moment, before you turned away, you swore you saw a real smile flicker across his face, too. Soft and fleeting. It made your heart skip.

Before it could beat faster, you left.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Azriel found you again an hour later.

You sensed him before you saw him—the shift in the air, the way the room seemed to settle in his presence. Then his shadows, curling toward you before slithering back, as if unsure if they were welcome.

You weren’t even sure why you’d walked away from Adrin and your friends. Maybe you needed space. Maybe you needed to breathe. It wasn’t until you stepped back—from the conversation, from the laughter, from the gentle touches shared between lovers—that you realized.

This was the first time you’d noticed. The first time it had stung.

How alone you were.

You didn’t look as Azriel approached. Instead, you fixated on the guests around you, on their easy smiles and warm hands clasped together. It would hurt to look at him. You already knew.

And yet, you felt him watching. Felt the heat of him beside you.

It was sad. All of it.

You’d assumed falling for your best friend would be a gift. Imagined it would be easy, uncomplicated—a love that came with a quiet understanding, someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. It sounded simple enough. You would know, and they would know, and that would be it. The kind of love that people dreamed of, that stories were made of.

It was funny, in a painfully poetic way, how reality differed from daydreams. You almost wanted to revisit every love story you’d ever read, to pick them apart, to see where they’d lied—where they’d dared to be hopeful.

A shadow curled at your wrist before slinking away.

"Do you have another complaint for me?" you murmured, just loud enough for Azriel to hear over the music. “Maybe feeling bothered that Adrin isn’t slobbering at my feet like a hound desperate for food?”

Az huffed a quiet breath. "No."

Your lips pressed together. You wanted to hold on to the annoyance, to the way he’d been needling at you all evening, but the weight of the room was different now.

Azriel must have known it too, because after a pause, he shifted slightly, extending a hand toward you. "Dance with me?"

Your gaze flicked to his outstretched hand, then back to his face. His expression was carefully neutral, but his wings… His wings were tucked in tight, the only real tell of his discomfort. You knew he didn’t love events like these. The crowds, the attention. He wore it well—carried himself like he belonged, like nothing touched him—but you knew better.

And that’s why, despite everything, you sighed, placing your hand in his.

His shadows stirred again, wrapping briefly around your wrist before dissipating. Pleased with your choice.

"Your perfect date seems to be enjoying himself."

You felt it again—that ache in your chest.

Your eyes flicked over Azriel's shoulder, landing on Adrin. He was still standing alongside Gwyn, but the two had been joined by Lucien and Elain as well. Adrin was laughing at something Lucien was saying. He looked… comfortable. Bright. Perfect.

Perfect in the way that should have made your heart skip, that should have made you feel something when he smiled. But you felt… nothing. Just awareness, a passing observation. And then your gaze drifted back to Azriel, to the sharp lines of his face, the way the faelight caught in his eyes. Made something in them simmer.

"Not perfect," you murmured.

You didn’t like perfection. It was too neat, too curated—like something fragile on display, meant to be admired but never touched. It didn’t crack, didn’t bleed. And you didn’t want that. You never had.

"I wouldn’t want perfect anyway," you added, glancing briefly at Adrin and then back to Azriel. "Perfect isn't real."

Azriel said nothing at first, but his grip on your hand tightened briefly. You wondered if he understood.

His other hand rested against your waist as he led you through the steps. You felt his touch like a burning mark, your heart beating faster at the way he stroked his thumb along the fabric of your dress. The tension from earlier still lingered between you—thin, stretched taut. You wondered if he still wanted to bring up Adrin once more. But instead, Azriel said, "I didn’t get to tell you earlier, with you scolding me and all."

You rolled your eyes, casting your gaze aside.

"Which was very warranted," Azriel added, the corner of his mouth twitching as he leaned in further. "But, you are… breathtaking."

Your eyes snapped back to his. The way he said it—quiet, certain, like it was fact, undeniable and absolute—made something shift beneath your ribs. You forced yourself to keep breathing, to move past the moment before it could settle too deeply.

"Thank you. Mor helped me pick the dress."

Azriel guided you into a spin, and when you turned back to face him, he said, "I wasn’t referring to your dress."

His hand found yours, fingers lacing through before you could think too much about it. It was an easy thing, effortless—like it was second nature to him. "I was referring to the person wearing it."

Your pulse stuttered. How could anyone else compare to this? How were you ever going to find someone who could make you feel like this?

The thought unsettled you. Maybe because it was the first time you let yourself acknowledge it. Maybe because you were starting to think he felt it too.

Because you knew Azriel. Knew him well enough to sense the shift—not just in yourself, but in him. There was something new in the way he watched you, something careful, deliberate. At first, you thought it was guilt, that he was still making up for the way he hurt you. But it was more than that. The way he looked at you now—really looked at you—it made you wonder if this realization had struck him too.

But you had seen him with Mor. With Elain. With Gwyn. You had seen the way he watched them, the way he softened, the way he held himself differently in their presence. And never—not once—had he looked at you like that.

So maybe this feeling was yours alone. Something to swallow like a bitter tonic, a remedy that only worsened the sickness.

The dance was slowing. You saw it in the way couples began to separate, the way the musicians readied to shift into something new. You and Azriel stilled, as if time itself was reluctant to move on.

His eyes traced over your face. "It’s different," he murmured. "Seeing your entire face like this."

Your brows furrowed slightly, and his lips twitched, like he knew you didn’t fully understand. Then his free hand lifted—hesitating for just a second—before his fingers brushed lightly against the side of your face, just above your ear, where your hair had been pinned back.

"You usually let it fall forward," he said. "I’m used to you hiding behind it."

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you. You wondered if he knew how much this pained you.

And when the music came to an end, you all but scrambled away from him, seeking out Adrin again.

Adrin told you about everything he’d learned from Lucien—the invitation the Vanserra had extended to explore the Day Court. Autumn too, if Adrin wished. You tried to listen. Tried to pay attention. To ignore the burning gaze of Azriel, to pretend you hadn’t seen the way his expression faltered when you pulled away.

You stayed by Adrin’s side all night, introducing him to more court members. Always finding your way back to Cassian, Nesta, and Gwyn. But no matter how much space you put between you and Azriel, you felt him.

Always, you felt him.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The banquet had begun to settle into its last echoes of laughter and music, guests beginning their slow trickle home.You stood with Adrin near the entrance, the golden glow of the banquet spilling onto the front gardens.

He turned to you, his expression softened in the dim light. “Thank you,” he murmured, and before you could ask for what, he leaned in, pressing a warm, fleeting kiss to your cheek. When he pulled back, there was something earnest in his gaze. “For sharing the night with a friend. For showing me all these connections I might not have made on my own.”

You smiled, something fond curling in your chest. “You would’ve made them eventually.”

“Maybe. But I like the way it happened tonight.”

“Thank you for keeping me company,” you told him. “You don’t know how much I needed it.”

With one last smile, he turned and disappeared down the path, his silhouette vanishing into the dark.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders before making your way back inside. The warmth hit you immediately—the lingering energy of the night still alive in the laughter, the flickering faelights, the press of familiar faces.

Your family.

Rhys stood at the center of it, Nyx in his arms, tossing him into the air. The babe let out a shriek of joy, his chubby hands clapping together as he was caught again with ease.

“Bachelor of the evening,” Cassian declared, raising a half-empty glass. “In all his two feet and six inch glory.”

Nyx, unaware of the meaning but basking in the attention, beamed a chubby smile, curling into his father’s chest.

You watched them, something warm and tight settling in your chest, even as Cassian snorted at his own words, making a joke about another six inch glory. But still—still—there was something else stirring within you. That restlessness in your bones. That all-too-familiar, infamous ache.

Before you could think twice, you turned, feet carrying you swiftly down the halls, toward the back of the manor.

The stone steps were cool beneath you as you descended into the garden. You exhaled, lowering yourself onto the edge of a stair, forearms braced against your knees. The air was cooler here, quieter, the sky stretched wide above you—clear and endless.

Behind you, the door creaked open. Light footsteps. Familiar.

Mor lowered herself onto the step beside you, the silk of her dress brushing against your arm. She didn’t say anything at first, just settled into the silence with you.

Then, gently, “You okay?”

Your thoughts were loud, pressing in from every angle, twisting over themselves until they became nothing but static. You let out a laugh, dry and brittle. “My head physically hurts from how much I’ve been thinking.”

Mor nodded, tilting her head back to look at the sky. “And have you come to any conclusions?”

“I might not be as patient as I once thought.”

Mor laughed, the sound carried off by the night breeze. “What makes you say that?”

You turned to her, lips pressing together before you admitted, “I was tempted to throttle Az in front of everyone.”

Mor’s lips quirked up, the faint remnants of her red lipstick catching the glow of the faelights through the windows. You were sure there were countless champagne flutes and wine glasses that now bore the mark of her lips, a kiss print of her perfect lipstick. There was something sweet about how the color was faded now. Years ago, it would still be perfect—because years ago, Mor would’ve excused herself to touch up her makeup almost every half hour. She didn’t do that anymore. These days, Emerie held her attention, made her forget anything other than the night unfolding around her.

“Not interested in adding to your growing reputation as a public street fighter?” Mor teased. “I would’ve helped you drag him to the street.”

You shot her a scowl. “Not funny,” you muttered. Then, hesitantly, “Do people really think that?”

She snorted, shaking her head. “No. I’m messing with you. But imagine how fun that would be.”

“We have different definitions of fun.”

“And that’s what makes us such great friends.”

Mor leaned in, looping her arm through yours, pressing it to her chest as she rested her head on your shoulder. The cool metal of her jewelry sent a shiver through you. You resisted the urge to frown at the large, chunky bracelet on her wrist—the one she’d taken from Selene. You’d already rolled your eyes at it earlier in the night, warning her it was probably cursed. She had only shrugged and said that nothing related to her could be bad luck—and that it matched her gown perfectly. She wasn’t wrong. It did.

You hummed, amused, and rested your head against hers.

“So what did Az do?” she asked after a moment.

“I don’t know what got into him. He was so rude tonight.”

“To you?”

“To Adrin,” you clarified, huffing. “Gods, it infuriated me. I had to scold him like some child before I lost my own mind.”

Mor lifted her head slightly. “Is that where you pulled him off to?”

You turned just enough to meet her gaze. “You saw that?”

She sat up, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I’m very observant.”

“Nosy is the word I’d use.”

Mor nudged you with a laugh. Then she shifted, pulling her arm away as she readjusted her position. “Do you know why it bothered you so much?”

Your brows knit together. “It was rude,” you deadpanned. “Adrin was a guest. Az had no right acting like some pompous guard dog.”

Mor nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Maybe we need to get him retrained.”

Despite yourself, you smiled, a quick image flashing in your mind of Azriel’s unimpressed face whenever one of you made a dog joke at his expense. Even the ones about his loyalty. Not that you could blame him—you probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison either.

“It was also a bit offensive that Az paid more attention to me tonight than he has for months,” you admitted. “Not even to me. To Adrin. I don’t know why that bothered me so much, aside from it being bad manners.”

Mor gave you a knowing look. “Can I ask you something? But you have to promise you won’t get mad.”

You narrowed your eyes. “When you say stuff like that, I don’t want to promise anything.”

She pouted slightly. “Please.”

You sighed, turning to face her more fully. The new position left you exposed to the chill, no longer shielded by your hunched posture. Your knees brushed, the fabric of your dress rustling against hers. “Fine. Tell me.”

Mor hesitated, studying you carefully. Then, softly, “Do you think it bothers you because you want him to pay attention to you this much… normally? And not just when you bring a date?”

You dropped your gaze to your lap, to your fidgeting fingers. “I mean, maybe. Yeah.”

Mor craned her neck, trying to meet your averted gaze. “Maybe because you have feelings for him?”

Your head snapped up so fast you were surprised you didn’t break something. Though, based on the sharp pull in your neck, you might have strained a muscle.

“What?”

The sympathetic look Mor offered you was enough to draw the ache in your chest back to full strength.

“Am I wrong?”

You could’ve lied. Could’ve shaken your head, laughed it off, brushed past it like it was nothing. And maybe Mor would’ve let you. Not because she let things go easily, but because she knew you—knew when to push and when to step back.

But you didn’t lie.

Because the weight of it, the truth of it, had been pressing down on you for too long.

“Maybe,” you admitted quietly.

The words settled over you like a breaking wave. The minute they were out in the open, everything rushed back—every ache, every stolen glance, every frustration and lingering sadness. The realization of it felt like a stone lodged behind your ribs, pressing into you from the inside. Your throat burned. Your eyes stung.

You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to push down the lump forming there.

Then your lips quivered. And that was enough to make you break.

You turned away, hands pressing against your face as a shaky breath left you.

“Gods, Mor,” you mumbled, voice unsteady. “I feel so dramatic. I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Oh, honey.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing to call your attention back to her. When you met her eyes, something flickered across her features. “Are you crying?”

“Not yet,” you sniffed.

She blinked. Once, twice. Then said, “Give me a minute, okay? I’ll be right back. And then I want you to tell me everything.”

You didn’t question it, just nodded as she disappeared inside.

When she returned, her presence was quieter. She sank beside you, draping a shawl over your shoulders—one that matched the color of her dress. Her shawl. And on her own form, she wore one in deep purple. Emerie’s, you assumed. You hadn’t seen her wear it before.

You noticed, too, that Mor’s jewelry was gone. The rings, the collection of bracelets. She tended to do that when she was overstimulated by the sounds—when the weight of metal felt unbearable against her skin.

You tipped your head back, staring at the sky. No more tears fell, but they lingered, heavy behind your eyes. The lump in your throat was smaller now. Bearable. You swallowed against it, against everything that wanted to rise with it.

“I was content,” you said finally. You inhaled deeply, swore you heard your ribs rattle with the effort, and turned to look at Mor. “With being single. With waiting for whatever was supposed to happen. I never thought I’d be the last one standing, but I didn’t mind. It never felt like something was missing.”

Mor’s brown eyes scanned your face, a small crease forming between her brows. “And now?”

Now.

Now, you wondered if you had never felt that ache because you had been loved so deeply by people like Azriel. Loved in a way that had made you think—foolishly, blindly—that it was enough. That it would always be enough.

But the words tangled in your throat before you could voice them. Your mind was funny like that sometimes—so many thoughts, so fast, so loud, and yet, when you reached for them, they recoiled. Shy. Timid. As if they, too, were embarrassed by their own existence.

“Now, I feel like something was stolen from me.”

Mor blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I always thought…” You paused, digging through your mind, clawing for the right words. “I thought love would feel different. That I would know when it happened. That it would be this big, overwhelming thing—fireworks, explosions, something cinematic.” You shook your head. “But with Azriel, it never felt like that. It felt… calm.” Your voice softened. “Like home.”

Mor’s expression gentled, but she didn’t speak. Not yet. And you were grateful for it, because now the words were spilling out, untamed and raw.

“And I hate that I didn’t get to figure that out on my own,” you admitted, your voice cracking with the confession. “That Selene and this ridiculous situation forced me to see it before I was ready. I didn’t get to sit across from him at breakfast, watching him drink his tea, and realize—slowly, comfortably—that this could be the rest of my life.” You swallowed hard. “Instead, it feels like everyone else saw it before I did. Like my feelings aren’t even my own. I feel… embarrassed.”

Mor’s brows knit together, and she reached for your hand. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You know that, right?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Doesn’t matter. It feels that way.”

And maybe that was the worst part. That something so personal, so yours, had been made into something for everyone else to witness. That, maybe, they had already formed their own conclusions.

“I’ve never really dated.” The words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong in this conversation. But they did. “Not really. I never searched for it, never felt like I needed to.”

Mor traced her thumb in slow circles against your knuckles.

“I thought it was because I was happy. Because I was fulfilled, platonically. That I never ached for a mate or a partner because I was already surrounded by love. But now—” Your throat tightened. “Now, I wonder if it was just because of him. If I loved Azriel this whole time and never noticed. If my heart already knew there was nowhere else to look.”

Mor’s grip on your hand tightened.

“But he looked,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “Azriel has looked.” You swallowed hard. “Gods, Mor—he even looked to you.”

Mor’s lips parted slightly, guilt flickering in her expression before she caught herself. “That was—”

“I know,” you cut in. “It’s not about that. It’s not about you. It’s just—” You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple. “I’ve never been this aware of myself before. My shortcomings. My inexperience. I’ve never thought about any of it because I never had to.”

But now, every interaction with Azriel felt different. Now, every glance, every touch, every conversation—changed.

And gods, maybe, just maybe, people would think Selene was right.

Maybe they would think you had pushed Azriel away from her because you were jealous, because you had always wanted him for yourself.

You looked at Mor. “I didn’t talk to Az about Selene because I was jealous. I swear, Mor. It wasn’t like that.”

Mor shushed you. “I know.”

“But what if he doesn’t? What if everyone—”

“No one else matters.”

Mor’s gaze softened. She brought her free hand to your bicep, her palm warm as she ran it gently down your skin. The cool night air clung to you, but beneath it, you still burned. From your thoughts, from your grief, from the overwhelming realization that had come too soon.

“Y/n,” she said after a moment. “Do you truly think Az doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Yes,” you said with certainty. But after the words left your mouth, they felt hollow. You bit the inside of your cheek. “And even if he did, I’m not sure that would help me.”

“What do you mean?”

You stiffened. Loving Azriel was not the same as loving anyone else. Loving him was easy, yes—but the way Azriel romantically loved was sickening. It was obsessive, gluttonous.

You were afraid of what it might mean to be on the receiving end of it.

Because Azriel had always glorified the ones he loved, turned them into something untouchable, something divine. It was the kind of love that replaced religion. And you—you—were not divine. You were not flawless. And that alone made you doubt yourself.

Azriel had seen your faults. The way you held grudges, the way you sometimes bit down your emotions until they cut into you, the way you weren’t always kind. In a friend, those things were forgivable. But in a lover?

Flaws in a lover could be a sin for Az.

And you didn't think you could survive it—the moment he realized you weren’t something worth worshiping.

Better, then, to never let him try.

You decided not to answer Mor’s question— not properly at least. Instead, you shrugged, turning your gaze back to the night before you, to the calm gardens and the skies that illuminated them.

“I just do.”

Mor hummed. She understood that the conversation was over. You were tired. And there was nothing she could say that you hadn’t already dissected a thousand times in your mind. So she pulled you closer, and you let her, resting your head against the crook of her shoulder.

The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t acknowledge it, but you felt Mor shift, felt her hair brush your cheek as she turned to greet the new addition to your self-pity circle.

And then you felt another familiar presence. The scent of night-chilled wind, sea, and citrus, the familiar shift in power—a presence heavier than Azriel’s, but just as consuming. Even more at times.

Rhys settled beside you with a groan, joints creaking as he got comfortable.

It made you smile, just a little. Old man.

“I was wondering where you two went off to,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

You let out a small sound—something noncommittal, something that didn’t quite fill the silence. “Oh, you know. Contemplating every single sense of existential dread.” You gestured vaguely. “Talking about the weather.”

Rhys lifted a brow. You paused, sparing him a quick glance. “It’s nice weather.”

He made a sound—half a hum, half a laugh—and rubbed his knee. “I don’t know. I can feel rain coming.”

You didn’t say anything, just glanced up at the sky—still clear, the stars bright. Some rain sounded nice. Peaceful. Something to wash away the past few days.

Rhys looked over at Mor. “Emerie is looking for you.”

Mor exhaled, glancing between the two of you before pulling away. Her hands, fingers now cold from the night, squeezed your face gently. “I love you,” she said softly. “Come find me if you need anything, okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

She hesitated for just a second before standing up and disappearing into the house. You watched her go, the warmth of her touch still lingering on your skin as you turned back around, finding Rhys already watching you. He had that look—one of quiet concern, of something like careful patience. The image of a concerned father. An older brother.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you muttered.

Rhys snorted. “Trust me, I’ve had enough babysitting for the night.”

“Yeah, but don’t you want to be inside with everyone else?”

“Are you trying to kick me back into my own home?” he asked, amused.

You shook your head. “No, I just don’t want you to feel like you need to be out here with me.”

“I don’t feel like I need to be anything,” he said simply. “I haven’t spent much time with you lately. I want to be out here.” His voice softened. “After all, this is a banquet thanking people who’ve helped this court. Who has helped more than you, the one I trust to help repair our image?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Well, I did some damage recently, too.”

“Until you get banned from an entire court, I think you’re alright.”

The conversation settled into a lull, quiet stretching between you.

Then you said, “I’m assuming Mor told you some things.”

“Not really. But I can assume.”

You swallowed, looking away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he said easily. “We don’t have to.”

“But…” You glanced at him, suddenly tired of holding it all in. You had always been honest with your family—always told them the truth, even when it was difficult. And after opening up to Mor, after feeling the weight of it ease just slightly, you realized how much you had missed this. How much lighter a burden felt when it was shared, when you weren’t the only one carrying it.

Rhys seemed to understand before you even said another word. His expression shifted, something like realization settling in his gaze. And then, carefully, you felt the light press of him in your mind. A knock.

You let your walls down.

You felt his presence as he sifted through the memories—watched his face change as he saw it all.

After a long moment, he straightened slightly, exhaling as he looked at you. He squinted, tilting his head. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“Yeah.”

You turned away again, resting your head in your hands. Your chest felt a lot lighter now. Your thoughts a little less heavy. Rhys didn’t say anything. He just stood, brushing off his pants before stepping down the stairs.

You frowned, watching as he descended a few steps, then extended a hand toward you.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“We’re going on a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think you need to clear your mind.”

You hesitated, eyeing his outstretched hand. He only smiled. “Someone very special in my life used to take me on walks when I was overwhelmed.”

Your lips parted slightly, a flicker of recognition sparking in your chest. You thought back to those early years—when Rhys was newly High Lord, when he was drowning in responsibility and grief he wouldn’t even acknowledge. You had forced him to go on walks back then, dragging him away from his desk, ignoring his protests. He had hated it at first. And then, eventually, it had just become something you did.

A quiet tradition.

You smiled—small, almost sad—as you pushed yourself up. “Are you sure you want to leave everyone?”

“I think they can handle us leaving for a few hours.”

You scoffed. “Don’t speak too soon.”

Rhys huffed a laugh, shaking his head as you stepped down to join him. And then, without another word, you walked.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

There was a certain shared understanding between you and Rhysand— two people who had seen each other at their best and worst. For an hour, as the familiar rhythm of your footsteps matched each other’s perfectly, it felt as if the world had paused just enough for you to feel like you belonged again.

When you finally reached the townhome, Rhys stopped, his hand on your arm like he was trying to keep you from walking away too soon.

“You’re not foolish for not realizing it sooner,” he said. “It’s a gift, really. To love so fully, so completely, that you don’t even notice where friendship ends and something more begins. Most people can’t do that, you know. We’re… very lucky to have you.”

You could only manage a smile in response. Rhys pulled you into a hug, his arms tight around you as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Get some rest,” he murmured, pulling away. Then he grinned, a familiar one that only he could pull off. “If you keep overthinking, I’ll have to start charging for my emotional support. I don’t come cheap, you know.”

“Are businesses no longer discounting damaged goods?”

Rhys let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. “Ouch,” he said, eyes wide with mock offense. “I take back everything about you being loving.”

“Night, Rhys,” you said, your voice warmer now. Genuine. “Love you.”

His smile softened, no longer the teasing grin. “I know.” And you could hear the affection there.

Then he turned and began walking down the path, whistling a nursing song that you were sure Nyx had been fixated on. Rhys reached the corner, paused for a moment as if to make sure no one was watching, then disappeared, winnowing into the night.

Dramatic even without an audience. You shook your head, a small smile still tugging at your lips, before entering the townhouse and making your way up the stairs.

You stopped when you saw him.

Azriel. Sitting against your door like he was waiting for something—someone. You. His eyes met yours, locking in place as if he’d been holding his breath this whole time. And in a blink, he was on his feet, moving like something had snapped, urgent, too fast for comfort.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

You paused, pushing the door to your bedroom open slowly, not fully meeting his gaze. “Why?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

You sighed, shoulders sagging as exhaustion settled over you. You didn’t want to have this conversation—not right now. It wasn’t that you didn’t care about what Azriel had to say, but everything just felt too much in this moment. You needed space, time to breathe and clear your head before diving into whatever this was between you two.

Tomorrow. You could deal with it tomorrow, with a fresh perspective, when you weren’t so drained. Tonight, you just needed to sleep, to wake up with your head in a better place, ready to handle it all. You wanted Rhys's words to be the last thing in your mind. Something comforting. Soothing.

“Maybe tomorrow,” you muttered, stepping inside. “I’m tired.”

“I’ll make this quick.”

You moved toward your bed, placing Mor’s shawl across your sheets. “Az, seriously. Tomorrow.”

He didn’t move, and when you glanced up, he looked at you then—really looked at you—and your breath caught in your throat as he asked, "Do you have feelings for me?"

You froze. A strange, cold knot twisted in your stomach. “Oh, not this again,” you groaned. You looked away, instinctively crossing your arms across your chest.

“Yes, this again,” he pressed, stepping closer. “I want an answer. Please.”

“Come on, Az.” You forced control over the tremor rising in your chest. “What did I do this time? Stare at you too long? Breathe too loud? Did you mistake me scolding you for some strange forepla—”

“I heard you,” he interrupted, and the words hit like a slap.

It felt like the air stopped moving. You couldn’t breathe.

“What?”

“Tonight,” he said, voice quieter now, “I heard you and Mor. I found this in my pocket.” He pulled out a bracelet—Selene’s, the matching piece to the one Mor had worn earlier.

Your heart slammed into your ribs. You opened your mouth to explain, but nothing came out. You needed something—anything. "You—you misunderstood."

"Did I?" His shadows stirred restlessly around him. “I-I didn’t hear much. It went quiet too fast, but from what I did hear… Did I really misunderstand?”

Your face burned, the heat spreading so quickly it felt like your skin might catch fire under his stare. You turned away, pulling your arms tighter across your chest. “Azriel, I don’t—”

“Just tell me the truth,” he urged, his voice cracking. “Please.”

You couldn’t respond. The words wouldn’t come.

A long silence stretched between you.

“Okay,” Az said, and his voice was so soft, so unlike his usual tone, it almost felt foreign. “Then I need to say something.”

"Az…" You turned to him, meeting his eyes as you said, "Just, please, don’t.”

Your response didn’t seem to register. Azriel closed his eyes, taking in a slow, deep breath, like he was steadying himself before a plunge.

“That night,” he started, “when I cleaned up your cheek, you asked why I listened to Selene. Why I said you had feelings for me. I told you I didn’t know.” He paused, dragging his hand over his face. “I lied. I know why. It bothered me when she said it. More than I wanted to admit. I told myself it was just because it made me uncomfortable—but that wasn’t it. I think the real reason I couldn’t stop thinking about it was because a part of me wanted it to be true.”

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the way Azriel looked so exposed in front of you, but his words didn’t land right away. You blinked, trying to process, but before you could speak, he continued—his voice somehow even softer now.

“I thought if I said it out loud, you’d laugh it off. Call me crazy. Maybe you’d correct me. Then I could force myself to never think about it again. But you didn’t. And gods, the look on your face when I said it... it was like I’d hit you.”

Another silence settled between you. For the first time, you were grateful for it, because one look at Az told you he wasn’t finished, that there was more he needed to say.

“I think I’ve always loved you,” Az said, and the words cracked something open inside you. “I didn’t know it—not at first. I thought it was normal. Of course, I wanted to be around you all the time. Of course, you’d be the first person I thought of in the morning and the last person at night.” His voice wavered, and he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips as his wings fell lax. “But it’s not. It’s not normal.”

His gaze finally met yours, steady, like he was holding you there with it. You’d never seen him look at anyone like this—not Mor, not Elain, not Gwyn.

“I can't lie to you, Y/n. I can’t pretend I don’t love you. You’re everywhere. You’re everything.”

You couldn’t breathe. The world around you narrowed, collapsing inward until there was nothing left but him. Azriel loved you. The relief that hit you almost made your knees give out.

His chest rose and fell quickly, like he was bracing for impact. The earlier desperation was gone, replaced by something more timid. "Please," he whispered. "Say something."

The pressure in your chest—the ache that had burrowed beneath your ribs for weeks—dissipated in an instant. Every concern, every gnawing worry. All that remained was the quiet comfort that Azriel had always given you. That ease, that feeling of home you’d only ever found in him.

You exhaled, and before you could stop yourself, a laugh slipped past your lips—breathless, almost disbelieving. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk that much. Like, ever.”

Azriel blinked. For a moment, you thought you’d broken something—but then, his lips twitched, a hesitant smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, there was a lot of ground to cover.” He exhaled through his nose. “But if you don’t feel the same—if this isn’t what you want, I’ll step back. I won’t push. I promise.”

You wanted to cry, to laugh, to praise the Mother that he felt the same. Instead, you closed the space between you. Slowly, you reached up, fingers threading through the mess of his hair, smoothing away the strands that had fallen across his forehead. You traced the line of his cheekbone with the barest brush of your fingertips, committing it to memory, savoring the way his breath hitched beneath your touch.

You hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before cupping his face in your palm.

And then, you kissed him.

He didn’t react at first. He just stood there, completely still, like he hadn’t even processed what was happening. You started to pull away, suddenly unsure—

But then he made a sound, something like a sigh of relief, and his hands found you.

The next kiss wasn’t hesitant. His fingers pressed into your waist as he pulled you in, tilting his head, deepening it, like he didn’t want to waste another second. And you felt it—every inch of it. The ache, the longing, the unbearable relief of finally knowing. Every agonizing thought, every moment spent convincing yourself this was one-sided, crumbling beneath the warmth of his mouth against yours.

No kiss had ever felt like this. Not in all your years, not in all your life. Like something was finally, truly yours. It was sharp, it was bright, a rush that sent you spiraling in a way you hadn’t known you could.

But even with your heart glowing in your chest, there was no dramatic shift. No world-altering moment. It just felt right. A quiet kind of certainty. The kind that settled into your bones and left you with nothing but butterflies.

You pulled apart slowly, foreheads resting together, lips still brushing as if reluctant to let go. The cool touch of his shadows grazed your skin. You weren’t sure if it was them or the kiss itself that made your skin tingle.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered open a second after yours. The way he looked at you—so close, his hazel eyes bright with green flecks—had your chest tightening. It made you breathless. His smile softened the furrow in his brow, the motion pulling at his cheeks in a way that made your heart stutter all over again.

His thumb ghosted over your cheek. “Are you crying?”

You blinked, still so caught up in the haze of everything, in how your heart was doing this erratic dance that you couldn’t quite follow. You lifted a hand to your face, and—shit, there were tears. You hadn’t even noticed. “Oh. Well, guess I am,” you said, a half-laugh slipping out before you could stop it, but it sounded hollow, a little shaky. “Awkward.”

Azriel made a sound, something close to a laugh of his own, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, not fully. “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”

“You have no idea how much I’ve been overthinking the past few weeks.”

Azriel’s expression softened as his finger moved, brushing over your lips now. “If it makes you feel better,” he said, “I’ve been in complete agony too.”

A proper laugh slipped from you. “Well, good,” you said, a little teasing, but it felt good to say it. “It does make me feel better. You deserved it a little bit.”

He smiled, amused, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. “I did, didn’t I?”

A soft hum rumbled in your chest in response, something between a smile and a sigh. His thumb continued its slow, deliberate path across your lips, tracing the edges like he was memorizing them. You didn’t stop him.

You let your hands fall, landing gently against his chest, where you could feel the steady, rhythmic pulse of his heart beneath your palm.

“So, what do we do now?” You asked quietly, the question coming out before you could stop it.

Azriel’s motions slowed. “What would you like to do?”

“Well, we probably have to talk about what this means.”

He nodded. “Probably.”

You couldn’t help it. “And we really need to figure out how we’re going to move forward, how this changes everything…”

“Mhm,” he murmured, his focus now completely on your face, his fingers tracing your features, exploring them in a way he’d never been able to.

“Az,” you murmured. “Are you listening to me?”

He didn’t hesitate as he met your gaze and responded, “I would never make the mistake of not listening to you again.”

The sincerity in his voice made your breath catch, every other thought fading in the wake of it—until your stomach growled. You grimaced.

“Actually,” you said, tapping a finger against his chest. “You know what I would really like to do now?”

“Tell me.”

“I could really go for some food.”

Suddenly, Azriel stepped back, eyes lighting up like an excited child. You frowned at the loss of contact. “Wait here.”

Before you could even process what was happening, he was already gone, running out the door. A few seconds later, he returned, breathless, looking slightly too pleased with himself as he held both hands behind his back. “I have something for you.”

You eyed him. “Is it a bug?”

Realistically, you knew it wasn’t. Or at least, you hoped it wasn’t. But Azriel had never looked this pleased with himself before, never this close to giddy. That, combined with the way his hands were securely tucked behind his back, reminded you that—before anything else—Azriel was your best friend. And your best friend knew exactly how to mess with you at the strangest times.

Azriel’s expression faltered for a second. “What? No. Why would it—never mind.”

Then, hesitantly, he revealed it: crumpled in a piece of an appetizer liner, slightly worse for wear, was the rosemary and honey tartlet you’d eyed earlier. You melted at the sight and reached for it gently, cradling it in your hands like something precious.

Azriel looked almost sheepish. “We can get a proper meal, but I noticed you were looking at it earlier—at the banquet. You never grabbed one. So I thought…”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. A real one. Centuries. Centuries of friendship, of knowing him better than anyone, and somehow you’d never seen this. Never noticed how deeply he noticed you. How foolish you had been. How lucky you were now.

Azriel frowned. “What? What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, still laughing softly. “Its just— of course you noticed.”

His lips quirked like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or suspicious. “Well, yeah.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, reaching out again, pressing your palm against his cheek for a beat before turning your focus back to the tartlet. You turned it over in your hands. “Why is it squished?”

Azriel winced, like the question itself embarrassed him. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, brushing it off.

You lifted a brow. “Okay.”

You stared at it for another moment, then turned, setting it carefully on your bed.

He frowned. “But the crumbs on your bedsheet—”

You shook your head, smiling with a teasing eye roll. “Just kiss me, neat freak.”

His protest faded as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your mouth to his. Once, then again, and again, until you were sure even his shadows felt the need to look away.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You and Azriel hadn’t slept.

Not for any reason that would have had Cassian waggling his eyebrows at you—though you did, naturally, find yourself thinking about it—but because the night had slipped away in conversation over greasy food from a little restaurant south of the townhouse.

The early morning light stretched through the windows, soft and golden, as Azriel stood at the kitchen counter making tea. You watched the familiar sight of him steeping the leaves, the way he moved like this was just any other morning.

But it wasn’t. Twelve hours ago, this had felt impossible. And now it was here.

You curled your fingers around the edge of the table, trying to process the weight of it. It wasn’t heavy, though. That was the strangest part. Not that you now knew how his lips felt against yours, or how his heartbeat sounded when it synced with your own, but how there had been no grand shift, no dramatic revelation. No bolt of lightning splitting your world in two.

Just this—Azriel placing a mug in front of you, his fingers brushing yours, his lips quirking as he sat by you like he always had. Except there were small differences now— his chair was closer, next to you more than it was across. You found yourself focusing on smaller details, his dark lashes as he looked down at his cup, the way his fingers curled around the ceramic. You did your best to suppress any fleeting thoughts at the sight of them. Those ideas could be addressed later.

It all made sense—the infuriating, vague notion that people had told you over the years: when you know, you know. You’d always hated that. How could no one ever explain it? How could no one ever find the words? But looking at Az now, you understood. There were no words. Just this. Just the way your heart settled at the sight of him.

“You’re staring,” Azriel murmured, watching you over the rim of his cup.

You hummed, taking a sip of your tea. “You’re pretty.”

Azriel choked. Caught completely off guard. He set his mug down, coughing once, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were narrowed. “That was disgustingly sincere.”

“I know,” you grinned. “You’ll survive.”

Your mind drifted back to the night before—how the two of you had been desperate to catch up on all the things you had missed over the past few weeks. You’d told him about Adrin’s extensive mirthroot collection and how well you thought he’d be suited for Gwyn. He’d groaned, muttering something about needing to apologize. And then Az had told the story of how Cassian had slapped him for being an idiot. Three times. You’d really laughed at that one.

Somewhere between it all, between the easy conversation and the warmth of having him near, it had hit you again and again—this is it. This is what you could have for the rest of your life, if you were lucky.

Azriel hummed, setting his cup down. He knocked his knee against yours—once, then twice, like he was testing something. And then he reached over, grabbed the side of your chair, and scraped it just an inch closer to his.

You shot him a flat look. “Don’t tell me you’re a clingy boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Azriel raised a brow jokingly. “I don’t remember us labeling anything.”

“Oh, right. My mistake. In that case, I should probably tell Nesta to back out of the Gwyn and Adrin plan—”

“Don’t you dare.”

You smirked over your tea. “Why not? It’s not like I have a boyfriend to be upset about it.”

He stared at you for a beat, smiling as his eyes softened with a warmth that made your stomach flip. Seconds later, you were both laughing. Quiet, warm laughter that filled the kitchen, that curled around you like an embrace.

And then—

A shift, a subtle pull, like the air had thickened and the room was just a little smaller. It wasn’t a shock, nothing sudden or harsh. It was smooth, like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding until you exhaled, like the feeling of stepping into the sun after hours in the cold.

This was it. He was it.

Azriel froze, eyes widening as the feeling settled. Then, like he was testing something—searching—he tugged, just a bit, like he wasn’t sure if it was real. You sucked in a breath, hand instinctively rising to your chest. You felt it, in the way it seemed to resonate through every nerve, like a pulse echoing through your ribs.

He cleared his throat, a soft sound, almost nervous, and then his voice came out, rough but teasing, “Clingy mate, actually.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. A laugh caught in your throat, half breathless, half disbelieving. And then you were kissing him, pressing your forehead against his, letting the warmth of him, of this, sink into every part of you.

“Bold of you to assume I accept.”

Azriel laughed deeply before he was kissing you again, grinning against your lips as you laughed into his. And when you pulled back, breathless and giddy, you knew—without a single doubt—that you’d never stop choosing this.

Never stop choosing him.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note:

and.... it is a happy ending after all :D awsf? nation how are we feeling tonight🎤

theyre mates, your honor!!! theyre mates and in love!!! im so sorry this took so long my loves, i rewrote it like 6 times. im still worried it doesnt do them justice but hehe we ball

i do have at least two more works for this little universe! a small lil epilogue planned for these sweethearts AND another surprise piece... which is already at 10k (hint: we get…another perspective of the night. plus a fun lil convo with a certain matedhaired male...). the surprise should be out next week, and the proper epilogue (with a timejump!) sometime after. and im always so so open to doing lil one-shots for this universe

thank you all again for reading <3 i hope i've done this lovestory justice.

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon @glam-targaryen

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @motheroffae @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered

@feyretopia @yesiamthatwierd @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls @louisa-harrier

2K notes · View notes

joelsgoldrush · 3 months ago

Text

“lovers once a year” | 9.4k

dbf!joel miller x f!reader

SUMMARY: One always craves what is out of reach. Like the forbidden fruit that lingers just beyond grasp, tempting with its sweetness. Joel became the town’s greatest sinner, and you, his best friend’s daughter, are the tantalizing temptation he knows he should never indulge in. Your very existence marks the path to his ruin. He can't help but follow it. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. joel’s POV. a lot of introspection. mentions of alcohol. miscommunication. no outbreak. dbf!joel. age gap (25 and 56). petnames. religious imagery. car sex. oral sex (f!receiving). fingering. unprotected p in v. riding. missionary. doggy style. orgasm denial. crying. hair pulling. thumb/finger sucking. cum shot. creampie. reader sits on joel’s lap and has hair. moodboard for aesthetic purposes only. A/N: the fact this idea has been sitting on my drafts for over a year is just crazy. i finally found the time to put into words, and i know i’m a little late to the whole dbf!joel trope, but i’m a real sucker for it... hope you like this one! <3

No one could’ve ever said Joel was a great best friend.

For one, he was terrible at remembering important dates. His mind just didn’t catch hold of details like that—never had, really. He wasn’t the sentimental type, either. At best, he’d manage a pat on the back or a firm handshake, maybe even a call on Christmas if he remembered. Emotional displays weren’t in his nature, far too used to keeping things at arm’s length.

Luckily for him, Stephen never seemed to care much about these things. They’d been friends for over forty years—which is, well, a hell of a long time, especially considering each had gone off to carve out his own life. They’d trudged through both primary and secondary school side by side, and Joel felt Stephen’s absence like a hollow ache the day his friend left for university in another state.

Technology eventually offered them more ways to connect, but it didn’t make keeping up any simpler. The years had tested them, and somehow, they’d held on to the quiet strength of their friendship—a bond they’d forged across decades and distance, held steady like the roots of an old tree.

Stephen was the laid-back type, always down for anything as long as a cold beer was part of the deal. It was rare for him to lose his temper, having a way of letting nuisances slide. Joel could bend every rule, yet Stephen’s patience never wavered. He was unflappable, hardly bothered by Joel’s mood swings, which was what made them a match made in heaven. Nothing could throw him off.

Though Joel doubts Stephen would stay so calm if he knew what he’d done to his daughter. As mentioned, Joel’s not exactly what you’d call a good friend—particularly considering he’s slept with his best friend’s daughter. Just once, to be fair. One ephemeral, impulsive encounter. Right here, in this very house, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days ago.

His gaze drifts across the room, settling on you at a smaller table a few meters away, surrounded by your younger cousins, ages five to fifteen. He watches as you scroll absent-mindedly on your phone, your brow furrowed in concentration, only tearing your eyes away from the screen when one of the kids hurls a handful of salty peanuts at you.

You press your palms flat against the tablecloth, eyes narrowing as you scowl playfully at the child, a mischievous glint in your expression. “You’ve got ten seconds to run,” you utter in a tone meant to sound ominous, tickling his sides until he erupts in laughter, his giggles filling the dining room with raw joy.

Joel’s been here for over two hours, but he can’t recall a single detail about the night’s events. All he knows is you—he’s studied your every movement, following the shape of your silhouette through the crowd. He’s accepted a few drinks, engaged in shallow conversation with your relatives, trying his best to play the part of a man with nothing to hide. But despite his efforts, despite every attempt to appear unaffected, he feels a slow burn kindling in the pit of his stomach, an ache that curls through him in a deliciously destructive way.

It’s when you look up, locking eyes with him, that he nearly mutilates the chicken breast on his plate, the knife skittering over porcelain with a screech. He quickly mutters an apology, excusing his clumsiness and blaming it on one too many drinks. Meanwhile, you don’t quit glaring at him, a hint of a challenge dancing in your stare.

This shouldn’t feel the way it does, this hazardous, risky game you’re playing. At one time, he might’ve thought this was something only seen in movies, something imagined and unreal. But here you are, and here he is, and the indisputable hunger in your eyes is as real as anything he’s ever known.

Suddenly, his memories drift back to a year ago, to your grandmother’s 84th birthday—the night it all began.

Stephen had left Austin when he was eighteen to pursue a college degree. That’s how he’d ended up in New York, and from that point on, he never came back. It’d been amazing to see him as an equal when they were teenagers, but as they grew older, the only things they shared were the white hairs scattered all over their beards and the memories of much better days.

Whenever they got in touch—which didn’t happen often—your dad would talk about you. You were just a name without a face, an empty canvas. Close to graduating, with only a few subjects and finals left. Psychology was your major—weren’t you smart? Joel remembers typing back with a string of exclamation marks to show his contentment. His best friend’s daughter was a success; how could he not be happy?

One random day, Joel’s phone buzzed late in the afternoon, flashing with Stephen’s name. It was rare for them to talk outside the usual birthdays and holidays, so seeing his name on the screen sent a small jolt through him. A dozen scenarios raced through his mind as he picked up, each one edging between concern and curiosity.

Just like that, Stephen dropped the news without any preamble. “I’m moving back to Austin,” His voice came in clear, and there was something unusual about it, brisk but almost nostalgic. Joel gripped the phone a little tighter, processing the words. “In fact, I’m filling up the gas tank as we speak. There’s someone at home who wants to see you.”

That someone had been your grandmother. With a twinkle in her eye, she’d insisted on inviting Joel to her 84th birthday. “It’s the perfect chance for you two to reconnect,” she’d declared, her tone laced with warmth and hope. She adored Joel, practically worshipping the ground he walked on, often reminiscing about the vibrant young man he had once been.

Who could deny anything to an elderly person, especially one as cherished as her? He was strong, physically imposing, but not strong enough to resist her wishes.

The reunion was going as well as it could, given the circumstances. After all, it was a strange kind of delight, seeing his best friend for the first time in decades. Joel thought they’d do what friends do—sit back, drink, smoke, and trade stories about the good old days.

Then you walked into the room, absolutely gorgeous and with a smile that was all teeth, and you reached out to shake Joel’s hand as you introduced yourself. The contrast hit him instantly—your skin was satin-like against his, smooth where his was rough and calloused from years of handling concrete and steel. A subtle heat bloomed where your fingers touched, the chill of the rings on your hand sending a shiver through him, as if his senses had sharpened in that brief instant.

You pulled away, taking a step back, your eyes flicking between him and your dad. Joel’s arm fell back to his side, his hand forming a tight fist, the bite of his nails embedded into his palm to keep him grounded. But he couldn’t stop himself from scrutinizing you—every detail of your face, the curve of your smile, the effortless way you carried yourself. Your beauty was at fault, not him. You were completely out of reach, yet close enough to marvel at. He was no more than a man, bound to notice the charm of a pretty girl like you.

That you happened to be the daughter of his best friend—that was just a cruel stroke of fate.

“Oh, sweetie. I’m glad you got to meet Joel at last!” Stephen’s voice cut through his thoughts, an arm draping across Joel’s shoulders, pulling him into an affectionate embrace. “He’s that friend from school I’ve been telling you about.”

Stephen looked so at ease, so utterly pleased, that Joel could only swallow back the lump in his throat. What kind of sick joke was this? What could he have possibly done to deserve this twist of the knife?

With a soft laugh, you folded your hands behind your back, tilting your head to the right. “My father wouldn’t shut up about you,” you said, light and melodic, drawing him in like a lure. Joel found himself adrift in the sweet cadence of your voice, entranced by the delicate chain glinting at your throat, resting just above the neckline of your shirt, the v-cut hinting at a world of temptation.

He blinked owlishly, fighting the images clawing behind his eyelids. “Well, he’s a good man, your father,” Joel managed, his smile strained. Not because it wasn’t true, but because there was a blaring alarm in his head, warning him to get a fucking grip. He knew himself well enough to read the signs, the underlying meaning beneath these nerves, the quickened pulse, the quiet, undeniable urge to reach out and feel you.

He was gone already. He fancied you, and his mind raced with thoughts he knew he had no right to entertain. He imagined what you’d taste like, the way you might sound if he were between your legs, encouraging you to gasp his name. Yet, he was aware that these fantasies were as treacherous as they were forbidden, even more with you standing right in front of him. And your father, just inches away.

From the kitchen, someone called out to Stephen, and with a weary sigh, he unhooked himself from Joel’s shoulder. “Coming!” he shouted back, already angling himself toward the door. He glanced back at the two of you, half-smiling while rubbing his temples. “I forgot how exhausting it is to host a family birthday party. I’ll be right back. You two go ahead and chat without me.”

Fuck, no, Joel thought to himself. Don’t leave me here. Where the hell are you going?

Joel resorted to remaining silent, choosing instead to take a long sip of his beer to avoid the occasion of sin. He refused to look in your direction, fixing his gaze on anything that didn’t involve your bare legs—the same legs he’d just been eyeing in those damn denim shorts, which exquisitely hugged your thighs. But, then again, he shouldn’t even be noticing that.

As he peered down at the carpet, he couldn’t ignore the movement of your shoes as you stepped closer. He observed your fingers playing idly with the frayed edges of your shorts, your body inching nearer, and he braced himself in anticipation of whatever you might say next. When his eyes landed on yours, he was met with an aura of expectancy, a cocky smirk pulling at your lips.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr. Miller,” you murmured, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed with effort. Letting your hand linger beside your face, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, glancing at him through your lashes. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Joel felt the flush rise to his cheeks, and there was no mistaking it—you were doing this on purpose. Were you trying to push him off balance, to see how far he’d bend before snapping? Was this just a game for you, a bit of mischief to spice up a family gathering? The idea irritated him, but he couldn’t entirely ignore the thrill woven into the discomfort. A quarter of his mind itched to play along, but the rest of him screamed to find the nearest exit.

“Y’can just call me Joel. No needa be so formal,” he mumbled, lifting the beer bottle to his lips once again, the bitterness spreading across his tongue.

“But I like Mr. Miller better.”

His mind conjured all those images of fire and damnation, of being dragged to some dark, smoldering pit. Rotting in hell, he could already see himself within the flames. Tugging at the collar of his flannel, now too tight and hot, he gave a rough, clearing cough. “M’gonna—go find your dad.”

He was glad you didn’t try to approach him in public again. For a few hours, he felt something close to tranquillity—not fully, though, as he could still hear echoes of your voice in the silences. Every so often, out of the corner of his eye, he’d catch you orbiting near him, lurking in his peripheral vision, even though you sat at a different table.

Later in the night, he wandered upstairs in search of the bathroom, instead stumbling upon your father’s childhood bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he took the liberty to enter it, a familiar scent filling the room. He ran his fingers over the walls, still papered with posters he recognized well. It was as if time had paused there—everything remained as it had the last time he’d been in this very room. The framed portraits, the worn bedspread, and Stephen’s desk, scattered with foreign bills under a layer of glass, each one a memento from the different countries he had visited.

It was only a matter of time before you found him, a light knock on the open door drawing his attention. Joel turned on his heels, catching sight of you, acknowledging your presence with a slight bow of his head. You ambled toward him, curiosity alight in your steps, twisting the chain of your necklace, a restless gesture that betrayed the energy simmering beneath your calm exterior.

He scratched the back of his head, offering a half-hearted smile. “This isn’t the bathroom, right?” he joked, attempting a casual tone. The joke was a weak one, admittedly, but you laughed anyway, a nonchalant sound that showed the gleam of your teeth.

“No, I don’t think it is,” you replied, sliding onto the edge of the desk with an effortless ease. “What brought you here?”

“Birthday parties can be a bit overwhelmin', dontcha think?”

“Totally.”

And then you went back to watching him, your eyes tracing his features with an almost stubborn intensity.

“You gonna stop doin' that?” he asked, the words coming out sharper than he meant, though they didn't make you flinch.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Lookin' at me all doe-eyed.” His voice didn’t waver, but he advanced in your direction. His knees nearly brushed against yours, the weathered denim grazing your bare skin, and only then did a flicker of uncertainty soften your confident stance. “Whatever it is you’re after, it’s not gonna happen. So quit tryin’.”

You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself to your feet. “You sure about that?” Before he had the time to react, you were standing inches from him, your chest pressing against his, just close enough for him to feel the soft weight of your breasts. “Should I pretend, then, that I haven’t noticed you’ve been half-hard all night?”

Joel's jaw tightened, his teeth gritting almost painfully. His fists flexed by his sides, his entire body feeling heavier, muscles pulled taut by some invisible thread. "Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” You hooked a finger inside his belt loop, tugging him that much closer. Your breath, fresh and minty, mingled with the faint scent of your perfume, and he inhaled both, heady on the mix. “You’re gonna teach me a lesson?”

There was only so much patience a man like him could summon, and you were a thorn in his flesh, determined and unyielding. He leaned in, voice gruff as he uttered three words that made your brows knit together. “Close the door.” You stayed frozen, lips parting in surprise. “Did y’hear me? M’not into exhibitionism. Close. The. Door.”

You did as he asked, obliging, stepping back to close the door before returning to your place. Without warning, he turned you around, pressing your palms flat against the cool glass of the desk, a sharp chill that made you yelp. His hand settled firmly on your back, guiding you down until your chest was flush against the surface as well. In one swift motion, your shorts were gone, followed by your soaked panties, a damp spot where your arousal had begun to seep through.

He slipped his fingers inside you first, his hand covering your mouth to stifle the needy whimpers escaping your lips. The roughness of his beard grazed your cheek as he hovered over you, his breath hot in your ear as he spoke. “Bein’ too fuckin’ loud, doll.” Matching the rhythm of the slow drag of his fingers, his hips pressed forward, grinding against the curve of your ass, each movement making his mouth go dry. “Y’want this cock that bad?” He nipped at your throat, and you, against his sweaty palm, mumbled what could have only been a muffled Yes. “Then I need y’to keep real quiet for me, alright?”

His jeans and boxers hung around his knees, his cock leaking and throbbing at the tip. Joel realized what true desperation felt like, dangerously close to busting his load at any given moment before even getting the chance to be fully inside you. On top of the desk, your body trembled, and you reached back, pulling your top higher up to bare more of yourself to him. He unclasped your bra with one hand, while his other guided him to your entrance, his lips pressing reverently against your spine as he pushed inside, savoring the heat of your walls wrapping around him for the first time. It certainly didn’t feel like anything he’d ever experienced in his fifty-six years of life.

It had been short, and harsh, and fast. Borderline animalistic, what experts would label as a quick fuck. The moment he breached your entrance, you begged for more, fucking yourself back onto him until his thighs met your skin. You acted as if possessed by a greater entity, diabolic, though Joel didn’t mind it. He relished it, welcomed it. But he couldn’t let you take the reins. He asserted his dominance, snapping his hips forward with a force that drew moans from the depths of your lungs. He was the one in control, driving himself deeper and deeper within you. Suffice it to say you seemed to love it, if the sounds he elicited from you were anything to go by.

It was what you wanted, what you needed. One way or another, he’d caught onto what those lingering glances throughout the party had signified. Every glance you’d thrown his way had been leading to this—a silent promise that whatever was happening had been destined to be the night’s climax.

You bit down on his palm as you reached your peak, tightening around him, and perhaps it was the thrill of it all, the knowledge that he’d need far more time to become well acquainted with your body, that had him chasing after you. Holding back until you came had been a feat, pulling out seconds prior to his release, stroking his length once before painting your skin with his seed. A low, primal groan escaped him as he slid his length between your cheeks, prolonging his high, each heated pulse marking you in a way that felt undeniably his.

As he regained his composure, he watched you swirl your thumb along your lower back, collecting a trace of his release, and bringing it to your lips to have a taste of him. You softly laughed when he cursed under his breath, turning your face lazily to the side. “Damn minx y’are,” he rasped, closing the gap between your mouths, his claiming yours in an urgent kiss. Your mewls faded beneath the insistent press of his mouth as he sought to suppress the strange pull in his guts, reluctant to confront the unfamiliar sensations churning within him.

Things wrapped up quickly after that. You both returned to your places, resuming the roles you’d stepped out of briefly: Joel had been in the bathroom; you had been on the phone with a friend. When he reappeared downstairs minutes after you, no one thought twice about his slightly damp hair.

For the remainder of the party, the two of you exchanged no further words. The time for him to leave came, and he offered only a nod of his head across the packed living room. It was a farewell only Joel would give, a subtle acknowledgment that left you wondering about its meaning. There were no explanations, no parting words.

The next time he saw your father, the mere thought of seeing you again terrified him. If it’d happened once, then the temptation would still remain undiminished, strong enough to awaken the lust and the longing veiled in silence. But you weren’t there anymore—back in New York, focused on finishing your semester at college. The surprise must have been evident on Joel’s face, a bewilderment that prompted Stephen to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Remember I told you she hasn’t graduated yet?”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember now,” he said, wishing to convince both your father and himself.

You were out of the picture, no longer around. Yet, the two of you now shared a secret. You still do, to this day. He’s no stranger to the notion that some things never seem to change. After all, he’s a creature of habit—same breakfast every morning, same brand of bread he’s been buying for years. Like all his other preferences, he’s come to realize he likes his women a certain way. And though he hates to admit it, you fit the bill perfectly.

Betty, Stephen’s mother, was turning eighty-five tonight. A seat with Joel’s name was saved at the big table; they wanted him there, his best friend and his best friend’s mother. How nice it was to actually feel wanted. He liked that feeling. Still, he’d had to bite his tongue when your father mentioned you’d be there, too. You had graduated at long last, with your birthday having been just a couple of weeks ago.

“Can’t believe she’s twenty-five already,” Stephen muttered with a chuckle, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Sitting beside him, Joel gripped the arm of his chair, sinking his nails into it. “Me neither, man.”

His choices had led him to this moment. The clinking of glasses rings in his ears, blending with laughter and the rich aroma of food that fills the air. None of it manages to distract him. He can't help but track you down, eyes scanning the room, relentless in their pursuit of yours. The need to see you goes beyond any shred of restraint he might have faked to have. Joel can’t muster the decorum to feign indifference—God, not when you’re near, when the pull toward you feels like gravity itself. He’s keenly, almost painfully aware, that he’s not even pretending to be indifferent, his interest etched plainly in the way his gaze persists, refusing to pull away.

It’s his first time seeing you in a year. A lot can change in that span of time. He can’t help but be amazed, because you look just the same as you did back then. Only your hair’s a touch shorter. He wonders if it’s even noticeable, or if he’s just spent so long memorizing your features that he’s losing his sanity. He bets it’s the latter.

A light pressure on his shoulder makes Joel jump, breaking down his reverie. He turns quickly, eyes widening. "Betty," he exhales, patting his chest with a smile, eyebrows lifted. "Jeez. Y’scared me."

“Y’alright, Joely? Y’look a bit pale.” The older woman reaches up, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead with a gentle familiarity. Through her lens, he’s still young. “Doesn’t seem like you’ve got a fever, though.”

"That’s ‘cause I’m not sick." Joel takes her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "How’s everythin’ goin’ so far? Got all these people together just t’celebrate ya’."

"It’s a wonderful night, sweetheart. So happy y’found the time t’be here," she replies, pinching his cheek in that affectionate way that earns her a quiet laugh from him. Her eyes then catch sight of a familiar figure. "Oh, look who's here. If it isn’t my beautiful granddaughter."

He stops smiling. In fact, he thinks he even stops breathing for a second as you intrude yourself into the scene, settling yourself beside your grandmother, flashing him a knowing grin. “I was getting kind of bored with the little ones.”

“Y’know Joel, right, dear?”

“Yes.” A pause, a beat you draw out between breaths. “Yes, I do.”

Betty leans his way, her warm hand still on him. “Have y’heard the latest news? This young lady just graduated.”

“Stephen told me,” he answers, looking up at you with a reserved nod. “Congrats, kid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

There’s that damn name again. Were he alone with you, he’d laugh in your face, but he can’t. Under the scrutiny of family and friends, he knows he’s cornered. Joel’s starting to believe you think you’re untouchable, that there are no consequences to your actions. You might look the same, maybe a little older, but that teasing, provocative spark in your eye hasn’t changed a bit.

“Always so polite, my child,” Betty says, cupping your cheek with a light pinch, a grandmotherly gesture perfected over the years which she seems to repeat often. “Any boyfriends back in New York?”

This would, without a doubt, be the perfect moment for him to excuse himself and stand up—a conversation he’d rather not be privy to. But with you positioned right in front of him, escape isn’t an option. “Still single, grandma,” you respond unfazed, as if you know exactly what you’re doing. “No one to worry about. Better like this, anyway.”

“But what’s the problem? There aren’t any boys y’like?”

He doesn’t even know what makes him say it—some impulse, some hidden tension surfacing—but he jumps in, his voice carrying a slight, sardonic edge. “Boys are more foolish than ever these days, Betty. Surely y’wouldn’t want her to settle for the first idiot who crosses her path.”

Betty clutches his arm, shaking her head in feigned shock. “Oh, not at all! It’s all about waitin’ for the right person. There’s no rush, for either of you. You’re still on your own, Joely?”

Time to drink again. He drains the last drops of alcohol remaining in his glass, feeling your eyes on him, intense and searing, and then he clears his throat, swallowing down the words he’d rather say. “Affirmative.”

“Well,” she sighs contentedly, patting each of your hands as though binding you both with some invisible thread. “Just means y’two have to wait a bit longer, right? Time has its way.” She chuckles, eyes soft with memory, turning to you. “Darlin’, this man here was quite the heartbreaker in his day. He and your dad would find all kinds of trouble with the ladies!”

“How so?” You cross your arms, playfully tilting your chin up. “Joel Miller, the charmer of the town?”

“Guess I’ve been known t’make a fool of myself,” he shoots back, silently cursing the moment he missed his chance to slip away. “Stephen got more fans than I did, though.”

“I did what?” Joel feels an elbow nudging his back, and there’s his friend, grinning in his usual easy way.

Joel's luck in life had been more bruised than blessed, a string of hardships that seemed amplified compared to what most people experienced. Being drawn in by you—in which category did that fall? Good luck or bad? He couldn't decide. Every glance and delicate smile you aimed his way stirred something reckless within him. Was it pure thrill, or a warning?

He laughs every time Stephen cracks a joke, but he’s barely listening, his mind half-tethered to the present. It’s like he’s watching himself from afar, observing his reactions as if he were an outsider. He isn’t stoned or drunk, just acutely mindful of your presence. He catches himself peeking up at you from where he sits, jaw tight, his brow creased. You meet his gaze with a slight squint, a polite look that hides something far more dangerous.

Boys are more foolish than ever these days. He’s sure of that much. They’re young, untested. But what about him? He’s no model of virtue, either. He’s made his share of mistakes, left good women behind—women who were willing to love him in spite of his flaws. They’d seen through the layers he wore like armor, and yet, in the end, he couldn’t hold on to any of them. He carried the ghosts of every past life, fragments of who he’d been and what he’d left behind, and he knew those shadows weren’t for everyone.

A thought pierces through him, sharp and sobering: what would Sarah think? His lovely daughter, grown and settled into her own life, would likely be mortified to know her father’s infatuation with a twenty-something. The weight of that realization sinks into his chest, and that seems to be his last straw.

He can’t possibly take it anymore. Rising from his chair, he mutters something to Stephen about needing fresh air and makes his way to the backyard door, exhaling deeply and gripping his car keys. The cool night air hits him, stepping outside, a temporary relief as he heads toward his truck.

Just as he’s about to open the door, he hears your voice. You call his name, your tone soft but distinct. He doesn’t turn, only lets out a long, weary sigh. “What?”

“Where are you going?” You stop a few steps behind him, watching the way his shoulders visibly tense. “Are you mad at me?”

“What?” He faces you, almost snapping his neck in his rush to look at you. “Why would I be—I’m not mad at ya’.”

“Then what’s wrong? Why are you leaving so early?”

He scrubs a hand over his nape, fingers pressing into the tension gathered there. “Would y’like me t’break it down for ya’, how messed up this is?” His gaze drops to the ground, unable to meet yours. “I’m riskin’ the only real friendship I’ve had here for… for somethin’ that I can’t even wrap my head ‘round. This isn’t okay, no matter which way I look at it.”

In that moment, it’s as if reality pulls you under. The mask of subtle, practiced arrogance falls apart, scattering in fragments around you. He watches, waiting for you to gather them up, to hide behind that composed veneer again. But you don’t move. You leave the pieces where they lie. Instead, you confront his gaze, unguarded, and ask, “Do you regret what happened between us?”

Another question. You seem to be full of them. They just keep coming, one after the other, as if you already had them prepared. I don’t, he thinks to himself, but would it do you any good if you knew it? “Don’ start with those mental games.”

“Then come back inside.”

“I know myself well enough to know what’s gonna happen if I do that, darlin’.”

Neither of you breaks the silence that’s settled between you, thick as the night air. You slip your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders slightly hunched, head hanging. Once again, like all those times before, he’s struck by how young you are compared to him. The difference stretches between you like a chasm, bridged only by these stolen moments. The weight of his years presses down on him, the choices he’s made—the mistakes and the half-hearted attempts to mend them. He’s got decades on you, three of them to be precise.

Joel never thought of himself as an ever-lasting free spirit, the kind of man who clings to youth or pretends to be something he’s not. Right now, with you here, he feels reckless, like a boy again. Stupid, impulsive, like the foolish young men he used to shake his head at—the very ones he’d warned your grandmother about.

“You left without even saying goodbye last time,” you mumble, low but clear, as you scuff the toe of your shoe against the grass. “And now you’re doing it again.”

He inhales sharply, clenching his keys, feeling the edges of the brass biting into his palm. For a moment, he thinks the sharpness will give him something to hold onto, but he knows the sting is nothing more than a weak anchor. “You’re a smart girl. Don’ need me to spell this out.”

“I know exactly what you mean, trust me. I get it.”

“Then why do you keep pushing?” His pent-up exasperation slips through despite himself, and he can see the hurt flicker across your face, the way your forehead barely puckers as his words hit harder than intended.

Even as you look away, a trace of that hurt fading, you stand firm. You shake your head after a beat, seemingly trying to brush off your doubts and confusion. Joel can’t decipher if you’re feigning innocence—if you are, he thinks, you could be one hell of an actress. “I don’t know. I guess I want to see how far this can go.”

You take a small step forward, testing the waters. Your feet move cautiously, not aiming to scare him off. Each step draws you nearer until there’s only a whisper of space between you, close enough for him to catch your scent, and he has to force himself to peer down to meet your eyes. They hold a quiet intensity: pleading, wide and earnest, already trained on him. Gleaming like two lone stars cutting through a moonless, empty sky.

It baffles him, the question forming unbidden in his mind. He goes even further, can’t help but wonder: why him? What is it that you see in him? What makes you keep coming back for more? You’ve already had a taste, a story you could tuck away, a secret to be shared with your friends someday around a campfire. So why, he would like to know, are you still here, seeking something from a man like him?

“I like you,” you blurt out, fingers drifting to skim over the worn fabric of his flannel, almost hesitantly. That tentative gesture sparks something raw in him, a low rumble of desire that feels like it’s been lying dormant for too long. Heat pulses through him, hot blood racing through his veins, awakening every nerve, each beat of his heart more insistent than the last one. “I think you like me, too.”

“You’re insufferable,” he bites out through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching so hard it nearly hurts. He closes his eyes, half hoping you’ll disappear, that he’ll find some reason, any reason, to call this off. Though when he opens them, you’re still there, waiting, unshaken. “I wish I knew how to stop this. How to walk away.”

“That’s not what you want.”

“We don’ always get what we want, kid. You’ll figure that out soon enough.” He means it as a warning, but even he hears the way his voice falters, his defenses crumbling in the face of your unflinching state.

You let out a slow sigh, your arms falling to your sides, eyes roaming over his features as if you’re memorizing every line. Your focus dips to his mouth. “Maybe,” you murmur, and he feels the warmth of your breath against his skin. “But some things are worth fighting for. And sometimes, those who don’t give up… get the best in the end.”

With a gentleness that stuns him, you lean in, bringing your lips to his in a featherlight kiss. You pull away, and he helplessly notices the way your lips part, how your breath hitches, and for a split second, the guilt becomes palpable, the significance of wanting a woman he knows he shouldn’t. You stand there, chest rising and falling, skin tingling, a faint trail of goosebumps visible where your neckline meets your chest.

Apart from the glint in your eyes, he catches the persistent, quiet ache of want. He isn’t sure if it’s just physical attraction, if it runs deeper, or if that’s all it is for him, either. He doesn’t need to know. The simplicity of it all is a short-lived relief. It’s an easy escape, though, this bare minimum of understanding—you want him, he wants you. Let it be enough for one more moment, for tonight, just another memory he’ll have to lock away. Yet he’s aware, deep down, of his own pattern: promises broken just as easily as they’re made. He’s only fooling himself. The part of him that knows this isn’t something he’ll let go of so easily sits there, silently taunting him, daring him to make another compromise he won’t keep.

From where you remain frozen, he’s certain you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he weighs every possible outcome. “It’s gonna happen, isn’t it?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and before you can react, his arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and turning you toward the car door. The cool metal pressing against your back startles a gasp out of you, but the suddenness only heightens everything—the heat of his body, the toughness of his hold.

He doesn’t waste time with words, having always been a man of action. His hand cradles your face, inspecting your features to later crush his mouth against yours. Your tongue finds his without hesitation, seeking him out, hungry and unrestrained. He savors your eagerness, the way your hands roam over him, clutching at his shirt, tugging him closer by the belt until your lower halves are pressed tightly. The taste of beer and mint clings to your lips, and a husky groan rumbles from him as your fingers find their place in the longer strands at the nape of his neck, twisting and pulling him impossibly closer.

He could lose himself in this, the simple, electric thrill of kissing you, how you fit so perfectly against him. Hours could slip by, and he wouldn’t mind, but then reality pulls him back; it’s too exposed here, right outside his truck where anyone could stumble upon you. “Get in the car,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, fumbling to unlock the door. It takes him three tries, and he chuckles, feeling the warmth of your laughter beside him as you tease him.

Once inside, his mouth finds yours again, this time more urgently, his hand pressing against your back, tracing the line of your spine through the clothes. “Tell me y’want this,” he breathes, his kisses trailing down your throat, latching onto the tender skin there. “C’mon, baby. Tell me y’want it. Tell me y’want me.”

A soft, breathy sound escapes you as his mouth fixates on that sensitive spot just below your ear. You tilt your hips instinctively, craving contact in search of relief, and he shifts you onto his lap, guiding your thighs to settle over his. Desperately working to undo the buttons of his shirt, yearning to uncover him, you pant against his cheek. “J-Jesus Christ, I need you. Please, touch me. Anything will do. Just—”

He’s silently grateful for your choice of a dress tonight. It makes things easier for him, and he gets right to it, bunching the fabric around your waist, hands roaming over the soft skin of your hips before moving his fingers lower, tracing teasing lines over your clothed center. He can’t fully make out the murmured words you breathe into his ear, but your voice drives him like a lighthouse guides a sinking ship, and he adjusts his movements, pressing with more intention. The only sounds filling the car are his ragged breaths and your gasping moans, and he holds you close to his chest, cooing softly as you start to rock into his hand, asking for more.

His fingers find their rhythm, circling your clit in deliberate flicks. Joel watches as you unravel, trembling in his arms, a hint of drool spreading over his shoulder from your parted lips on his skin. His grip tightens as he tugs your underwear down your legs, grinning when you kick them impatiently to the floor of the car. Now, as he strokes his digits up and down your folds, you turn to putty on his lap. In another world, he’d have you laid out in his bed, enjoying each inch of your body. But here, in the cramped, dim backseat, he keeps the lights off. He knows it’s reckless, yet that barely slows him down. His cock throbs at the very risk of getting caught, at the edge he’s walking just to have you like this.

“Goddamn, you’re soaked, aren’t ya’?” He doesn’t expect you to answer, at least not in any coherent way. He sinks his middle finger into your bare heat, searching your face in the dark, contemplating the fluttering of your lashes. His hand weaves into your hair, a firm tug guiding your gaze to his. Your head tips back, a moan spilling from your lips at the new sensation, rolling your hips into his palm with earnestness. “It’s gonna be a tight fit, huh? If this is how you’re grippin’ my fingers, I can’t imagine what that cunt’s gonna feel like wrapped ‘round me.”

Studies suggest that in those final, fleeting moments of life, memories flood the human mind—a last journey through a person’s years before crossing over. If he were to die after tonight, he knows your face would be there, etched into his last breath. He can almost picture it: struggling for air, teetering on the edge, with that reddish, towering figure of mortality looming over him. But even then, he’d find solace in the thought of you, thrown into oblivion. You’d grant him a last-minute reprieve, easing the ache. You’d be the one who’d hold back the shadows. This constitutes the apex of his life, and he knows he should be worried, yet intellectual dominance doesn’t stand much of a chance when confronting the heart of a man. Not when that heart, so long starved of its pulse, has finally found someone worth remembering.

He makes space for himself, thrusting his long fingers into you until he’s got your slick coating his palm. One hand settles firmly at the small of your back, guiding your movements, while he feels his collected composure faltering. You mouth at the rough stubble along his jawline when you start to get close, breathless whimpers clouding his thoughts. “Joel,” you call out to him, as if that alone would make wonders. “Oh, fuck. Please, I waited a whole year. I need to come.”

A whole year. You were his once a year, and he was yours, a bittersweet ritual bound by time. He never would’ve thought this party could bring him such pleasure, though he can’t pretend he’s against it. Last time, he hadn’t taken the chance to pull you under and make you fall apart as many times as he’d wanted. He’s intent on making up for that missed opportunity, determined to make you enjoy every moment.

He withdraws his fingers abruptly, and a sharp laugh nearly escapes him at your reaction. You reach instinctively, grabbing for his hand, trying to guide him back to where he belongs between your legs. But he’s already moving, maneuvering you down until you’re lying on your back, fully under his command. He lowers himself, replacing his fingers with the warm insistence of his mouth. The sound that escapes your lips as his mouth presses against your center is nothing short of a scream—a wild cry that fills the space around you. He’s grateful he parked far from the other guests, because that sound would turn more than a few heads.

Joel laps at your arousal as if it's the fountain of youth, the very essence of everything pure and precious in the world. He presses down on your thighs until they rest on either side of him, unclamping your legs from around his head. The suppleness of your skin feels divine under his fingertips, and he brushes his thumbs over your trembling form, coaxing you into calmness, to let him have his way with you at his own pace. It's an absurd paradox—aiming to soothe you while his mouth continues its fervent worship, tracing intricate patterns against your most sensitive flesh. His beard, streaked with gray and freshly trimmed, glistens with your slick, and Joel smolders with all-consuming passion.

When his friends had told him to go out more, maybe find someone to date, he's certain they didn't mean this. The smart choice (scratch that: the correct one) would have been to pursue a woman his own age. But fuck it—he's spent a lifetime doing what's right. Every road he might've taken would've led him here, to this moment, with you. Part of him believes he must still have something left, some spark of appeal. To have a pretty little thing like you, so eager, so willing, offering yourself to him? He has to have something. His knees ache from where he kneels on the unforgiving surface, but the burn is inconsequential, and he’ll endure anything to be what you need.

Joel trails his hand up your body, over the curve of your breast, before gently groping it, his palm covering yours in a shared grip. He runs the tip of his tongue along your folds, his saliva mingling with your wetness, aquiline nose grazing your sensitive bud. “You’re tellin’ me you’re this tight ‘cause you’ve been savin’ yourself for me? You do know what t’say t’make a man happy.” He spreads you open slowly, his gaze lingering on the way your cunt glistens, a sense of satisfaction rippling through him. You remain silent, your breath shallow. “Still with me, sugar?”

“It’s just that—I’m so close.” You bite back a moan, nails digging into the soft leather of the seat. Joel hums in response, his lips closing around your clit. Agitation flickers across your face as you try to grind your hips against his mouth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

The pressure is gone as he notices your thighs quivering again, his movements halting immediately.

“No, Joel. Please—”

“You’ll come when I tell ya’.”

He’s having the time of his life. Damn right he is.

He suddenly realizes he's still dressed from head to toes, the heat building in his body becoming too much to ignore. With a frustrated grunt, he undoes his belt, yanking the metal zipper down, longing to rid himself of the constricting denim. A strangled noise escapes him as you suck on his neck, fisting his base, giving him a few purposeful tugs.

“Now, you’re gonna ride me,” he murmurs, making a pause to shrug his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor of the car, “and you’re gonna like it. Don’ want you t’hold back this time, understood?”

His back ends up against one of the fogged-up windows. The air is thick with the apparent scent of sex—a phrase he’d only ever heard in movies, but now, it’s undeniably real. Joel holds his cock, aligning the tip with your entrance as his lips crash against yours in a hungry kiss. A deep groan escapes him, vibrating over your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. The sensation intensifies when your wet interior welcomes him, velvet walls molding to his size. Your brows scrunch together at the stretch, a choked whimper catching in your throat. As your hips sink fully, your ass flush against his thighs, your body clenches around him, that abrupt tightness drawing a stuttering gasp from him.

“For God’s sake,” he exhales, the words rough as his forehead bumps into yours. His hand splays over your ribcage, fingers curling slightly. “Sweetheart, you’re—killin’ me here.”

“I can feel you everywhere,” you huff, your arms looping around his neck to pull him closer, holding your breath. He takes the moment to capture your nipple between his swollen lips, leaving a shiny trail of spit in his wake. You lift yourself, the motion teasing, before sinking back down onto his lap, taking him in fully. “Can feel you in my stomach.”

When you begin to move, Joel loses track of everything else. Time seems to stretch, bending and reshaping itself each time his tip finds some hidden place inside you. He’s fifty-six years old, yet in this moment, his soul feels infinite. Invincible. He brings his hand to your lips, thumb grazing over them before slipping inside. Your warm tongue envelopes it, and when you start to suck dutifully, muffling your moans, his body jerks in response. His eyes drift to your glistening chest, where a sheen of sweat makes your skin glow in the dim light. You’re the most captivating woman he’s ever seen, and he knows he’ll never look at anyone the same again. He can’t tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the way your body merges with his, the way you undulate your hips on top of him.

You move back and forth, and he drives into you, filling you to the brim with every calculated thrust. He thrusts upward, stealing the air from your lungs, the sharp motion making you sputter as your body struggles to keep up with his.

“That’s it.” His voice is a husky growl as he wraps his arms tightly around your back, your chests sticking together with sweat. His pace quickens, the rhythm becoming more insistent. “Takin’ it like a good girl. You feel exquisite, baby. Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

“So big inside me,” you pant, your own pace faltering as you surrender to Joel’s unforgiving tempo. His hooded eyes flicker to yours, catching the way your pupils have swallowed up your irises, dark and blown wide with desire. A shiver runs through him as your fingers dig into his shoulders, your grip leaving faint crescents in his skin. “Missed your cock so much, Mr. Miller.”

Fuck, not that shit. If it’s possible, he grows impossibly harder. He pounds into you with renewed intensity this time, his singular goal to leave you speechless, boneless, completely undone. He wants you limp and shuddering, with nothing left to give. “Enough of that.” His hands find their place on the soft globes of your ass, molding and squeezing until the pressure has you mewling, the sweet sound shooting straight through him. His lips ghost over the shell of your ear. “Responsive everywhere, honey. Have any idea how much fun I’m gonna have with ya’?”

Who would’ve believed him back then? It proves this isn’t some once-in-a-lifetime fluke. It happened before, and now it’s happening again. He might as well surrender to it—accept his fate and move through the motions like a man resigned to what’s already written.

There’s a moment when your moans sharpen, turning high-pitched and dazed, and the way you constrict him sends his eyes rolling to the back of his skull, a guttural noise tearing from his chest. His movements still, clutching your waist to pin you in place, denying you the chance to move, to bounce on him.

Then you break. A sob wracks your body, tears spilling over and tracing hot paths down your cheeks. They gather, fusing together as they slide along your throat and pool in the hollow of your jaw before disappearing lower. “Asshole,” you hiss, the word fragile as you push your face into the curve of his neck, seeking refuge in his embrace.

“Sorry? Couldn’t catch that.” He makes sure to keep you securely tucked under his chin, tilting his lower half upward. “If you want me t’stop, just say the world and I will.”

He’s messing with you, plain and simple. He doesn’t actually expect you to take his words at face value. But you do, grinding down harder, impaling yourself further on the length of his cock, and your arousal trickles down, slicking the coarse hair of his thighs. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.” Slotting your mouth over his, you attempt to move, chasing any sort of friction against your clit. Sadly, pleasure doesn’t come on its own—it’s Joel who can make you feel good, and he’s not obliging. His hand seizes your hair in a rough grasp, tugging sharply. Eyes fluttering shut, you hunch forward, submitting to the sharp edge of his control.

“What an impatient little thing y’are.” Joel grabs your thighs and turns you over, your back pressed against the leather seat. The brusque shift pulls him out of you, the cool air a cruel tease before he taps his head against your swollen folds, then fills you again in one powerful thrust, kissing your cervix in the process. A deep moan rips from your lungs, deep and guttural, as your legs tremble uncontrollably on either side of him. Your ankles dig into his back, fervent to keep him close. His balls rest heavy against your skin, full and aching for release. “Gonna give ya’ what y’want, okay? You’ve been on your best behavior,” he mumbles with his lips stuck to your forehead. “That’s a good girl. Think she deserves to come after all.”

Only then does he find his rhythm again, ramming into your drooling hole. For the third time tonight, he’s captivated by how you teeter on the edge of overwhelming pleasure. He has you eating out of his hand, taking all that he offers, and you do so willingly. He knows he could ask you for anything, and in exchange for an orgasm coaxed by him, you'd comply without thinking twice. In many ways, he’s not so different. He gathers some of your saliva, using it to moisten his fingers before slipping them between your bodies, rubbing your clit as he continues to hit your bundle of nerves. Where his stamina comes from, he has no clue, though he’s determined to keep pushing.

Your face becomes a living poem, each cry of yours adding to its verse. Your head nearly reaches the door, but he cradles it with his arm, ensuring you don’t hurt yourself. “Close,” you whine, struggling to keep your eyes from falling shut. “Joel, please. Let me—”

“Give it to me, darlin’.” Another thrust, another moan. “Drench me, c’mon. That’s what y’want, isn’t it? To come all over this cock?”

The way he’s worked you up has its rewards, leading to a release that feels like an eruption. You bite down on his shoulder, your cries growing louder, chanting his name without pause. It loses all meaning after being chanted so many times, but the way you say it still has an undeniable weight. He doesn’t mind it one bit, not when he’s finishing right after you plead him to fill you. His jaw hangs open as ropes of his seed spill inside you, and he sags against your frame, giving short thrusts to push his cum deeper into your warmth, your pussy milking him dry.

“Oh, God…” he groans, fumbling with one of your breasts, holding onto something for dear life. “Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t pull out yet,” you say, grinning when you feel him twitch. “Stay a little longer.”

Too personal. Too intimate—dangerous in his books. Normally, he'd tuck himself back into his briefs, drive the woman he’s slept with home, and that would be the end of it. No happy endings in his story. So he’s surprised when he supports his weight on his forearms, claiming your lips in a voracious encounter of tongues and teeth. He caresses your cheek, tilting your face to deepen the kiss, and you sigh contentedly.

The two of you lapse into a heavy silence after that. He clears his throat, and says: “I should’ve asked you for your number that one time.” In the heat of the act, he’s being too honest. Regret will come knocking on his door once his excitement fades. His eyes bore into yours, dubious. “M’sorry for that.”

“Well, you could ask me for it now,” you admit from beneath him, and Joel pulls away for a moment, trying to gauge if you’re serious. He doesn’t think you’re joking. “To make up for lost time.”

This must be the onset of something else. He can't quite put it into words, but he feels it in his chest, in every place where your skin merges with his. He's no fortune teller, and there's no way for him to know where this path will take him, whether it leads to ruin or salvation. Though in this moment, he doesn't care—not now, at least.

At last, Joel blindly reaches for the pocket of his jeans with one arm. “How long are you stayin’ in Austin?”

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

2K notes · View notes

marvelstoriesepic · 4 days ago

Text

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don��t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

2K notes · View notes