#i had them on and was hit with thoughts of The Character

[sixeyesonathiel]

this love survives bad haircuts

synopsis : satoru makes a very questionable decision the night before school. by morning, he’s convinced he’s ruined everything—especially the way you look at him. it’s not just about hair, he learns. it never was.

wc — 4.8k ✦ tags -> character study, humor, comfort, fluff, crack treated seriously, high school au, established relationship, military haircut disaster, teenage love, idiots in love, insecure satoru

satoru gojo has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, running shaky fingers through what used to be his glorious crown of silver-white chaos and is now... this. this travesty. this crime against humanity. his hair sits close to his scalp in a crisp military cut, all sharp edges and geometric precision, and he looks like he’s about to ship out to boot camp instead of walking into first period chemistry.

the thing is, satoru has never been ugly before. not once in his seventeen years of existence. he’s been gangly, sure, when he hit that growth spurt at fourteen and couldn’t figure out where his limbs belonged. he’s been awkward, definitely, when his voice cracked during that disastrous presentation in freshman english. but ugly? never ugly.

more importantly, he’s never been ugly in front of you. you, who calls him pretty boy when you’re feeling soft. you, who traces his jawline with sleepy fingers during saturday morning cuddles. you, who literally purrs—purrs—when he nuzzles into your neck like the overgrown puppy he knows he is.

the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across his face and making his shorn head look even more alien. he tilts his head left, then right, hoping maybe the angle will make it less catastrophic. it doesn’t. if anything, it makes him look like a confused ostrich. he wonders if this is what normal people feel like all the time—this horrible uncertainty about their own reflection.

“what have i done,” he whispers to his reflection, and his reflection—that traitorous thing—just stares back with the same horrified crystalline eyes, now looking enormous without his usual curtain of hair to frame them.

the dare had seemed so simple last night. suguru and shoko, sprawled across his bedroom floor with energy drinks and homework they weren’t doing, had been going on and on about how you were obviously only dating him for his money. for his face. for the way his hair caught afternoon sunlight and made him look like some sort of ethereal prince.

it had stung, the way they’d laughed about it. not because he thought they were right, but because some treacherous part of his brain had whispered what if? what if you really were that shallow? what if the girl who remembered his coffee order and drew little hearts on his notebook margins and let him drape himself across her lap like a house cat was just playing some elaborate long game?

the thought makes him sick. because satoru gojo is pathetically in love with you. embarrassingly so. the kind of love that makes him text you good morning before his eyes are fully open, that makes him buy you little trinkets from the convenience store just because they reminded him of you, that makes him physically ache when you’re not around.

he’d always been too much. too loud, too rich, too everything. his parents had made sure he knew that—love wrapped in conditions, affection measured in achievements. so when you’d started dating him six months ago, he’d been waiting for the catch. waiting for you to get tired of his energy, his neediness, his desperate desire to be wanted for something other than his last name.

instead, you’d started calling him baby. started letting him sleep with his head on your chest. started feeding him pieces of your lunch while calling him spoiled, but with such fondness that it felt like the sweetest compliment in the world.

“she’s totally shallow,” shoko had said, blowing smoke rings toward his ceiling while picking at her black nail polish. “i bet if you showed up tomorrow bald, she’d dump you before homeroom.”

“not bald,” suguru had corrected, ever the voice of reason, though his smirk suggested otherwise. “but like, really short. military style. bet she wouldn’t even look at you twice.”

and satoru—stupid, lovesick, pride-wounded satoru—had taken the bait hook, line, and sinker. because deep down, in the parts of himself he doesn’t like to examine too closely, he’d wondered the same thing. wondered if your fingers tangled in his hair during kisses because you loved him or because you loved the way he looked in magazine spreads and instagram stories.

now he’s standing in the school hallway, hood pulled up despite the no-hats policy, practically vibrating with anxiety. his palms are sweating. actually sweating. when was the last time satoru gojo had sweaty palms? never, that’s when. but here he is, seventeen years old and terrified of his own girlfriend.

he tries to remember the last time he’d felt this kind of bone-deep terror. maybe when he was eight and broke his mother’s favorite vase, standing in the wreckage with tears streaming down his face while she counted to ten in that voice that meant disappointment. or maybe it was never this bad, because at least then he’d known the parameters of his punishment. now he’s flying blind into territory he’s never had to navigate: the possibility that someone he loves might not love him back.

students flow around him like water around a rock, chattering about weekend plans and upcoming tests, and none of them seem to notice that satoru gojo is having a complete mental breakdown. someone laughs too loudly near the science wing. a locker slams shut with metallic finality. the morning announcements crackle through tired speakers, and principal yaga’s voice drones about dress code violations.

he spots you at your locker, and his heart does that stupid fluttering thing it always does—like a hummingbird having a seizure. you’re wearing the sweater he bought you last week—soft pink cashmere that probably cost more than most people’s rent—and you’re humming under your breath while you sort through textbooks. there’s a small furrow between your brows as you squint at your schedule, and he knows you’re probably trying to remember if you have calculus or literature next.

this is the thing about loving someone, he thinks. you start memorizing their expressions like they’re a language only you can speak. he knows that furrow means concentration, not annoyance. knows that the way you’re tapping your fingers against your locker door means you’re running through your mental checklist, probably remembering that you forgot to finish your chemistry homework and trying to calculate if you have enough time before class.

he also knows that if he walked up to you right now and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, you’d make that little huffing noise that means you’re pretending to be annoyed but secretly pleased. knows that you’d lean back into him anyway, letting him nuzzle into your hair while you complained about him being clingy in that fond, exasperated voice you use when you’re trying not to smile.

you look so pretty, so normal, so completely unaware that your boyfriend has committed follicular suicide. your hair falls in soft waves over your shoulder, and satoru’s stomach clenches with the sudden, visceral realization that he’ll never be able to mirror that gesture again. no more running his fingers through matching lengths of hair. no more of you braiding small sections when you’re bored in class.

no more of you tugging on the strands when you want his attention, calling him your pretty boy with that secret smile that makes him feel like he could conquer the world.

“just walk over,” he mutters to himself, bouncing slightly on his heels. “just walk over and—”

“satoru!” your voice cuts through his spiral, bright and cheerful, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. you’re waving at him with your free hand, that brilliant smile on your face—the one that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners and shows off the slightly crooked incisor you’re self-conscious about. the one that makes him feel like he’s swallowed sunshine. “come here, i missed you!”

missed you. it’s been twelve hours since he walked you home, since you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him goodbye on your doorstep, since you whispered “text me when you get home, baby” against his lips. twelve hours, and you missed him.

his heart does seventeen different acrobatic maneuvers in his chest.

his feet move without his permission, carrying him toward you on unsteady legs. the hood feels like it’s suffocating him, but he can’t take it off. won’t take it off. maybe if he just keeps it on all day, you’ll never have to see what he’s done. maybe he can transfer schools. maybe he can fake his own death.

he’s spiraling. he knows he’s spiraling. this is what happens when satoru gojo doesn’t have control over a situation—his brain turns into a hamster wheel of catastrophic possibilities. he’s going to lose you. you’re going to take one look at him and realize you’ve been dating a fraud, someone who’s only attractive with the right lighting and good genetics, and now that one of those things is gone, the illusion is shattered.

“why are you wearing your hood?” you ask, reaching up to tug at the fabric with curious fingers. your touch is gentle, familiar, and he wants to lean into it like a cat seeking warmth. wants to press his face into your palm and let you pet him until the world makes sense again. “you know mr. yaga will give you detention if he sees. and then you’ll be all mopey and i’ll have to sneak you extra cookies at lunch to cheer you up.”

the casual way you plan to take care of him makes his throat tight. this is what you do—you notice when he’s sad, when he’s stressed, when he needs just a little more attention than usual. you pretend to be annoyed about it, but you always have his favorite snacks in your bag, always save him the good seat in the cafeteria, always let him tangle his fingers with yours under the desk during boring classes.

“no, don’t—” but it’s too late. your fingers catch the edge of his hood and pull, and then you’re staring at him with wide eyes and an expression he can’t quite read.

the silence stretches between them like a chasm. satoru wants to die. wants to sink into the floor and disappear forever. wants to transfer schools and change his name and maybe join the witness protection program. your eyes are doing that thing where they go very still, very focused, like you’re trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem.

“your hair,” you say finally, and your voice is so quiet he barely hears it over the hallway noise. your hand is still raised, hovering somewhere near his temple, fingers trembling slightly like you want to touch but don’t quite dare.

he knows that gesture. you do it when you’re trying to process something that doesn’t compute. like the time he showed up at your house at midnight because he’d had a nightmare and needed to see you. you’d stood there in your pajamas, hair mussed from sleep, hand hovering just like this while you tried to figure out if you should scold him for being reckless or hug him for being vulnerable.

you’d chosen the hug. you always choose the hug.

“i can explain,” he starts, words tumbling out in a rush while his hands gesture wildly. “it was a dare and i was stupid and i know you probably hate it and me and—”

“satoru.” you’re still staring at him, and now he can see tears gathering in your eyes. actual tears. your lower lip trembles, and you press your free hand to your mouth like you’re trying to hold something back. “your beautiful hair.”

and then you’re crying. not just tearing up, but full-on sobbing in the middle of the hallway, shoulders shaking as you stare at his shorn head like he’s just told you someone died. your textbooks tumble from your arms, scattering across the linoleum with dull thuds.

this is it, he thinks. this is the moment everything falls apart. except... except you’re not looking at him with disgust or disappointment. you’re looking at him like you’re grieving. like something precious has been lost. and that’s almost worse, because it means you did care about his hair, means maybe suguru and shoko were right about something, means—

“oh god,” he panics, reaching for you instinctively, his hands hovering uselessly around your shoulders because he doesn’t know if touching you will make it better or worse. “don’t cry, please don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry—”

“it’s gone,” you wail, and several students turn to stare. your voice echoes off the lockers, and satoru can see phones being pulled out in his peripheral vision. “it’s all gone! how could you do this to me? to us? to your perfect, gorgeous, fluffy hair that i loved so much?”

and there it is. the thing that makes satoru gojo absolutely, completely, stupidly in love with you. because it’s not his hair you’re mourning—it’s yours. you’ve claimed it, the same way you’ve claimed his hoodies and his passenger seat and his whole entire heart. in your mind, his hair belongs to you as much as it belongs to him, and someone has taken it away without asking permission.

you’re not crying because he’s ugly. you’re crying because someone stole something that was yours to love.

satoru feels his own eyes starting to water. this is worse than he imagined. so much worse. you’re crying over his hair—actually crying—and he doesn’t know what to do with that information. his throat feels tight, and there’s a burning sensation behind his eyes that he hasn’t felt since he was twelve and broke his arm falling off his bike.

he thinks about all the times you’ve touched his hair. casual touches—pushing it out of his eyes during study sessions, playing with the ends while you’re both watching movies, the way you’d run your fingers through it when he was stressed about exams. but also the possessive touches—tugging him down for kisses, wrapping the strands around your finger while you’re talking, the way you’d pet him absently while he dozed with his head in your lap.

you’ve never said “i love you” out loud. neither of you have. but you’ve said it in a thousand other ways, and apparently one of those ways was cherishing his stupid hair like it was made of spun gold.

had it really meant that much to you? had he been so stupid, so careless with something you treasured?

“i’ll grow it back,” he promises desperately, hands still hovering around your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you. he’s crying now too, which is embarrassing, but you’re crying and that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in. “i’ll take vitamins and do scalp massages and—and i’ll research hair growth treatments! i’ll do anything, baby, please don’t be sad.”

the pet name slips out without his permission, soft and pleading, and your expression crumples even more. you’ve never said it makes you feel good when he calls you that, but he sees the way your eyes go soft, the way you unconsciously lean toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.

“it’ll take months,” you sob, and you sound so genuinely devastated that his heart cracks clean in two. your mascara is starting to smudge, creating dark shadows under your eyes, and you’re hiccupping between words. “months, satoru! what am i supposed to do for months?” your voice breaks on his name, and he’s never heard you sound so genuinely distressed. “what am i supposed to play with during movies? what am i supposed to braid when i’m bored? what am i supposed to tug when you’re being insufferable and i need you to pay attention to me?”

each question is like a little knife to his heart because they’re all so you. practical and petulant and so full of casual intimacy that he wants to wrap you up and never let you go. you’re not asking what you’re supposed to look at or what you’re supposed to find attractive. you’re asking what you’re supposed to do with your hands when the thing you love most is gone.

“i don’t know!” he’s definitely crying now too, tears streaming down his face as he stares at your crumpled expression. his voice cracks embarrassingly on the words, and he wipes his nose with his sleeve like the sophisticated seventeen-year-old he is. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, please don’t break up with me! i’ll buy you anything you want—that bag you were looking at, or we can go to that expensive restaurant you like, or—”

“satoru.” you interrupt him, and there’s something different in your voice now. something that makes him stop babbling and focus on your face. “baby.”

the pet name stops him cold. you only call him that when you’re feeling particularly soft, when your prickly exterior cracks just enough to let him see how much you care. you’re still crying, but now you’re looking at him like he’s the one who needs taking care of.

you stop crying so abruptly it gives him whiplash. your tear-stained face goes blank, then confused, then something that looks almost like offense. “break up with you?”

“isn’t that what you’re going to do?” he sniffles, wiping his nose with his sleeve like the sophisticated seventeen-year-old he is. his hands are shaking now, and he can’t seem to stop them. “because i ruined my hair and now i’m ugly and—”

“satoru gojo,” you interrupt, and your voice has gone from devastated to something else entirely. something that makes him nervous. your eyebrows draw together in a way that means trouble, and you plant your hands on your hips in that stance he knows means he’s about to get lectured. “are you insane?”

he blinks at you, confused. water still clings to his eyelashes, making everything look slightly blurry. “i... what?”

“do you think i’m dating you for your hair?” your voice has gone dangerously quiet, and satoru knows from experience that quiet-angry-you is infinitely more terrifying than loud-angry-you. but there’s something else there too, something that sounds almost like hurt.

“well,” he says slowly, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie, “suguru and shoko said—”

“suguru and shoko can eat glass,” you snap, and now you’re glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. your hands gesture wildly as you speak, and he can see the exact moment when your sadness transforms into righteous indignation. “and so can you if you think i give a damn about your stupid hair when i’m in love with your stupid face.”

the words hang in the air between you like a confession. like a secret that’s been building for months and finally spilled over.

in love with.

you said you’re in love with him.

“but you’re crying,” he points out weakly, gesturing at your mascara-streaked face.

“i’m crying because you look ridiculous!” you explode, gesturing wildly at his head. your voice cracks slightly on the word ridiculous, and satoru can’t tell if you’re about to start laughing or crying again. “you look like a military recruit! like you’re about to ask me to drop and give you twenty! it’s so bad it’s actually offensive to my eyeballs!”

satoru stares at you, mouth hanging open. there’s something almost hysterical about the way you’re standing there, tear-stained and furious, defending his honor while simultaneously roasting his appearance. “so you’re not... you’re not going to dump me?”

“for having a bad haircut?” you look at him like he’s grown a second head, and there’s something so incredulous in your expression that he almost wants to laugh. “what kind of person do you think i am?”

and that’s when it hits him. not like a physical blow, but like a slow sunrise, warm and inevitable. you’re not upset because he looks different. you’re upset because he looks bad. because someone he loves is hurt by something that hurts him. because in your mind, anything that makes him less than perfect is a personal affront to your carefully curated world.

the realization makes him feel dizzy. you’re not shallow—you’re protective. you’re not crying because his hair was the only thing worth loving about him. you’re crying because someone took something beautiful and made it ugly, and in your mind, he deserves only beautiful things.

you’re crying because you love him, and you want him to be happy, and you think his happiness is tied to being pretty. you’re crying because in your seventeen-year-old brain, ugly hair equals unhappy satoru, and unhappy satoru is literally your worst nightmare.

it’s such a fundamentally you way to love someone that he almost laughs through his tears. of course you wouldn’t care about his looks in the way his friends think you do. of course you’d care about his looks in the most loving, illogical, completely endearing way possible.

“but you said—”

“i said your hair was gone, not that i was leaving you, you absolute disaster of a human being.” you reach up to touch his head, fingers gentle against the short strands, and your touch is so careful it makes his chest tight. “though i am going to miss running my fingers through it. and tugging on it when you’re being annoying. and the way it stuck up in the morning like you’d been electrocuted.”

you pause, thumb tracing over his temple like you’re memorizing this new version of him. “and i’m going to miss the way you’d let me braid it when i was anxious. and how soft it was when you’d nuzzle into my neck like a puppy. and the way it would catch the light during golden hour and make you look like some sort of angel.”

each word is like a little love letter, and satoru feels his heart expanding in his chest until he thinks it might burst. you’re cataloging all the ways you loved his hair, but really you’re cataloging all the ways you love him.

satoru feels something warm and desperate unfurl in his chest. the hallway around them seems to fade away, the curious stares and whispered conversations becoming white noise. all he can focus on is the way you’re looking at him, like he’s still worth something even when he’s standing there with tears on his face and the world’s worst haircut.

“so you still... you still want to be with me? even though i look like this?”

you’re quiet for a long moment, studying his face with those sharp eyes he fell in love with. your thumb traces along his temple, following the harsh line where his hair meets skin, and he can see you cataloging every detail of this new version of him.

he wonders what you’re thinking. whether you’re trying to reconcile this version of him with the one you’ve been kissing for six months. whether you’re disappointed that the boy you’ve been bragging about to your friends now looks like he belongs in a military recruitment poster.

he thinks about the way you show him off, so casually possessive. the way you introduce him as “my boyfriend” with just a little extra emphasis on the my. the way you straighten his collar before school dances and tell him he’s the prettiest boy in the room, and you say it like it’s a fact, like there’s no room for argument.

then you lean up on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his forehead, right at his hairline where the damage is most obvious.

“you’re still pretty,” you murmur against his skin, breath warm and reassuring. “still mine. still the same boy who bought me coffee every morning for a month because i mentioned once that i was tired. still the same boy who carries my books and walks me to class and lets me steal his hoodies.”

you pull back to look at him, and your expression has gone soft in that way that makes him want to do something stupid like propose. “still the same boy who texts me good morning before he’s even fully awake. still the same boy who remembers that i like my sandwiches cut diagonally and always saves me the corner piece of cake. still the same boy who holds my hand under the table during lunch and draws little hearts on my palm when he thinks i’m not paying attention.”

satoru’s breath catches. he didn’t know you noticed that last one.

“really?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, and he hates how young he sounds. how vulnerable. but you just smile at him, that soft private smile that’s only for him, and reach up to cup his face in your hands.

“really, baby,” you say, and the pet name makes his heart skip. “though i am going to make fun of you for this until it grows back. and i’m going to take so many pictures. and i’m going to show them to our kids someday and tell them about the time daddy was a complete idiot and broke mommy’s heart by cutting off all his pretty hair.”

“our kids?” satoru’s brain short-circuits. the words echo in his head like a bell, and he can feel his face heating up despite everything. “you want to have kids with me?”

you flush pink, pretty color spreading across your cheeks like spilled paint. your eyes go wide like you can’t believe you just said that out loud. “hypothetically. maybe. in the future. if you want. if you don’t mess up your hair again.”

the last part is said with such stern seriousness that satoru can’t help but laugh.

he stares at you—his prickly, bratty, wonderful girlfriend who just cried over his hair and then promised him forever in the same breath—and thinks that maybe suguru and shoko don’t know anything at all. thinks that maybe love isn’t about perfect hair or perfect faces or perfect anything. maybe it’s about someone who’ll sob over your bad decisions and then kiss your forehead anyway.

maybe it’s about someone who gets genuinely upset when you’re hurting, even if you’re hurting over something as stupid as a haircut. maybe it’s about someone who sees you make a terrible mistake and instead of walking away, plants themselves firmly in your corner and prepares to fight the world on your behalf.

maybe it’s about finding someone who thinks you deserve beautiful things, even when you’ve just proven you’re an idiot. someone who plans your future together in the same breath as scolding you for making bad choices.

maybe it’s about someone who loves you so much they cry when you’re ugly, not because they care about your looks, but because they can’t stand the thought of you being anything less than perfect.

“i want,” he says simply, and leans down to kiss you properly.

you taste like strawberry lip gloss and tears and something that might be love, and when you pull away, you’re both grinning like idiots. your hands are still tangled in what’s left of his hair, and he thinks maybe this length has its own advantages.

“i love you too,” he whispers against your lips, because if you can accidentally confess in the middle of a breakdown, then so can he. “i love you so much it makes me stupid.”

“i know,” you say, and you’re smiling so wide it makes your eyes crinkle. “you cut off all your hair because your friends dared you to. if that’s not love-induced stupidity, i don’t know what is.”

“good,” you say, straightening his collar with careful fingers. the gesture is so familiar, so domestic, that it makes his heart skip. you always do this, fix his appearance like you’re sending him off to war instead of first period. “now let’s go find suguru and shoko so i can yell at them for talking my boyfriend into this monstrosity. and then you’re buying me that expensive hot chocolate from the café across the street because emotional trauma requires premium comfort food.”

“anything you want,” he says immediately, because he’s pathetic and in love and would probably agree to rob a bank if you asked nicely enough. “anything.”

you stand on your tiptoes and press one more kiss to his nose, quick and sweet. “i want you to promise me you’ll never cut your hair again without asking me first.”

“i promise,” he says solemnly, and means it. “i’ll never make any major appearance changes without consulting my girlfriend first.”

“good boy,” you say, and the praise makes his chest warm. “now come on, we’re going to be late for class and i refuse to get detention because you had a crisis about your hair.”

satoru laughs, bright and relieved, and thinks that maybe this terrible, terrible mistake might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. because now he knows, with absolute certainty, that you love him for all the right reasons.

even if he does look like a military recruit.

[deadpoetskin]

DADDY, YOU DUMMY — II

SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes.

None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship.

And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader, Original Female Character TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers

🜼 :: had to cut it short again 'cause it was getting too long but at least this time there's mentions of the reader. i think by next chapter she'll finally have a scene

🜼 :: lemme know if you wanna be tagged for part three

At some point during the early hours, Tim had resorted to Google.

what do you feed a four-year-old for breakfast 

how to talk to a kid who thinks you’re their dad 

time travel psychological trauma in toddlers

The results weren’t helpful. A few parenting blogs, some clickbait titles, one academic article about multiverse theory, and a Buzzfeed quiz titled Which Justice League Member Should Babysit Your Kid? (He got J’onn.)

He clicked none of them.

So now he sat there, elbows on his knees, his cold coffee abandoned on the nightstand, staring into the quiet stretch of morning as if it might offer answers.

The rustle of sheets pulled Tim out of his thoughts.

He turned just in time to see Gia stir, shifting beneath the covers. Her tiny brows scrunched first, nose wrinkling like something in her dream hadn’t gone her way. Then her fingers tightened briefly around the Red Robin plush before her eyes fluttered open.

Sleep-heavy and glassy, they blinked once.

Then again.

Her gaze scanned the unfamiliar room. The heavy curtains, the warm Gotham morning light peeking through cracks in the blinds, the shelves lined with books and tech Tim hadn’t moved in years. She looked up—and her eyes landed on him.

“Daddy?” she mumbled, voice rough and soft from crying and sleep.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

He stood and moved to the edge of the bed and sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. Tim instinctively leaned forward just as she threw herself at him, arms flinging around his neck.

“Do you want some breakfast?”

She considered this, lips pursing. “Only if it’s not green.”

He blinked. “Green?”

“Uncle Dickie made me ‘healthy pancakes’ once and they were green and yucky.”

Tim almost laughed. Almost.

“No green pancakes,” he promised.

“Okay.” She nodded, decisive. Then, after a pause—“Do you have work with Grampa already? Can you stay for breakfast?”

“…Yeah. Of course, I can.”

Gia had never let go of him.

She clung like ivy, one arm still around his neck even as Tim carefully stood up and carried her down the hallway. Her Red Robin plush dangled from her hand, bumping softly against his shoulder as they moved.

The manor was quiet in the early morning hush. Pale sunlight slipped through the tall windows, catching dust motes and the edges of picture frames on the walls.

Tim padded barefoot into the kitchen, and to no one’s surprise, Alfred was already there.

A full spread had been laid out. Pancakes, eggs, fruit, toast—classic comfort fare. There was even a mug waiting for Tim on the counter, the exact way he liked it. No one had to ask.

Gia perked up the moment the smell hit her nose. Her head lifted from Tim’s shoulder.

“Is that pancakes?” she asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

Alfred turned just slightly, a faint warm smile. “Indeed it is, Miss Gia.”

“Yay,” she whispered, like it was a secret only she got to enjoy.

Tim eased her into a chair at the table, where a small plate already waited—cut-up pancakes in tidy triangles, syrup in a ramekin on the side. A glass of milk stood next to it.

She beamed. “Grandpa Alfred, you remembered!”

Tim blinked. Alfred, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “Of course I did.”

Gia immediately dug in, humming around a mouthful.

Tim didn’t sit right away. He lingered by the counter, fingers wrapped tight around his coffee mug, watching her like the universe might yank her away at any second.

She was so at home. So certain.

“Daddy, sit with me,” she said suddenly, patting the seat beside her with a syrup-sticky hand.

He moved like gravity had called him.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

Tim had just taken a sip of his new coffee—finally warm—when he heard it:

Bare feet on hardwood. Light, casual, familiar.

A moment later, Dick stepped into the kitchen.

Hair still damp from a shower, his shirt barely on, he looked every bit like someone who’d woken up early but hadn’t quite decided to start the day yet.

And then he saw them.

Tim, hunched slightly over his coffee, still sleep-rumpled. Gia, swinging her legs and eating pancake triangles with both hands. And Alfred, calmly refilling the syrup dish like this was the most normal morning in the world.

“…Whoa,” Dick said, voice low. “Okay. It’s real.”

Gia looked up, her eyes lighting up instantly. “Uncle Dickie!”

“Hey, peanut,” he said, recovering quickly as he moved to ruffle her hair. “You sleep okay?”

She nodded, mouth full. “Had dreams about waffles.”

“Those are the best dreams,” he agreed seriously, then glanced at Tim. “You holding up?”

Tim didn’t answer immediately.

He looked exhausted. Eyes shadowed, hair a mess, posture just slightly caved in—as if the weight of this tiny, syrup-sticky girl had collapsed every wall he’d spent years building.

“I’m still...processing,” Tim muttered.

Dick sat across from them and grabbed a piece of toast from a platter. “Processing’s good. Just means your brain hasn’t caught up to your heart yet.”

Tim raised a brow. “That was dangerously close to being profound.”

Dick grinned. “I contain multitudes.”

Gia reached across the table suddenly, poking Dick’s sleeve with her fork. “Uncle Dickie?”

“Yeah, munchkin?”

“Can you show me cartwheels later? Mommy says you do the best ones.”

Tim stilled. Dick hesitated for half a second—but only half.

“You bet,” he said brightly. “Only if I get a high five first.”

Gia offered one without hesitation, syrup and all.

Dick slapped it with a mock wince. “Sticky. I love it.”

She giggled, proud of herself.

Tim watched them, something unreadable in his eyes.

His fingers curled slowly around the handle of his coffee mug. She was smiling now, already bouncing in her seat, reaching for a piece of fruit with the same fork she’d used to poke her uncle.

She looked so comfortable. Like she belonged here. Like she’d always belonged.

And Tim couldn’t stop wondering what else she knew

Gia, as it turned out, had quite the memory for a toddler.

She chattered between bites, lips sticky with syrup and cheeks round with food, recounting moments with the ease of someone who had lived them a dozen times over.

By then, the others had already joined them—drawn in by the scent of coffee and warm food, or more likely, by sheer curiosity.

Jason came first, holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand. He took one look at Gia and deadpanned, “So the tiny intruder’s still here. Cool.” He poured himself coffee like this was completely normal.

Bruce sat silent at the head of the table, still nursing a half-drunk cup of coffee, his expression unreadable—but his eyes never strayed far from the child.

Cass, notably, had shown no shock at all. She’d walked into the dining room, looked once at the small girl confidently seated, nodded like that made perfect sense, and joined her at the table. She didn’t speak. But Gia beamed at her like she’d been waiting for her to show up. She leaned into Cass’s side with the kind of ease that didn’t need permission—like she already knew she’d be welcome there.

None of them interrupted. They just listened as Gia spoke

She talked like they’d all been there—like every story she shared belonged to them too. About a greenhouse with Uncle Dickie and Aunt Star where they got stuck in the gift shop because of a thunderstorm. About Uncle Jason teaching her to sneak cookies without letting Grandpa Alfred know and failing cause Alfred always knows. 

The stories didn’t stop.

“Mommy said I could wear the sparkly boots to the concert even though Daddy said they were too shiny but then she said ‘let her shine, Tim’ so I did and I was the sparkliest one there!”

She swung her legs, stabbed strawberries with her fork, and kept her little voice bubbling on, as if none of them were blinking at her like she was some impossible dream they'd collectively conjured overnight.

Tim stirred his coffee absentmindedly, not realizing he hadn’t taken a sip during the whole time she was telling her story.

Dick looked over. “You alright, Tim?”

Tim blinked.

He didn’t respond at first. Not when his brain was still catching up.

Because these weren’t just made-up stories or wishful dreams. They were specific. Detailed. Real. Things that hadn’t happened yet—but could. Things that felt possible in a terrifying, time-looped kind of way.

Every word she said felt like a pin pushing into his chest.

He wasn’t just in her stories—he was the center of them. The axis of a life he didn’t remember living. One where he was a father. A partner. Someone whole.

He was watching her—watching the ease with which she existed, how she claimed space with all the confidence of someone raised here. Not a hint of fear. No trace of uncertainty.

Just this boundless, messy, syrup-covered confidence that she was loved and known.

It was both comforting and terrifying.

“No,” he said honestly. “Not even a little.”

Gia kept going. “And one time, Auntie Cass gave me sparkly bandaids even though I wasn’t bleeding. And Uncle Dami said I was faking but I wasn’t!”

“Do you remember anything else?” Tim asked finally, voice low. Careful. He kept his tone light, like he was trying not to spook her.

Gia nodded, mouth full. Then, after a beat, she added, “Lots of stuff. Like when you tried to make breakfast but you almost set the kitchen on fire ‘cause Mommy distracted you by kissing your nose.”

Gia licked a smear of syrup from her thumb and cheerfully reached for another strawberry.

“And then,” she continued, swinging her legs, “Mommy said we could go to the Grampa’s party in Grampa’s big building after your work but only if I wore the green dress, ‘cause the purple one had peanut butter on it—”

She popped the berry into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, oblivious to the silence that had settled over the room like mist.

Dick blinked slowly. “Grampa’s big building,” he repeated under his breath, shooting Bruce a look.

Gia didn’t notice. She swallowed and kept going. “And I said I wanted the sparkly shoes too, but Mommy said they were too loud and they’d go click-clack click-clack on the floors and Grampa would do the forehead rub thing—”

She demonstrated with both hands pressed to her tiny forehead, dragging down her face in a perfect mimic of Bruce Wayne’s frustration.

Bruce blinked. Jason outright wheezed, slapping a hand over his mouth.

Tim cleared his throat. “Grampa’s party?”

“Uh-huh! With all the people and the music and the sparkly lights! And I got to dance with Uncle Dickie, and Uncle Jay said I was better than him.”

Jason blinked. “Well, that tracks.”

“Hey—” Dick began indignantly, but Gia was already chattering again, fork waving midair.

Bruce hadn’t said a word. Not since he’d walked in and taken his seat at the head of the table—coffee cooling untouched in front of him. He’d been still, observing her the way one might observe a threat, or a miracle. With precision. With care. With silence.

Until now.

“Gia,” he said evenly.

The little girl looked up immediately, bright-eyed. “Yes, Grampa?”

Bruce didn’t flinch at the name. Didn’t correct her. He only leaned forward, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

“You said your mother brought you to my building before,” he began carefully. “What else do you remember about that night?”

Gia tilted her head, lips pursed in thought. “Umm… It was cold. Mommy made me wear tights, and I don’t like tights ‘cause they itch. But she wore her shiny earrings. The dangly ones! And her green dress with the flowers.”

The others exchanged glances—but none of them interrupted.

Bruce nodded once. “ Do you remember what your mommy looked like that night, sweetheart?”

“Oh. Yes!” Gia lit up again. “She was really pretty. Daddy hated it ‘cause he said too many people were gonna stare and he’d have to deal with it all night.”

She furrowed her brows, lips pursed as she thought hard—really hard—like the memory was tucked somewhere behind her eyes and she just had to reach the right corner to find it. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her plate, forgotten syrup smudging her skin as she swung her legs under the table in slow, distracted arcs.

Everyone stayed quiet. Watching.

The little girl’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I have a picture!”

Tim sat up straighter. So did everyone else.

“It’s kind of crumply,” Gia went on, setting her fork down and scooting toward the edge of her seat, stubby legs reaching for the floor. “But I keep it in my bag ‘cause Mommy says memories are treasures, and this one is my favorite.”

Her eyes scanned the room like she expected her bag to just be sitting there waiting.

“Grandpa Alfred?” she asked, already halfway down, voice small but sure. “Do you know where my bag is? It's black and small and Mommy says I’m not ‘posed to lose it ‘cause it has important stuff.”

Tim was already pushing back his chair to help, but Alfred, ever composed, stepped forward with a slight bow of the head. “Of course, Miss Gia. I’ll retrieve it for you.”

He turned without delay, his steps measured and quiet, shoes barely making a sound against the manor floor. She nodded, satisfied, and hopped fully to the ground with a small thud, bare feet pattering against the cold kitchen tile as she followed him out toward the hallway.

The rest of the family remained at the table—still, silent, watching.

The air in the room had shifted—expectant, tense—not like before when everything had been speculation. This felt like proof was about to walk back into the room.

Tim sat forward, elbows on the table now, eyes fixed on the doorway where she'd gone. His heart was beating too loud in his ears.

“That’s it?” Jason muttered, almost disbelieving. “All we had to do to get proof was ask her what her mom looked like?”

Damian scoffed softly, a sharp exhale through his nose. “Tt.”

But it was Dick who responded, quieter, more serious than usual. “She ended up crying when Tim asked her last night,” he said, eyes not leaving the empty doorway where Gia and Alfred had disappeared. “She thought her dad forgot her mom. We couldn’t have asked her then.”

They fell into silence again.

And then—footsteps.

They heard her before they saw her—Gia’s voice chiming softly, like a skipping stone over still water.

“—I told you, I didn’t lose it! Mommy says I’m very responsible now.”

Alfred’s gentle hum of agreement followed, along with the quiet rustle of something being held close.

Alfred returned, and beside him, Gia clutched a small, black bag to her chest like it was sacred.

“I found it!” she announced.

Technically, Alfred had—but no one corrected her.

She marched over to Tim first, standing in front of him with wide, expectant eyes. “Wanna see it now?”

He nodded, kneeling again to her level like he had the day before. “Yeah, sweetheart. Show me.”

She unzipped it with both hands, rummaging with syrup-sticky fingers. Tiny fingers fished past a red crayon, a lollipop, a bunch of stickers, and—finally—carefully, reverently, she pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The edges were worn, the glossy paper soft from how many times it had been handled.

“I showed it to Uncle Bart too,” she added proudly. “He said it was cute, but he’s a weirdo.”

She held the picture out.

Tim’s hand hovered. He didn’t even breathe as he took it.

Jason craned to look over his shoulder. Damian leaned closer. Dick and Cass watched like the moment might crack reality in half.

Tim unfolded the picture.

And stopped breathing entirely.

The image was unmistakable:

Tim Drake, older—maybe late thirties—hair slightly longer, wearing casual clothes and soft laugh lines around his eyes. One hand rested around the waist of a woman. She had a blinding smile, radiant even in a still image, and was kissing Tim on the cheek while their daughter stood between them, holding both their hands.

They looked happy. Tangled up in each other in that easy, familiar way that only comes with years of shared mornings and missed bedtimes and long conversations after the house is quiet.

Gia looked up and smiled brightly. “See?” she said proudly. “That’s Mommy. That’s you, Daddy. That’s me.”

Then Bruce, his voice quieter than expected. “May I?”

Gia blinked up at him, then carefully handed it over. “You have to hold it nice,” she warned. “It’s special.”

Bruce took the paper with the same care he’d use for an ancient artifact.

“Mommy’s the coolest,” Gia nodded proudly, as if that were the most obvious truth in the world.

“She’s got, like, a billion fans. She writes songs and yells at the camera people when they take pictures of me.”

Having handed off her photo like it was a royal decree, she turned and padded back toward the table. She got as far as standing in front of her chair before pausing, then turned around and lifted her arms.

Still a little stunned, Tim blinked once, then pushed out of his chair and lifted her gently back into hers. She nestled back into the seat, grabbing her half-eaten pancake like nothing life-changing had just occurred.

Gia had finished breakfast by then—her plate mostly empty, a few strawberries taken from Dick’s still clutched in one hand. She was now tucked into the corner of the room near the window, utterly engrossed in a stack of napkins she was folding and tearing with focused precision. Cass sat beside her on the floor, legs crossed and relaxed, watching her with a serene calm that somehow soothed the toddler’s endless energy into something more careful, more quiet. Every so often, Cass handed her a new napkin. Gia would accept it with a thank you.

At the table, the picture sat in the center. The boys had unconsciously huddled around it now, shoulders nearly touching as they leaned in over the image. 

Bruce stood just behind them, arms crossed, watching in silence. His brows were furrowed, eyes sharp—not skeptical, not yet—but calculating. Gathering.

Dick gave a low whistle as he leaned in for a better look. “She’s certainly pretty.”

“She looks loud,” Jason added. “And sparkly. You’ve got a type.”

Tim didn’t even argue.

Damian, however, remained glaring at the photo like it personally offended him. “That still doesn’t tell us who she actually is. Do you recognize her?”

There was a pause. Then Tim, still staring at the image, nodded slowly.

“I know her,” Tim said quietly.

The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” Dick asked, blinking. “How—?”

Tim didn’t take his eyes off the photo. “I mean… I know of her,” he amended, his voice low and careful. “She looks older here. A little different, but—I’m sure it’s her.”

He leaned in slightly, studying the image again, as if confirming it for himself a second time.

“We met a couple years ago—briefly—at a Wayne Entertainment event in Metropolis. It was just a passing moment. Polite conversation, nothing else. I wouldn’t have remembered it now if not for—” he hesitated, then looked toward the corner where Gia was playing. “If not for her.”

Jason blinked. “She’s a celebrity?”

Tim nodded slowly. “Singer. Songwriter. Definitely has fans. She’s kind of a rising name these days. Not a global household name yet, but she’s rising fast. And… she’s talented. I remember that.”

He didn’t add what he was thinking—that she’d seemed kind. Grounded, even in a room full of power suits and flashing cameras.

“She was different than the rest of the crowd that night,” he murmured. “And now… this.”

“She kinda does look familiar,” Dick said, frowning as he leaned in for a better look. “Kori might have mentioned her once.

“She’s one of the performers scheduled for the Martha Wayne Foundation benefit concert next weekend,” Tim added. His voice was unreadable. “I remember reviewing the final list with Lucius.”

“Gia said her mom writes songs” Dick said slowly. “That tracks”

Jason leaned back in his chair, letting out a low whistle. “So let me get this straight—your mysterious maybe-future kid has a mom who’s a rising star that you only met once?”

Bruce spoke again, voice even. “I think by now it’s confirmed she’s from the future.”

Jason huffed. “Yeah, no kidding. Kid talks like she’s got a lifetime of memories, and none of 'em match our timeline.”

Dick exhaled. “Man, we really don’t get normal Tuesdays, do we?”

At the edge of the room, Gia giggled—still absorbed in her napkin-folding game with Cass, blissfully unaware of the small storm gathering around the table and the old photo that might just change everything.

ARCHIVE PART ONE | PART THREE

🜼 :: @tvnile @rainschnael @a-taken-url @federalprison78-4 @kopivm

divider: @enchanthings

[humanjarvis]

a lot to say about this one! my first time writing fully in past tense 😶‍🌫️

i think the main idea driving this was extracting zayne’s tendency to withdraw when things get too dire and putting them in a different world. like, this is something mc can handle and work with him on, but what if he was with someone who couldn’t? how does someone whose entire life revolves around him move on from his withdrawal? and thus this story was born

i said this in the tags but this is the most abstract thing i’ve written so far & probably my first time writing a nonlinear story? i was worried it would be hard to follow but i really wanted to lay the story out that way both as a writing challenge but also to convey reader’s fragmented state of mind. i wrote them with different aspects of psychopathology in mind (severe depression, personality disorders, etc) and one aspect of that can be a distorted sense of time, so that was something i wanted to play with in the structure of the story.

another thing that really inspired this was music because i genuinely was not going to write this 1) until winter and 2) in the way it’s written at all until i listened to “somewhere” by charlotte lawrence. and the song just consumed my brain and completely transformed what this fic was (i really just wanted to write the professor/student trope and it was probably gonna be so surface level and smutty but i wouldve been happy). anyway. there’s a lyric in the chorus that goes “i can see razor blades / pieces of sunlight hitting your face” and i could not for the life of me figure out what that meant until i just assigned my own meaning to it, which is juxtaposing the bleakness of a razor with the glow of the sun on someone’s face. and like. kind of thinking of the sun as a halo, a way to idealize that person and put them on a pedestal the way reader does to zayne. that idealization of him helped reader escape the tragedy in their life until he, well, exited their life. hence the relapse & regression. also the structure of the graduation scene and the fic as a whole was heavily inspired by the last chorus. i lowkey have synesthesia. anyway great song highly recommend

mmmmi will shut up soon i doubt anyone is reading this far anyway but 1) the lack of insight into zayne’s thoughts was definitely intentional, i feel like this is the only fic i’ve focused more on the reader’s character than the li’s character. and 2) there was always going to be a very intentional open ending to this to fit with the abstract theme. i thought of writing a part 2 but since i actively wanted there to be an ambiguous ending (first time writing one of those too!) a sequel would undermine that. and also i had so much writer anxiety and self doubt writing this fic that im not sure i would go back. so.

and finally it’s been so long since i’ve done this but thank you all for leaving feedback and also the people who’ve sent asks about this fic, i appreciate the interaction more than you know 💓 some highlights:

winterbreak

tags: professor/student, plot with porn, complete au but i stole the name akso, whirlwind romance, age gap (zayne is 30 and reader is 21), power imbalance, mentally ill reader, isolated reader, unreliable reader, references to self-harm, references to suicide attempts, zayne isn't a bad person this is just a bad pairing, if it looks like zayne and it talks like zayne is it zayne, alcohol use, ambiguous ending (there will be no part 2), unhappy ending, virginity loss, breakup (twice), breakup sex, boob sucking, fingering, slight cum eating, missionary, condoms, riding (failed), crying. there are lengthy flashbacks & time skips. this is the most experimental/abstract thing i've written so far. title & zayne's perspective inspired by "winterbreak" by muna, reader's perspective inspired by "somewhere" by charlotte lawrence

pairing: professor zayne x student reader

word count: 11.6k

a/n: this is so incredibly not what it originally was that i don't even know what to say

read on ao3

Warm lips ghosted over yours in a cautious caress. Soft, tender, as if you might have vanished at any moment. 

A hand, gentle yet eager, settled around your waist. Urging you closer. Another lay on your cheek, tender, parting you open for more. 

A pause. A pull. Whispered praise against heated skin. 

Four months ago, you kissed Zayne for the first time. One month ago, you last spoke to him.

And every day, his words replayed in your mind:

“It feels like fate that I met you.”

Becoming a nurse wouldn’t be easy.

You’d known as much the first time you stepped through Akso University's double doors, greeted by the gaunt, stricken faces of students who'd seen one too many scantrons. 

But after spending years in and out of hospital rooms, under the kind gaze of caretakers who never judged your sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, you thought that maybe, the world would give you the chance to do the same. To make a difference in someone’s life, even if they’d lost their smile and gotten a little reckless. To do something that mattered, to be someone who mattered.

After a childhood of nightmares, nursing was your first dream. 

And you did everything you could to make it a reality. Between trips to the emergency room, you spent high school hidden behind the yellowing pages of used textbooks, learning, absorbing, until your eyes surrendered. Even then, you spent the space between consciousness and dreams replaying what you’d learned.

You couldn’t risk forgetting. You couldn’t risk missing a step. You had to get out, get better, get useful, and it was completely up to you. Your parents had seen one too many close calls and paid one too many medical bills to offer you anything more than a resentful glare. As if telling you to just do it already. As if their lives would be better if you did. 

The day that scholarship letter hit your email inbox was the best of your life. Tuition paid in full, with more than enough left over for you to move into your own apartment. 

So yes, the towering walls and prestigious programs were more than a little daunting. Yes, the number of students trudging by with energy drinks in hand was concerning. But the time you’d spent battling bouts of depression and perturbed parents; the nights you’d stayed up studying and barely gotten to rest; the already fragile friendships dissolved by your determination—they were all worth it under Akso’s stained glass ceiling.

At least, that’s what you thought, at first. The first two years, you burned bright. Letting your luck and rose-colored lenses send you straight to the top of your class, pushing through the bad days that tried to dull your shine. 

But as you entered your third year, you felt your star begin to fizzle. Akso was a lonely place, full of students trying to one-up each other and faculty subtly encouraging it. It wasn’t like you’d had close relationships before, but even your parents’ quiet rejection was better than being utterly invisible. 

You were rootless here. It was hard to celebrate success when barely anyone knew your name. 

You started the fall with slashed motivation, having to bargain with yourself to get out of bed. You couldn’t see the point when your actions seemed so meaningless. 

And Dr. Li was certainly no help. 

With jet black hair and jade green eyes, sharp features between rounded cheeks, and a sculpted body underneath his sweaters, he was more of a menswear model than a medical ethics professor. 

You couldn’t guess how old he was. It felt wrong to try, knowing he couldn’t be too far off from you. It was like revealing the existence of a legendary creature, only for it to lose its mystique. Like a secret that, once exposed, would suddenly feel a lot more real.

And Dr. Li was anything but real. You didn’t know his exact age, sure, but you knew for certain that he was ridiculously young to have achieved all he had. To have authored so many papers, won so many awards, and be trusted with a position at such a prestigious school…he was wise beyond his years. 

And he was the reason you were failing.

Dr. Li was a good professor. Engaging, responsive, passionate about his work. 

But he was absolutely terrifying. His face was cold, his tests were hard, and his brisk, deliberate steps at the beginning of every class made you realize that dread and admiration could be felt simultaneously. 

Since you’d been in his class, you’d started your days mired in loneliness, only to wash it down with his prescribed daily dose of inadequacy. 

You were slipping again.

You couldn’t let that happen. 

But that hadn't made the dark panels of his office door any less daunting. 

His soft voice—almost soothing, if it didn’t hold so much weight—sounded from behind the wood. “Come in.”

The office was plain, barely lived in despite his five-year tenure. Filtered sunlight shined on neat stacks of papers, and colorful textbooks lined the shelves. There were no personal photos, from what you could tell—only a framed translation of the Hippocratic Oath on the wall. The room smelled lightly of jasmine. 

You hardly realized you were snooping until the man in front of you cleared his throat, and your curious eyes met icy green ones. “May I help you?”

Feeling your cheeks heat, you cleared your own throat and smoothed your hair. “H-hello. I’m in your medical ethics class. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had time to discuss the first exam with me?” God, talking to him felt like pleading your case before a court justice. You bounced on your heels. “I want to improve my grade before we get too deep into the semester.” 

The face has 43 muscles, you recalled from your anatomy class. 

Not a single one of his moved. 

“I have time—that’s what office hours are for. Take a seat.” 

***

For the entire two hours, he went through each and every exam question with you. Differentiating a good answer from the best answer, sharing new sources, creating new scenarios and letting you come up with solutions.

When time was up, he looked at you—plainly, openly, as if it were his right to do so, and something warm and unfamiliar fluttered in your belly. 

“You’re the first person bold enough to attend my office hours this semester.” 

“I wouldn’t call it bold,” you mumbled, suddenly fixated on your too-long sleeves. “I just want to do well.” 

“Why is that?” 

Your eyes widened, and before you could stop them, they were fixed on his face. “What do you mean?”

He quirked a brow. Dr. Li leaned closer, hands neatly clasped over his mahogany desk. “Why do you want to do well? What motivates you?”

You thought for a moment. And then, the words poured out of you before you could stop them. 

“I could never really imagine a future for myself growing up,” you began with an awkward cough. “I didn’t have a lot of goals, other than making it to the next sunrise. When people asked what I wanted to do…I never had an answer.” 

Piercing green eyes nearly nailed you to the floor, and you averted your gaze. 

“And then,” you paused, “I wound up in the hospital. A few different stays. But every time…I was so in awe of the nurses. My parents were upset with me. My classmates thought I was scary. But none of those nurses ever looked at me with anything but compassion—and I decided I wanted to be one. To give other people that comfort.”

At your admission, his cold expression finally started to thaw. 

“One of the better reasons I’ve heard. I’m glad you’re here.” 

Here. A double meaning in a simple word. 

A lump formed in your throat, and all you managed was a whisper. “Thank you, sir.” 

“There’s no need for that. Call me Zayne.”

Days passed, leaves changed, and it turned out that Zayne wasn’t so intimidating after all. 

He was nice to talk to, after that first day. He listened and taught and looked at you with all the support in the world, as if there was nothing you could do or say to turn him away. He made you want to be here. He made you meaningful. 

So you kept visiting him in his office—even when your GPA was no longer in need of a lifeboat. You just wanted to be near him. To hear his quiet chuckle when you said something unexpected, to watch his eyes crinkle when you went toe-to-toe in a philosophical debate, to wonder what his subtle frown meant when he bid you goodbye. 

He was habitually lonely and had been forced to grow up too fast. The youngest professor in his department, he was undermined and ostracized for his achievements and repute. For being dedicated. For being different. 

But in all his divergence, he was more than a little like you. You couldn’t convey the comfort you found in that. If there were words to describe it, you’d never had a reason to use them. 

You and Zayne were like two melting snowflakes—unique but of the same kind, and falling perilously from the safety of the sky. But when you crossed paths, you re-formed into something more complete. Delicate, but strong. Beautiful in its novelty. 

Day after day, week after week, you saw him. Until that fateful day of your first kiss. 

It wasn't intentional—you didn't know whose lips had gravitated toward the other's first. You only knew that they did, and you were happier than you’d ever known you could be. 

When you whispered your goodbye to him that day, the frown on his face was replaced by a gentle, almost anticipatory smile. To see him look at you like that, to be the cause of it…you couldn’t suppress one of your own. And when you burst through the doors and squealed to yourself, your warm cheeks met the cool autumn air. 

He couldn’t give you everything you deserved, he warned you. You’d be sneaking around in broad daylight, stealing kisses between classes. You wouldn’t—couldn’t—fully belong to each other. 

You’d agreed without hesitation. It wasn’t ideal, but it was everything. You could hardly imagine life without him now.

It was fast and intense and you’d be told it was wrong, but you were falling in love with Zayne. 

You loved the way he’d tease you with a straight face—the one that, looking back, you didn’t know how you were ever afraid of. The way he’d lend you his scarf on chillier days with the faintest of blushes coating his cheeks. The way he was the fairest bit biased: cold-calling on you, but only when he knew you knew the answer. Assigning group projects, but making sure you had a responsible classmate to rely on. Adding office hours before exams, just so he could tutor you. 

The way he made every effort to understand you. 

“Do you want to watch the sequel next time? The reviews are pretty bad, but I’m so hooked now! I have to know how it ends.” 

Afternoon sunlight streamed in through large windows, brightening the elegant furnishings in his living room. Your legs were laid atop his for the last act of the movie, and he’d gently massaged your calves while you’d watched with rapt attention. 

Noting his silence, you turned to face him. “Zayne?” 

He was looking at you—your body, rather—with a whirlpool of mourning in his eyes. “What are those?” 

Confused, you looked down. Only to feel a wave of nausea crash into you. 

Your sleeves had ridden up. 

The lines were faded, barely visible under normal circumstances. You hardly noticed them anymore when you stepped out of the shower. 

But today, they were betrayed by the sun. 

Panic pulsed inside you. “I’m sorry, I—You were never supposed to see. I was supposed to keep them covered, I’m so sorry.” Frantically tugging the fabric down, you swung your legs off his lap and raced across the room. Turning to mutter a hasty goodbye—the least you could do after ruining his weekend—you came face-to-face with a broad, heaving chest. You slowly lifted your gaze, and guilty hazel eyes—as if he were the one at fault—bore into yours. 

His voice trembled with an anxiety he never showed in the classroom. “I shouldn’t have said anything, I apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for—no need to leave, either. Please, stay with me.”

Wary and ready to bolt, you allowed him to see your unease. “You don’t have to do this, you know—act like it’s normal. I know it’s not. I’ve been told it’s not, more times than I can count. So you don’t have to coddle me. Just let me go.” For the night or forever, you didn’t dare clarify. That was for him to decide. 

“May I show you something?”

Bristling slightly, you nodded. 

And slowly, as if trying not to spook you any further, Zayne rolled his own sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the raised, uneven scars on his arms. 

A lump formed in your throat. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. “You…?”

“No. Not that way, at least. I pulled someone from an accident when I was younger. Her windshield had completely shattered—nothing but broken shards in its place,” he said, running a finger over smoothed-over skin. “I hardly knew what I was doing back then. But they managed to save her, and suddenly these became a lesser matter.”

Swallowing thickly, you inched forward, raising a daring hand to hover over his left forearm. 

“If I hadn’t become a professor, I like to think I would’ve been a doctor. It feels meaningful to take care of people. I’d like to take care of you as well.”

His larger hand brought yours to his skin, and the jagged ridges of his purpose kissed your fingertips. 

Your agreement was automatic. 

Even taking care of you, Zayne made you bolder. He taught you not just in life, but in love as well. 

You kissed harder. For longer, too. And there were the strangest times when he looked at you like he was hungry. As if somewhere under that tender chivalry lay a deeper urge to devour. 

You’d never teased anyone before him. Never knew how, that you could, that it would even work. But you remembered in great detail how you'd splurged your savings on a short trip to the mall, possessed with the urge to surprise him with the shortest skirt you could find. The very next day, you’d worn it. And when you sauntered to your desk at the front of his class, spreading your legs just enough for him to see a wet patch darken the longer he lectured, he all but marched you to his office and stole your breath away against the door. 

Not long after, you gave him a gift: the title of being the first man inside you. A night of bitten lips and averted eyes and whispers of encouragement. His soft strokes, in and out, and dutiful pauses until the pain melted into pleasure. His patience as your tears of bliss and overwhelm dampened his cotton sheets. 

There were several repeat performances. But laid bare on his cool mahogany desktop, the muted chatter of your less fortunate peers drowning out your pleading moans, was your favorite. 

Every time, your only regret was the thin layer keeping him from claiming you fully. 

Despite it all, your brain still harshly reminded you that Zayne was the treatment, not the cure. You still had your fair share of rough patches—staying in bed, afraid to face the world, afraid to face the mirror—but with him only a secret message or clandestine phone call away, rough became manageable. Rough patches became yet another excuse to seek his attention and win his affection. 

Zayne was an ancient elixir coveted by warring factions, only to fall into your unsteady hands. He made bad days good and good days even better, and he’d made it his mission to give you some of your best.

Snow fell from his office window as you jittered in your seat. “What is it? What did you want to show me?”

“You always show remarkable restraint during our study sessions. I wonder where that went today,” he said, squinting at you from behind his desk. 

“Um, you called me onto campus the day grades are due. Either I’m a genius, or I’ve failed out of college entirely.”

His lips twitched. “The former is correct.” Tugging open a drawer, he brandished a mid-sized box stamped with the local bakery’s logo. “You scored the highest grade on my final exam, and in my class as a whole. I wanted to congratulate you.” 

Looking at you expectantly, he slid the box across the desk with a small smile. Grabbing it by its edges, you slowly raised the lid, and the warmth in your heart could have melted the ice outside. 

A colorful array of cupcakes, arranged to spell out Y-O-U D-I-D I-T, greeted you. The ninth was frosted with a big yellow smiley face. 

“Thank you,” you croaked. “For everything this semester, not just thi—”

“That’s not all,” he interrupted, a pink tinge spreading across his cheeks. 

While you were distracted, he’d pulled out a long velvet case. You barely had time to wonder before he cracked open the lid, revealing a delicate chain of intertwined snowflakes. 

“I truly meant what I said that day. It feels like fate that I met you.” He gently removed the bracelet from its box, and the crystals glinted in the overhead light. “You don’t have to accept it, but I hope you’ll consider it as a token of my feelings for you. Of how you make me feel.” 

Tears pricked the back of your eyes as you looked down and up again, as if this were all an intricate joke the world would reveal in an instant. 

You didn’t remember the last time you’d gotten a gift. 

And here you were, two in one day. 

Slowly, cautiously, you gave him your arm, not trusting yourself to speak until you’d swallowed down the lump in your throat. “I…It’s gorgeous. Where’d you get it?”

The clasp fit perfectly around your wrist. “I’m much more interested in its new owner.”

It was an admirably smooth evasion. But you pressed on. 

“Please?” you asked, lips settling into a pout. “It really is amazing.”

He gave in beautifully. “If you must know,” he sighed, reaching down and swiping a pad of frosting across your nose, “I ordered my 30th birthday cake from this bakery.”

Your frown deepened. “You know that’s not what I meant,” you grumbled, dotting his cheek in blue buttercream to return the favor. “But…you ordered the cake?”

He swallowed and nodded flatly. “Yes. The one faculty gift me every year doesn’t taste as good when there’s no sincerity behind it.”

Giggling softly, you took his hand. “Well, I would’ve gotten you one. Maybe I’ll order from there for my 22nd and give you half. I think I’m out of luck on the jewelry, though—this was probably half my scholarship payment,” you joked, dangling the bracelet with an awed gleam in your eye. “But maybe I can get you something too around graduation? A year and a half should be enough time to save the money, plus, my scholarship funds increase incrementally. By then, I should have some left over.” 

In your musings, you failed to notice the way his hand tensed. 

“Anyway, thank you, Zayne. I mean it��I don’t know where I’d be right now if it weren’t for you.” Grabbing two cupcakes, you circled around his desk and held one up to his lips. “To many more bakery orders,” you said, bending to kiss the frosting off his cheek. 

Chuckling, he leaned up to do the same to your nose. “To many more.” 

You should have noticed. It would have given you the chance to brace yourself. 

“Thank you for coming out with me today,” he said softly, his bicep brushing your shoulder as you strolled down the sidewalk. 

“What was I gonna do, say no?” You laughed. “Wasn’t exactly like I was going home for winter break.” 

Mounds of snow rose over the concrete, trapping your feet with each step. Your boots sloshed through sloping piles, and you held your arms out for balance.

“I suppose you have a point. But still, you accepted without hesitation. Thank you.”

You craned your neck to peek up at him. “I’ll never hesitate to spend the day with you.” 

The moment of distraction cost you. Slipping on a hard patch—ice disguised as snow, you realized all too late—you lost your footing and grabbed Zayne’s hand with a sudden squeal. He flinched, his rare inaction almost sending you tumbling to the ground, but tightened his grasp a second later. 

Sighing in relief, you shook your head fondly. He startled so easily.

Calming your racing heart, you pressed forward, continuing the familiar path to your favorite cafe. Once Zayne saw you were steady on your feet, he loosened his grip on your hand and returned his to his coat pocket. You bit your lip and shrugged. Your hands always were too cold. 

He held the pastel pink door for you as you stepped inside, and the homey scent of coffee put you at ease. 

“Order anything you like,” he said, his voice quiet behind your back. 

***

From the cozy nook Zayne had chosen at the back of the cafe, you sipped your drink and stared in wonder at the building storm. “It wasn’t supposed to do all this today.” You pouted. “It’ll be such a pain walking home.”

“Yes, it will.” His face was impassive—not in the usual way. It was somber, disengaged. As if he’d responded only out of pre-programmed courtesy. 

Deepening your frown, you set your cup on the table. “You seem a little off today—are you okay? If it’s because of the storm, we can leave early. I really don’t mind—”

“I’m not certain it’s in either of our best interests to keep seeing each other.”

In an instant, you felt like you’d stepped back outside.

Bitter cold consumed the warmth from the drink he’d bought you. 

“…What?”

“I said that it’s no longer in our best intere—”

“I heard what you said,” you snapped through the panic bubbling in your throat. “But…why? Did I do something wrong? Did I upset you?”

He shook his head. “You did nothing wrong, and you never upset me.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” Trembling, you laid your wrist on the table and gestured tearily to your bracelet, its chain warm from your body heat. The crystals were as lustrous as they’d been when he’d gifted it to you—even you couldn’t do that much damage in a week. “What was this for? If you were just…if you didn’t…”

Your lungs felt like they were imploding. 

“You can keep it, of course. I want you to—it’s yours. Nothing will change that,” he said, leaning forward to touch your outstretched hand.

It was your turn to flinch. 

He blinked at the movement and retreated tactfully, as if it hadn’t happened at all. “In my office last week, you simply said something that I,” he paused, searching for the right phrase, “hadn’t properly considered before. An oversight of my own fault.” He pursed his lips before continuing. “You’re a wonderful student. A pleasure to have in my class, and a privilege to know like I’ve known you. But with only a year and a half until you graduate, and such a major scholarship at stake…you mustn’t lose that. I couldn’t live with myself if I were the cause of it.”

Your lip wobbled as you chased coherence. “But no one knows! No one has even suspected anything! I need you, Zayne. You can’t just—please, don’t.” 

Finally, his face softened. “The first day you came into my office, you told me nursing was your goal. That making others comfortable was your motivation. Every moment you spend with me endangers those wishes.” 

Your body seemed to shrink in your chair. Curling in on itself. 

“Your time and resources while enrolled here are precious. I was selfish enough to take those from you. But now, I’m returning them to where they belong.” 

He stood up. You looked down. 

“Please don’t make this hard on yourself. I only want to see you succeed. You’ll no longer be in my class next semester, so it should be easier for both of us.” 

Measured footsteps faded into nothing. When you raised your head, his figure had already vanished into the snow. 

You’d argued once—a close call. 

You’d surprised him with lunch in his office, and a dean came bursting in. Luckily, you’d finished early and held an open textbook in your trembling hands. 

“Oh my gosh, that was so scary! Do people usually just come waltzing in like that?” 

His face darkened as he stared at the door. “Only the impolite ones.” 

You bit your lip. “Maybe you should keep it locked.” 

His murky gaze turned on you. “Maybe. But perhaps this is also a sign to be more careful. It might be best for you to limit your visits to office hours.” 

Limit…?

You tensed in your chair. “Exams are coming up. I thought it’d be nice to spend more time together.” 

“It would be. Just not here—not as often, at least.” 

Something dormant coiled deep inside you, eager for the chance to strike. “Are you ashamed of me?” Your voice raised a half-step. 

“No. But I also don’t want to get caught.” 

When green eyes challenged yours, you excused yourself and headed home through wind-chilled tears. He apologized the next day, and you tried to move on. 

The pain back then was nothing compared to this. 

You’d messaged him once the storm had stopped. And the morning after, and the night and morning after until you couldn’t keep count anymore. Tossing and turning at 2 a.m. one night, you even sent him an email pretending to have a question about your final grade. 

Not once did you receive a response. 

You rang in the new year surrounded by blankets and closed blinds. 

You felt small. You felt unchecked. You felt like you might pick up an old habit. 

Utterly alone, you drifted away until mid-January. Classes were starting back up, and you trudged across campus for only one reason: maybe you’d get a glimpse of him. 

Bile rose in your throat when you did. 

His impressive figure, familiar but not, sat on a bench outside the student center. Beside him was a woman around his age, doubled over in laughter. 

When he caught your gaze, he looked back toward her. 

Unshed tears mixed with the frigid air and stung your eyes until they shut. 

You couldn’t hide away in his office anymore—you weren’t welcome there anymore. The library would have to do. 

As you cried in your hands on the very top floor, you were thankful the start-of-semester traffic was light. 

“You’re very bright,” he’d told you once. 

As his lips moved, you wondered what they’d feel like against yours. “Thanks,” you mumbled, feeling heat rise to your face, “but I don’t think so. I just work really hard.” 

“That’s true. But the sun doesn’t shine from hard work alone. It has innate qualities as well—ones that make it the brightest star in our sky.” 

Your cheeks had hurt from how much you smiled at him that day. 

But as your nails bit into the skin of your wrists, you’d never felt so dim. 

“We just received our largest wine shipment of the year. Would you all like to sample tonight?” the sommelier asked, her all-black suit seeming to absorb all the light in the restaurant. 

Curious eyes shifted to you. “I won’t be drinking,” Zayne refused with a shake of his head. “You?” 

“Me either. Thank you, though.” You gave the woman a shy smile, and she nodded her departure.

He gazed at you intently. “We’ve never discussed this before, but I don’t handle alcohol well.”

“I don’t handle it at all.” You shrugged. “Never have. It scares me.” 

It was fleeting, but you could see the relief flicker across his face. “I’m glad this isn’t a deal-breaker.”

“It’d be pretty hypocritical of me to bed my professor then decide him refusing to drink was my deal-breaker. I lo—like everything about you. So you’re good. Unless you disappear on me one day,” you finished with a nervous laugh. 

Or at least, you thought you did. But stumbling through the streets like this, it was hard to recall the specifics.

You’d left the bar sometime after midnight, you guessed. You hadn’t thought to check your phone. When you left the library, you weren’t thinking much of anything, other than it hurts so much. 

A shivering stray dog, lip curled and ears flat, passed you, and you almost thought to provoke it further. Maybe it’d be better at getting the job done than you had been.

You’d been walking for…a while. Much longer than the 10-minute trip back to your car. Unfamiliar shops surrounded you on all sides. Streetlights became fewer and fewer. You thought you heard low voices laughing at you, but you couldn’t pinpoint where. 

You wouldn’t blame them. You must have looked silly right now, lurching around in disheveled clothes in the dead of night. 

Teeth chattering, you wrapped your flimsy jacket tighter around you. 

Maybe you should’ve been embarrassed. Self-conscious. At least the slightest bit interested in self-preservation.

But all you could feel was the buzz in your brain, getting louder and louder and louder. 

At least…you thought it was your brain? Brains weren’t supposed to buzz, were they? 

Brains don't buzz—bees do, silly. 

Let's call Zayne. Zayne would know. 

He was the reason you got into this mess, anyway. 

His number still sat at the top of your history. There was no one to take his place. 

One ring. Two more. A crackle, static. 

“Hello?”

You chuckled, raspy and untamed, into the speaker. “Can’t believe you actually picked up.”

“You never call without asking first. Is something the matter?”

You snorted, and a cackle bubbled out of you. The breath became mist in the crisp winter air. “You talk old.” 

“…I beg your pardon?” 

“You talk old. Like you’re old. I used to think it was cute. Used to…”

His sigh was audible over the late night traffic. “Is something wrong, then?”

“There we go,” you cheered sardonically. “Finally speaking my language. A lot’s wrong! It’s so dark out here I can barely see where I’m going.” Frustrated, you stopped your pacing and stood outside a dingy storefront. 

“You’re not answering me. Why did you call? Are you alright?”

“No. I called because my head hwurts.” Your words began to slur. “And ’s your fault…so you need to tell me what’s wrong with it. What’s wrong with me.” 

A beat of silence.

“…Are you drunk?” Something like betrayal crept into his voice. And in that one moment, it felt good to hurt him back. 

“How couldn’t I be?” Your own voice wobbled in angry desolation. A sickening heat emanated from the chain you couldn’t bring yourself to retire. “When you got me this bracelet, I was so happy,” you hiccuped. “You made me happy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten a gift. And now…di’you get her one, too? Did you fuck her? Have you fucked already? If you have, you might as well tell me now while there are still cars in the street.” 

A gray-haired woman hobbled by, looking at you like you were the strange one. You weren’t. It was him, it was all him, it was—

“I’m coming to get you. Share your location with me.”

You snapped back to the present. “No. No, I don’t need you to. I don't want you to. I parked…somewhere…around here, and I’ll keep going ‘til I find it. I don’t need you,” you huffed, staggering over the sloping sidewalk. 

“You’re endangering yourself. Don’t—”

“I’ll drive back on my own. Not like you care, anyway. I shouldn’t have called.”

A shuddering exhale came over the line. 

“Send me your location. Now.”

His tone was glacial, almost sobering. He’d never used it with you, not even on that first day in his office. Your steps faltered. 

“Now,” he repeated. 

For a moment, your right mind made its return from vacation. “…Fine.”

“Go to a well-lit area and wait for me there.” 

***

Twenty minutes later, a sleek black Audi screeched to a halt in front of you. The door was thrust open and closed with a foreboding slam, but you couldn’t be bothered to notice.

He came.

He stormed to your side with wild eyes and tousled hair, as if he’d run his fingers through it the whole way here. Wobbling on your feet, you reached out to fix it, but his firm hand clamped around your outstretched arm. 

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Then get in the car.” 

Get in the car. All this because of him, and all he had was get in the car. 

Scowling, you whipped away from him and started back down the sidewalk, shuffling past the streetlight you’d only stood under because you thought he cared. 

You didn’t make it two steps before strong arms wrapped around your legs, swinging you up and hauling you over an achingly familiar body. 

Immediately, you beat on his back, your fists thudding against lean muscles. “Put me down! You think you can just—put me down!”

Wordlessly, he tightened his grip and forced his way back to his waiting car, depositing you with what ceremony he could into the passenger’s seat. “Put your seatbelt on. I won’t tell you twice.” 

You woke with a foreign headache in a familiar bed. 

You never thought you’d be here again.

Blackout curtains blocked the windows, but something in you knew it was morning. Pills and a full glass of water, no accompanying note, waited for you on Zayne’s gray nightstand. 

You closed your eyes in a grimace the second you sat up. You could feel your brain bouncing around like a pinball.

You’d taken more than enough pills in your lifetime, but you’d always hated swallowing them. The water helped. The glass was empty in less than a minute. 

Slipping out of bed, you tried to put the muddled pieces of yesterday together. Seeing Zayne. The library. The bar. Seeing Zayne again, both of you much angrier the second time. 

You winced. 

Padding down the stairs, you scanned the house on high alert, looking out for any signs of a confrontation you weren’t ready to finish. 

When you reached the bottom still in one piece, you almost darted out the front door. But the nagging voice in the back of your throbbing mind couldn’t end things like this.

You found him in the kitchen, sipping tea and grimly flipping through a stack of papers. 

Your voice caught in your throat, coming out a cracked whisper. “Good morning.”

Hazel eyes…stayed on the documents in his hand.

You shuffled forward. “I wanted to thank you. For last night. You didn’t have to do that.”

His jaw ticked. 

“And I wanted to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called, I just…wasn’t thinking straight,” you mumbled. “I’ll get going now.”

Just as you turned, an incredulous scoff resounded. 

“Yesterday evening, I went home from an on-campus meeting with my married colleague, only to be woken up at one in the morning to rescue my spiraling former student.” Cold fury laced his voice.

Married colleague. Of course she was. 

Your mouth filled with bitterness, reminiscent of last night’s drinks. You shifted on your feet. “How was I supposed to know? What was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to think that who I speak with no longer concerns you. And then you were supposed to go on about your night, just as I would have.”

Recoiling at his frankness, you took a step back. “Zayne, I’m sorry—”

“You’re sorry,” he interrupted, swiping a hand down his tired face. “You keep saying that. But are you merely sorry for calling, or for anything else that happened last night? Do you have any recollection of what you said to me?” he continued, tone sharp and scathing.  

Silent and scrambling for memories, you stood before him. 

“I offered to come get you the moment I realized you were drunk and alone. And you refused me. You were adamant that you didn’t want or need me. And when I asked again, you said you would rather drive yourself home than accept my help. That I wouldn’t care if something happened to you on the way.” He was advancing on you now, his much larger shadow engulfing yours on the adjacent wall. 

“I was upset, Zayne. I am still upset, I have a right to be upset. You…you just left me, like it didn’t even matter, like I was never anything—”

“I tried to put your future first, and you threatened me with your life.” 

The words brought your frantic gestures to an abrupt halt. With just one sentence, he’d knocked the air out of you. And when he rolled his sleeves up, you knew he wasn’t done.

“I told you I got these when I pulled a woman from a wreck,” he started, twisting his arms to show the raised scars. “Would you like to guess what happened to her that night?”

Suddenly feeling small, you shook your head. 

“She was hit by a drunk driver.”

You vaguely remembered the way your heart soared when his car pulled up last night. Now, it plummeted to your feet. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your pounding head drooping all on its own. “I just wanted you to come.” 

“You got your wish. Congratulations.” 

“Zayne—”

“I thought many things of you the last several months,” he seethed, sharp eyes boring into you as if seeing you for the first time. “But I never took you for a child.” 

A whimper escaped before you could stop it. You reached out for him, but he had already pulled back. 

“Your things are by the door.” 

The holiday lights at the ice skating rink were overstaying their welcome. 

Alternating intermittently, they painted the ice in blues and reds, projecting dancing patterns of snowflakes under the frenzied feet of happy skaters. 

Couples and families glided by, their raucous laughter and shrieks of excitement echoing in the chilly air. They lost their balance, at times, but they always had someone to catch them before they toppled to the ground.

For a tranquil, transient period, so unrecoverable now that it seemed like another life, you’d had that, too. 

But tonight, from your place in the stands, their unbridled joy felt like salt in the wound. 

“I’d like to take you somewhere.” 

You knew him well enough by now to hear the breathy nervousness in his voice. You squinted at him, playfully quizzical, from the passenger’s seat. “‘Somewhere’ as in your office? Or is the ever-careful Dr. Li actually proposing we go out in…public?” you gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. 

He tapped two fingers on the steering wheel and shook his head, trying to suppress the smile threatening his composure. “It would be the latter. Unless you’re eager to stare at the same four walls and stacks of textbooks again, in which case I’m happy to oblige.”

Warm anticipation bloomed in your chest, and you beamed, draping your hand over his thigh. “Nope! Public is good. Public is great.” 

***

“Please, please, please don’t let go,” you begged, wobbling in your skates like a newborn foal. 

On the ice beside you, Zayne wasn’t doing too much better. His stronger legs kept him upright, at least, but he rarely moved more than a foot before freezing in place. 

His hand fell from your wrist to the small of your back, protectively tucking you into his side. “Why don’t we try it like this for a while? A few forward strokes might make us comfortable.”

You nodded resolutely.

And barely made it one before your legs slipped out from under you, sending you crashing into already outstretched arms. 

“…Why don’t we take a break,” you mumbled into his coat, clinging to him like your life depended on it. 

Laughing quietly, he tightened his grip and nuzzled your hair. “That works for me. The question is…how to make it back to the stands in one piece.” 

***

After 15 minutes and a collision with a maliciously uncooperative sheet of ice, you finally returned to the bleachers, sweating and giggling from the adventure. 

Cheeks flushed bright red, Zayne ushered you onto a bench at the top before turning to you. His eyes sparkled with mirth and uncharacteristic innocence. “It was much more eventful than my office,” he joked. 

“Not always,” you sang mischievously, and he cleared his throat as his blush deepened. “I have been wondering, though,” you continued, looking out into the sea of much more successful skaters, “you…are usually good at everything, Zayne. Why did you choose this tonight?”

His answer was immediate, as if it’d been sitting on the tip of his tongue. “You alleviate the pressure I feel to be good at everything. And you make me bolder, for better or worse,” he chuckled. “The years of my life that I missed due to my studies…I rediscover them when I’m with you.” 

You closed your eyes to try to stop them from watering and leaned in to kiss his cheek. Then, you lowered your head onto his shoulder. 

“My parents brought me here once,” he continued. “It was a happy memory. Perhaps I also wanted to extend it with you.”

Unable to suppress it, you tensed against him. “Are you close with them?”

“Fairly. We go out for dinner twice a month.” Caution crept into his tone. “And you?”

Somber notes shifted the atmosphere. 

“My parents don’t like me very much. Haven’t since I was in middle school. I think they got tired of paying to keep me alive,” you tried to joke, but it understandably fell flat. 

Grunting softly, Zayne tightened his arm around your waist. 

“I felt like an intruder in the house I was raised in. Always just there, but never welcome,” you mumbled, fiddling with one of his coat buttons. “It’s why I tried so hard to get here. I had to get out, but I knew they wouldn’t give me any more than they already had. So I did it myself.” 

Zayne had begun rubbing circles on your back. “How do you feel when you think about them?” 

“I used to feel guilty. And confused. Like it was my fault, like I wasn’t worth the energy. It only made things—me—worse, for a while. But then, once I found something to distract me, to keep me going…I just accepted it.” Rubbing at your sleeves, you sighed. “That’s only for them, though. I still get…sensitive when people leave. Decide to stop trying.” 

Pulling you close, he placed a gentle kiss on your hair. “I’ll always try for you.” 

Wet snow stained the streets outside. 

It'd been two weeks since he’d turned you away. Two weeks of skipping classes to sit here, staring, watching, but never doing. Two weeks of happy memories fading into forgotten dreams. 

You always looked through the windows when it got too much. That, and fiddled with the tennis bracelet it seemed like a curse to remove. If you did, it would all be too final. And you didn’t know when, if ever, you’d be able to accept that.

You felt silly, sometimes, being unable to let him go. Like a naive movie character, desperate and dramatic, that you would have ridiculed not even a year ago. But back then, all alone, you didn’t know how damning it could be to care for someone. To wake up in the morning, wondering what they’d do that day. How they’d make you mean something. 

You’d come to accept that Zayne’s interest meant worth to you. You hadn’t become reacquainted with worthlessness. 

You scratched and clawed at its advancing jaws, fighting with every breath to keep its venom from immobilizing you once more. To stay on the path you carved for yourself, undeterred by his hatred and your relapsing brain. 

But every day, you strayed farther and farther. 

Cold air swept behind and then beside you. You didn’t trust yourself to look. 

“I trust this isn’t a new hobby of yours.” 

Dry humor. You didn’t encourage it.

He tried again. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back here after your meet-and-greet with the ice.” 

This time, the jab was too hard to resist. “And I didn't think you'd remember where our first date was.” 

In the corner of your eye, he grimaced. “That’s hardly fair.”

“Maybe. But it’s honest. Since we’re being that, now.” Bracing your hands on your thighs, you stood up to leave. Before you could start down the stairs, he caught your arm. 

“I didn’t mean to say it so harshly.”

“But you still meant to say it.” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed in the silence. 

“Why are you even here, Zayne?”

He pulled you down with gentle strength. With a scowl, you obliged, putting distance between your estranged bodies. 

“I come here to think sometimes,” he murmured. “It helps to be surrounded by pleasant memories.” 

“It’s nice that that’s still what they are for you.”

He sighed and turned to face you fully. Dark circles outlined dull green eyes, but satisfaction took the place of concern. He had them, too. 

“Somehow, call it instinct, I was hoping I’d find you here. I wanted to apologize for that night.” The sound of a scraping skate was a welcome distraction from his intent stare. 

“When I tried to do that, you didn’t take it very well.”

His lips tugged downward. “I know. And I regret that, especially when you were vulnerable. But when you almost hung up, I just…I saw another version of that accident. But instead of that woman, it was you in the car. Because of me.”

Swallowing thickly, you fiddled with your fingers. Unfortunately, you’d long gotten used to the chain on your wrist, and it caught his gaze before you remembered to conceal it. His face softened. 

“I was very worried about you that night,” he whispered, hesitantly tracing the crystal snowflakes. “And as someone who’d never had anyone to worry for, I veered out of line.” 

You drew your knees up to your chest, placing the soles of your boots in the space between you. “You think I’m immature.” 

“I think you’re young. And I think I’d forgotten that, because you make me feel young, too.” 

“Except when you’re rescuing your former student.”

He winced. “Except then.”

“It isn’t just that night, you know,” you whispered, slotting your chin between raised knees. “You left. You knew what it would do to me, you knew I couldn’t handle it—and you left anyway.”

“I had your best interests at heart.”

“How do you think that turned out.” A statement, not a question.

Inching forward with a heavy sigh, he gently lowered your knees and took your hand. You let him. 

“It’d tear both of us apart if you lost everything because of me. You don’t deserve for that to happen. Not when you’re so close to your hard work paying off.” He rubbed soothing circles into your palm. “I care for you. Deeply. You’ve shown me so many things, given me so many firsts. But I won’t be the reason your goals become fantasies.”

His free hand lifted to cup your cheek, and you nuzzled it instinctively. 

“What happened that night…in the future, you must not do that again. You must not jeopardize your life again.” 

You stared, quiet. 

“Do you understand me?” 

You nodded. 

“May I kiss you?”

You nodded again. 

His lips were as warm and soft as the very first time. He captured yours tenderly, timidly, as if his touch were molten. 

You threaded trembling fingers in his hair, and Zayne pulled back. 

Your flinch was pronounced. Your heart was teetering. You were sure your eyes were glassy. 

Before you could speak or move or run, he surged forward once again. He spoke to you between urgent kisses. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s alright.” 

Glistening lips slid against yours, branding your mouth with their rising heat. He was firmer with you now. You liked it. It let you know he was still here. 

By the time you separated, the snow had stopped. Remnants of evening sunlight warmed the forest in his eyes. 

Things got better after the ice rink. 

You returned to your classes, apologizing for your absences and begging for extensions on missed assignments. All but one of your professors agreed. But you’d figure it out. Get back on track.

You had to, if Zayne’s encouragement was anything to go by. 

You got the briefest of texts and calls from him. Asking how you were doing, how classes were going, if he could share any resources with you. As if you really were just a former student. 

But every time, despite the apprehension and longing burning in your gut, you answered him. Returned his questions. Kept him talking for as long as he’d entertain you. Because the barest bit of him made all the difference in your day. 

It wasn’t the same—wasn’t anywhere close. But it gave you the will, the motivation, the purpose, to hold out a little longer. 

He’d said that he cared for you. That everything, even the worst of it, had been in your best interest. To give you a chance to grow without him. 

And it filled you with the most dangerous feeling, the most treacherous hope, that he’d come back to you if you could prove you could. 

You felt like life was a little more in your grasp. Like if he was okay with you, maybe you would be, too. 

Even the late winter cold wasn’t as bitter when you were in his orbit. 

You’d been walking lately. Something your doctors had always suggested, but you’d never taken them up on. It all came back to that night, incidentally. You remembered how freeing it’d been to choose your own direction, even when your brain wasn’t yours and your reins were held tight by an invisible hand. 

You’d just returned from an evening stroll around your neighborhood, freshly showered and in your nightclothes, when a curt knock sounded on your apartment door. 

Only one person you knew knocked like that. Only one person would be visiting you at all. 

Sure enough, that deceitfully detached expression greeted you when you opened the door, and you felt your stomach do a somersault. 

For everything you’d been through, for everything you’d done together, Zayne had never been to your apartment before. He always said it’d be crossing a line you could never fall back from—as if he hadn’t already crossed your lines and curves in all their entirety. 

What did it mean that he was here now? Did he miss you as much as you missed him? Need you as much as you needed him? Did he want to talk, or do something more? 

And how long would he stay? 

Stay. Stay. The word sprung you into action. 

“Um, hi,” you squeaked, voice startled and a little too loud. “Sorry, I just got back from a walk. I guess I should’ve put on something nicer.” 

“There was no need. I didn’t exactly give you notice.” His lips curled in an almost-smile. 

You swallowed. “Can I get you anything? A drink? It’s not much, but I have tea, and I think I have some leftover macarons, too. But they were out of the flavor you like,” you added quickly. “So maybe you don’t want them?” 

Zayne, usually amused by your nervous ramblings, only observed you quietly, his face a mask of stone. 

You knew that look. You’d seen it once before. 

Wordlessly, you stepped aside. 

He towered over your tiny space. 

You wrung your hands as your gaze dropped to the floor. As if by some miracle, you’d dissuade him from speaking, and the storm cloud he’d brought with him would pass over you harmlessly. The delicate chain on your wrist burned in warning. 

“I’ve been granted a transfer to another campus.”

His storm cloud doused you in ice water. In perfect contrast to the scalding metal against your skin. 

“I wanted to tell you in person. The university press is dropping the story tomorrow morning,” he continued quietly. “When I made the request, I listed the reason as a desire to explore new research opportunities. So you have nothing to worry about.” 

The ringing in your ears drowned out the tail end of his words. Your whole body pulsed with the need to escape it. 

Your brain spun with questions. Your heart ached, knowing he’d never fully answer them. 

“When did…” you tried to ask, voice failing to reach more than a whisper. “When did you make the request?”

“After I carried you to my bed that night. I signed the papers the morning after.”

“That was over a month ago. I…I thought we’d gotten better since then, I thought we were okay now. If it was all the way before…” You paused, trying to force the oxygen back into your lungs. “Do you at least regret it? Can you reverse it?”

The downward twitch of his lips betrayed only a hint of pity. He shook his head. “I don’t. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.” 

The whimper escaped before you could stop it, and your eyes stung as if pricked by thousands of needles. He took one hesitant step forward, but you could barely see it through your blurred vision. 

You shook your head, frantic, desperate, and pressed your hands to your mouth. “Why do you keep doing this to me? What’s wrong with me to make you keep—you kissed me. You kissed me and you told me you cared and I believed you, when you knew you would leave again.” Your voice was a garbled cry. “You made me promise when you knew you would leave again.” 

He was in front of you now, no more than a foot away. Troubled eyes roved over your figure, but flexing hands stayed at his sides. “I thought it would help you. That it might give you some peace, if I could offer you the last of myself.” 

You shook your head, stronger now, as if wishing this version of him away. “You can’t do this to me again—you can’t. I thought things were better—they were better, you made them better.” You grasped at words and memories, searching for something, anything, that might make him stay. Even if guilt was the only reason, it was reason enough. “You know what happened the last time.” 

You heard him approaching before you felt a cautious hand on your shoulder. “I understand that I hurt you—more than I ever had the right to. But when you risked yourself that night, I understood something else. Your safety and future are my highest priority. Those are uncertain as long as I’m near you.” 

His words held a nauseating finality, and you felt your lifeline slip out of your hands. 

A deep breath gave you the chance to respond. “So is that it, then? You come here to warn me and tell me goodbye, and then what? You just walk out, forget everything? If that’s a power you can learn, teach me one more thing before you go.” 

His hand shifted as he flinched. He swallowed. “I didn’t make this decision lightly. Nor have I ever overstated my affection for you. I could never forget you,” he murmured. Suddenly, he flushed soft pink. “But I wasn’t planning on leaving this way. Unless you’d like for me to.” 

You had no more energy to navigate the labyrinth of him. “What do you mean?” 

He looked to his feet. “I said that I wanted to offer you what I could of myself. I feel as though I owe it to you, to make your last experience with me a pleasurable one.” 

The implication made your heart stop. 

Was that how he saw himself? Was that what he thought of you? That he’d maxed his tab with the ways he’d hurt you, and now you’d charge him with interest? 

Was everything always so transactional?

Shame seared your insides. But even worse was the disgust that settled on you like a second skin—not at Zayne, but at yourself.

Because you knew your answer. 

You could never turn down a chance to be close to him. 

Your constricted throat opened enough for one single, damning word to escape.

“Okay.”

***

He’d been so gentle at the ice rink. Maybe that was the kind of restraint he showed when he was trying to keep a secret. 

But now, his lips claimed yours as if trying to atone for one. 

They were soft, slightly chapped from the dry air, and moving against you with the greed of a nation nearing famine. He suckled your bottom lip with an eager pull and a swipe of his tongue, letting it bounce briefly away before capturing it again. Each time you parted, he redoubled his efforts, meeting every corner of your lips with the hot suction of his mouth until they, too, were angry at him. 

You were no less urgent than he was. Where he pressed down, you surged up, trying to meld your mouth with his so he could see how well you fit together. You licked into him to savor his taste, sweet and floral, and caught his exploring tongue with yours when it got in your way. He surrendered immediately, let you invade him as you pleased, while he raked his fingers through your hair. 

As he hovered above you, frame almost too large for your full bed, he bent his legs to make himself smaller. Always compensating, always adjusting—in only the way he thought best. 

Sliding between your torsos, your hand stopped its journey at the center of his slacks, petting and cupping to make him come to life. His body obeyed when you left his lips to scatter hot, open-mouthed kisses on the side of his neck, biting down to threaten his quickening pulse. 

He grunted and bucked his thickening bulge while your lips soothed the sting, only to renew it again and again, trailing transient marks over transient skin. But he accepted his punishment with pleasure. 

His neck was adorned with purpling bruises that looked like they belonged there. Long past his departure, he’d think of you when he saw himself. A fitting curse, given the reverse was your normal. 

When you unlatched yourself to catch your breath, he took advantage of his newfound freedom, placating you with a brief peck before traveling his hand down your waist, squeezing at your hip and slipping underneath your shirt. He splayed his warm palm over your belly, rubbing up and down with unearned possession, and you mewled at the friction of his skin on yours. Diving forward to swallow the sound, he moved his hand up to cup your tender breast, completely bare under your oversized sweatshirt. 

A heavy breath escaped him at the contact, and before you knew it, he’d tugged off the fabric and returned his hands to the refuge of your chest. 

“I love these,” he’d whispered the first time he’d seen them, palming your rounded flesh with something like awe in his voice. “You’re absolutely breathtaking.” 

His eyes now held the same infatuation, and you could see the shared memory swirling within. 

Your chest heaved in mutinous anticipation, and the steady swells of your breasts drew him in like a lure. He bowed his head with the urgency of the night, and the hot lash of his tongue against your pebbled nipple made you anchor your fingers in his raven hair. What he couldn’t take in his mouth, he fondled with the same fervor, pinching and twisting your opposite peak with deliciously torturous movements. 

As his mouth opened and closed and switched from one to the other, he rolled his hips into the bed with barely bridled desperation. Each brush of his thigh made your core pulse with desire, and you matched his thrusts instinctually, slotting your clothed heat against his, quietly communicating your need. 

He released you with clear reluctance, pressing a kiss to the valley of your chest before obliging dutifully. You could almost feel his heartbeat in his hands as they inched back down your waist, lower and lower, until they brushed the waistband of your cotton panties. 

Breathing heavily, he hovered his fingers over the hem, the heavy weight of greedy hands replaced by a feather-light touch. 

He paused, eyes suddenly clouded with what you could only hope was guilt. “Are you sure?”

You weren’t sure of anything anymore. 

Faded lines on your forearms twisted as you moved. Wordlessly, you guided his hand down and under. 

You shared a gasp as two fingers traced your slick folds, and another when they pressed into your quivering heat. 

“I’m scared,” you confessed, clinging to him as you entrusted someone with your naked body for the first time. Arousal seeped out of you, coating the tops of your thighs, but you weren’t sure how the length of him would fit inside you without pain.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. “We’ll make sure you’re ready.”

Your belly clenched instinctively as his fingers pumped and curled inside you. As if they’d memorized your deepest parts, as if they belonged there. He spread and shut them, pushing and prodding your flexing walls, and your crooning moans filled the heated air. 

When your legs began to shake, he quickened his pace, twisting and bending his fingers like his pleasure was tied to yours. At the same time, he rubbed his thumb against your twitching bud, circling around and pressing down. The joint sensations had you unraveling around him, panting as your hips bucked against his continued pumps. 

He pulled his hand away once you began to mewl and watched his fingers glisten under the lamplight. “I never got the chance to do this,” he murmured. Casting a dazed glance at your trembling form, he slowly, sinfully, sucked his stained digits into his mouth. He moaned just as his eyes fluttered closed, and his cheeks swelled with gentle, savoring swirls of his tongue. 

A throb in your core sent your remaining release pooling onto the sheets. A pang rattled your heart, knowing someone so perfect wasn’t willing to wait for you.

Simmering with grief and outrage, you yanked his hand out of his mouth and stuffed it in yours, wanting to know everything he knew. To feel everything he felt. 

His eyes widened with shock and immediately narrowed. Looming over you, he ripped his fingers from your mouth and replaced them with his lips, your clashing tongues exchanging your mixed taste. 

As he lowered himself on top of you, you slid your hands down his torso and fiddled wildly with his belt, your mind muddled from his searing kiss. 

Taking your lower lip between his teeth, he released it with a nip of admonishment and sat up over you, his knees placed on either side of your hips. His chest trembled with ragged breaths, and the collar of his sweater had sagged to reveal your marks tattooing his skin. He’d be beautiful, but beautiful things didn’t betray. 

His thighs flexed around you as he swiftly pulled his sweater off, his biceps rippling with the movement. Next came his belt, which he discarded on the carpet with a gentle thud. 

Slowly, deliberately, he eased off the bed, keeping dilated eyes on you throughout. 

You couldn’t keep his gaze. 

The first time, you’d avoided his careful, intent stare out of shyness. Now, it was shame that burned behind your eyelids.  

Fabric fell to the floor. Crinkling foil faded into silent concentration. The mattress dipped. 

“Do you want to continu—”

“Do it.” The words were muffled—your throat was closing up again. You gritted your teeth. “Do it.” 

“We can stop here if—”

You reached out wildly and caught his arm, forcing him flush against you. “Make me remember.” 

When his first stroke brushed your furthest depths, stars exploded across your vision. 

He pressed into you as if trying to leave an imprint, steady and powerful and pulsing with need. You wrapped your legs around him through shaky breaths, bringing him closer, relishing the feel of his hips against yours. 

Your breaths mingled as you forced yourself to look into his eyes, not quite sure what you were searching for, but bristling at what you found: composure. Control. Dominance. The traits you’d never had, but admired in him. 

The ones that let him leave you. 

Grunting in frustration—at him, at yourself, at the world you never asked to be in—you pushed at his chest, shifting your momentum to roll him onto his back. You clenched your core as you mounted him, refusing to let his twitching tip fall from your warmth. 

He let you take him with wobbly bounces, cooing up at you while you sneered down at him. “Take what you need from me. Whatever you need.” 

With every shaky rise and fall, every clench of your core on his swollen length, you tried to. But when you looked at him, calm and encouraging and so terribly not yours, teardrops clouded your vision. One by one, they splashed onto his red-tinged skin. 

Your movements slowed. You collapsed onto him, cradling his head in your hands, and sobbed into his chest. 

The raised lines of his scars branded your skin as he wrapped his arms around you, held you close, and took over from underneath. He raised his hips with slow, lasting thrusts, your tightening walls still responding to him despite it all. 

You were too focused on his heavy heartbeat to notice the way you clamped around him, trying to drain him for all he had. And when his hips stuttered and he spilled into something so cruelly not you, you grew too numb to care. 

Tears darkened the marks on his neck as he held you, turning reddish purple to indigo. 

The proof that you’d known him was the last thing you saw that night. His gentle whisper in your ear was the last thing you heard.

“You’ll be better off this way.” 

When you woke, the bed was cold.

"And you didn't tell anyone while this was going on?"

Your cheeks, sunken and hollow, lifted slightly as you answered. "No one to tell."

A muffled cough. Another approach. “It’s been…a while since we’ve seen you here. We hoped it would stop once you moved out of your parents’ house. Why did you try again?” 

“I thought he would come.” 

Silence. 

Your eyes settled on the far wall of the sparsely furnished room. 

"Well, it’s…remarkable that you're still on track to graduate on time—despite the circumstances, of course. You’ll make a wonderful nurse.” 

"He wanted me to."

Your gown fluttered in the late spring wind. 

You barely noticed. Your heart was heavy. 

A brilliant stage stood before you, balloons and streamers lining the wooden steps. 

To your left, rows and rows of filled seats. 

The girls behind you fretted over their faces, hoping their caps hadn’t smudged their makeup. 

You hadn’t looked in the mirror before you left. You’d been running late, and you weren’t sure you wanted to see what’d become of you, anyway. 

It was fine. You were alone here. 

A part of you thought he’d be here. That if you wished hard enough, if you tried hard enough, if you thought hard enough, he’d feel you. See you. Come back. 

But jet black hair and hazel eyes were missing in the crowd. 

Zayne had cradled your heart in his scarred hands and laid it to rest. 

He’d hoped you would make it here, and you’d give him that, at least. 

But it was what you’d do later, surrounded by the soft embrace of the bed he’d once taken you in, that made you feel at ease. 

You felt the chain around your wrist and smiled wistfully. Pharaohs were buried with their treasures, after all. 

The procession moved forward. Every step was a memory discarded by its co-creator.

A first kiss in a quiet room. Stairs creaking under your weight. 

Scars that looked like yours. Stinging behind your eyes. 

Teardrops splashing on heated skin. Your name, clear and monotone. 

An unwilling return to a hospital bed. Subdued, polite applause. 

It feels like fate that I met you.

The bestowal of a scroll, a brisk handshake. A tight, transactional smile. 

“Congratulations.” 

[sweetpeaaquarius]

I'm new to your site and have only read a few of your stories so far, but I liked them all. You write really beautifully and portray the characters very well. So I just have to make a request. About Azriel (love your latest Az fic 😍) My idea is that Azriel has given up on finding someone and doesn't want to get involved with anyone anymore because he's afraid she'll eventually get a mate. But then he finally found her, his mate. and also the Inner Circle is so happy for him (they noticed how alone Azriel was sometimes) and are also totally enthusiastic about her. the request would be a good mix of angsty and fluffy. And maybe some spice in the end where she shows him her dark side and what shows the IC that they will not have peace any time soon. because they are kinky🤭

His to Lose

Pairing: Azriel x Mate f!reader

Summary: Azriel has long accepted solitude as his constant, letting shadows guide him instead of hope. A routine mission, meant to be simple, becomes anything but when an unexpected encounter challenges everything he thought he knew about control, connection, and himself. As lines blur and the bond deepens, he finds himself slipping into the role of being a mate before either of them are ready to claim it.

Warnings: nsfw, smut,  teasing, unprotected sex, slight exhibitionism, emotional vulnerability,  slow burn romance, gentle angst (focus on self-worth), jealousy, flirty flighting, touch-starved Azreil

Word count: 11,440

Author’s Note: One word: Obsessed. I spent two full days writing, rewriting, and rereading this nonstop until my brain turned to mush. I truly hope I captured your request the way you imagined, because I completely fell in love with this piece. There’s still a part of me that thinks I could’ve done it better, but here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved creating it!

Azriel had long given up on finding his mate, the one soul destined by fate to match his own. 

He had spent centuries praying to the Mother, to gods and forgotten goddesses, pleading for his other half. For a sign. For something.

He searched. He waited. He hoped.

After Morrigan, after Elain, after Gwyn, all of whom had found their paths, their peace, their purpose without him, he ceased hoping.

He couldn’t keep doing it.

Now, all he had were shame-tinted memories. A blur of encounters, mouths, hands, eyes that never looked past the surface. Fleeting touches that felt wrong. Distractions he couldn’t even pretend brought comfort.

False hope, dressed in sweat and shadow.

Still, in the quiet hours, when the world was still and the silence crept in, he wondered.

Had he done something to deserve this?

Did a sin in a lifetime ago curse him to this ache?

To stand just outside of joy, always watching and always aching.

To be the one who craves, and never the one who is loved.

He’d imagined it sometimes, what it would feel like if the moment arrived. If the bond snapped into place, sudden and sure.

If someone entered his life not like a storm, but as a quiet gift. 

Someone who didn’t flinch at the silence. 

Who didn’t try to fix the shadows, but sat within them.

Who didn’t recoil from the pain, but saw it, and stayed.

He told himself he deserved this.

The silence.

The cold bed.

The hollow gazes from lovers who only wanted his title, his power, or a story to tell.

Not him. Never him.

He accepted it, the idea that he would always be alone.

Until he met her.

A mission that should have been forgettable, just decoding ancient wards, nothing more. 

The meeting point Rhys had chosen was quiet, tucked between shadowed cliffs. Azriel felt the familiar high of anticipation as his boots hit the ground.

Then he saw her.

The moment their eyes met across the clearing, something inside him stilled, and then shattered.

The bond didn’t click neatly into place. It struck like lightning. Made his body hum. Made his chest tighten, his heart stutter, his mind blur.

Her gaze softened. Her head tilted, just slightly.

She felt it too.

He wondered if it was as overwhelming for her, if her hands trembled like his did.

She stood there in her pale blue-grey robes, fabric softly billowing with the breeze. A priestess. Tasked with helping decode ancient wards carved into old Illyrian stone. Her eyes were deep, dark brown, like still water concealing centuries beneath its surface.

“My mate,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re my mate.”

She said nothing at first. Just stared at him. Her dark hair twisted into intricate braids that shimmered in the shadows of the forest.

She swallowed, straightened, and said, “We have an assignment.”

Azriel didn’t respond right away.

He just stood there, heart pounding in the silence she left between them. We have an assignment.

That was it. No recognition. No panic. No joy. No acknowledgment of the world-altering truth he’d just spoken aloud.

The shadows around him shifted, restless with the weight of it. He pushed them back. Pushed himself back, because she was right, there was an assignment, and she had given him no invitation to go further.

So he followed.

They moved in silence through the jagged cliffs, scanning the worn stone for sigils and wards carved into the rock, ancient magic pulsing just beneath the surface. She moved with a quiet grace, every motion efficient, her fingers trailing over glyphs like she was reading them through touch alone.

Azriel pretended to study the cliffs, but he watched her instead.

The way she tilted her head as she translated ancient Fae words.

The way she frowned when she found something out of place.

The way her power hummed beneath her skin was controlled, focused, and sharp.

He had known her for minutes, yet he knew her. Felt her like a second heartbeat. Like a truth he had waited centuries to hear.

She felt it too; he could see it in the way her eyes drifted to him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. In the way her sentences faltered, just slightly, when their gazes caught.

Still, she kept her distance. Professional. Measured. Cool, but not unkind. Cautious.

He understood, because if she felt even a fraction of what he did, then her world had just shifted beneath her feet. Whatever walls she’d built to survive, whatever life she’d carefully crafted with steady hands had changed.

So he gave her space. Offered silence, soft glances, and nothing more.

They worked until the last light of day stretched long across the warded stones. Golden sun poured like honey over the hills, and she moved with quiet efficiency, rolling up her notes, brushing her braid over one shoulder, already turning toward the path.

Azriel watched her for a long moment, then said softly, before he could think better of it. “Will you come back with me?”

She stopped and turned.

Her eyes met his, dark, unreadable in the fading light. Like deep water, still and ancient, and hiding something beneath the surface.

“To the House of Wind,” he said, clarifying. “Just for now. For safety. For rest. I won’t ask anything of you. I just…”

He faltered. His voice roughened.

“I don’t want you walking back to the temple alone. I don’t want you to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched long enough for shame to creep in, for fear to grip his chest, for doubt to whisper that he’d overstepped.

“They talk about you,” she murmured. “The priestesses.”

Azriel said nothing. The silence stretched between them, taut and fraying.

“They call you the Shadowsinger.” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through him like steel wrapped in silk. “Say you don’t talk much, but you always get your message across.”

“Is that what you think I am?” he asked softly. “A message?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned, suddenly, like she couldn’t bear to stay in the space they’d created.

The last of the faelight blinked along the path, but the shadows clung to her, hungry and heavy, as she stepped into the trees.

“Wait,” he said, stepping forward. “Let me fly you there. That walk will take over an hour.”

She didn’t stop, but she slowed.

Her shoulders tensed, her steps faltered, but she didn’t turn back.

“I don’t need saving,” she said, the wind almost swallowed the words.

Azriel stood there, shadows curling at his feet, restless as caged wings.

He could have let her go, but the bond inside him was drawn taut as wire, strung across something sharp, ready to snap.

“I don’t want to save you,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

She stopped.

The forest held still.

“I just wanted to make sure you get there safe. That’s all.”

She turned then, slowly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were still hard, but something else flickered behind them, small and flickering.

“Fine,” she said, voice barely above the wind. “But no talking.”

Azriel’s heart splintered a little more.

“No talking,” he promised.

He held out his hand. She stared at it, hesitating, then brushed her fingers against his palm, uncertain, like they weren’t quite sure if they belonged there.

He gathered her gently, lifting her without a word.

The change in her was immediate. Her body went stiff, breath shallow and fast, hands gripping his shoulders, not out of closeness, but control. Fear.

Not of him.

Of this. Of flying. Of trusting. Of being this high above the ground with a stranger who claimed fate had tied them together.

Azriel didn’t speak. He shifted just enough to give her space, ensuring she didn’t feel trapped. His shadows curled behind her, soft and silent, like a net she didn’t realise she could fall into.

He flew slower than usual. Smooth. Controlled. Gliding through the currents rather than slicing through them.

Still, he felt her heartbeat hammering against his chest, fast and erratic.

“I won’t drop you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed ahead. “I promise.”

She didn’t respond.

Her face remained tucked against his chest, not for closeness, but necessity. Her breath still came uneven, and when a downdraft hit and they dipped slightly, she yelped, her nails digging into his leathers.

He held her a little closer.

They landed softly a few meters from the temple gates. Still, her arms stayed wrapped around him, like she couldn’t quite let go.

“You’re safe now,” he said, lowering her until her boots touched grass.

 She didn’t relax. If anything, she pulled back like his touch burned. Her spine went stiff again as she stepped away.

“Thank you,” she said, voice thin. 

She pushed hair from her face, adjusted the braid at her shoulder, then pulled the scroll of notes from her satchel and held it out to him.

“The High Lord will be pleased with the translation,” she said briskly. “Though there’s more. The context isn’t quite right. I think whoever inscribed these misrepresented their origin, ”

She began to ramble. Not nervously, not exactly.

Just fast.

As if the words were a shield, she knew how to wield.

Azriel let her. Let her talk, point at symbols, unfold parchment, but he wasn’t listening because somewhere along the way, he stopped looking at the parchment and started watching her mouth.

She noticed.

Her voice slowed. Her brow creased.

“You’re not listening,” she said, tone flat.

Azriel blinked once. “I think it’ll be easier if you told him yourself.”

She exhaled sharply. “You just want me to let you hold me again.”

He didn’t deny it.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, but only because I doubt you’d survive repeating the translation without butchering it.”

She stepped in close again.

Azriel lowered instinctively, his arms rising to meet her as she looped hers around his neck.

He held her more gently this time. Her breath caught at the thought of leaving the ground again, and her pulse was racing so quickly he could hear it.

One hand settled at the small of her back. The other cradled her head.

This time, he flew slower than before. Steadier. Every motion smooth, every beat of his wings deliberate.

She didn’t tremble, but he felt the tension in her bones.

The sky stretched deep and dark above them, moonlight pouring over the clouds like silver ink. Neither of them spoke.

The bond thrummed. Not demanding. Just present. Soft and pulsing between them like a new heartbeat.

At last, the House of Wind came into view. Ancient. Vast. Carved into the mountain like something sleeping and sacred.

“We’re almost there,” Azriel whispered.

She stirred, lifting her head just enough to glance over his shoulder. Azriel loosened his hold slightly, allowing her the space to shift and take in the sight of his home.

He felt it, the moment her breath caught.

The House shimmered like faelight sealed in crystal, casting soft gold across moonstone terraces and sweeping archways. Vines trailed from balcony railings, blooming even under the starlight. It was vast. Majestic. Terrifying.

She said nothing.

Azriel angled them toward the quietest landing, a small balcony off the library wing, far from the noise of the main halls. As they descended, her grip around his neck tightened. When her boots touched warm marble, she didn’t move.

Not at first.

He didn’t rush her. He simply waited, only stepping back when her arms finally dropped away.

She stood there in silence, eyes sweeping across the towering arches and spiral staircases, catching on every flicker of light and stretch of shadow like she expected something to leap out.

“This isn’t what I thought a fortress would be,” she murmured. “Cold. Brutal.”

“It is,” Azriel replied. “But it’s also my home.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned slowly, as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

Then came footsteps.

She tensed beside him.

“It’s alright,” Azriel said, his voice low, steady. “It’s just the Inner Circle.”

“The Inner Circle,” she repeated, the words unfamiliar on her tongue.

It was Azriel’s moment to prepare her, to warn her about how overwhelming his family could be, but the footsteps were already growing louder.

Rhysand appeared first, tall and composed, power wrapped in elegance. Feyre walked beside him, calm and observant. Cassian followed, his smirk already forming.

Azriel shifted subtly in front of her, not to hide her, but to buffer her from their attention.

Rhys’s violet eyes swept over him, then settled on her. Recognition sparked.

“Azriel,” Rhys said slowly. “Who’s your friend?”

She peeked out from behind Azriel’s shoulder, and for a heartbeat, Rhysand’s expression sharpened.

“Oh. You’re Y/N, the priestess from the temple. The one helping with the transcriptions. Did something happen?”

“I am,” she replied, her voice clear but tight. She stepped forward and dipped into a low, practised bow. “We completed the transcription, but Azriel thought it would be better if I delivered the findings myself. Some of it is more complex than we expected.”

Azriel didn’t miss the tremor in her fingers or how she clutched the scroll, not just for the words it held, but because it was the only thing in this room that was familiar. Nor did he miss how his shadows hovered nearby, curling softly around her shoulders as if they knew she needed it.

Rhys nodded, casting Azriel a look that clearly said: We’ll talk later.

Aloud, the High Lord just smiled, smooth and welcoming. “Then let’s speak in my office. You’ll stay the night, of course. I’ll have a room prepared.”

She bowed again, this time to both Rhys and Feyre. “Thank you, my High Lord, and High Lady.”

“Please,” Rhys said gently. “Call me Rhys. This is my mate, Feyre.” He gestured to her, then to Cassian. “And that is Cassian.”

Azriel saw it coming the moment Cassian’s gaze flicked from her to him, then back again. That grin curling on his face, charming, reckless, meant only one thing.

Cassian smirked. “Hello, beautiful.”

She looked to Azriel instantly, seeking something. Reassurance. Permission. A shield.

Azriel’s voice cut in before she could answer, low and sharp. “Cassian.”

Cassian paused, then raised his hands in mock surrender, but the grin stayed.

Only then did she move, stepping closer to Azriel as she followed them down the hall. Her grip on the scroll remained tight. Her posture was stiff, and every time Rhys glanced back, she flinched.

They reached the double doors of Rhys’s office. He opened them with a flick of power. As the shadows peeled away, she paused at the threshold and looked to Azriel.

A silent request.

Come with me.

He followed without hesitation.

Rhys, watching them closely, said nothing, but Azriel saw it, the glint of understanding in his eyes.

The doors shut with a soft thud behind them. Rhysand crossed the room and summoned chairs from the shadows with a wave.

“Please,” he said, gesturing.

Azriel didn’t sit, but she did, perched on the edge of the seat like it might vanish beneath her. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flinch, but Azriel saw it, the way she tucked her feet under her chair to anchor herself, the way her hand clutched the scroll like it was a shield.

Rhys waited patiently.

“I translated the western sigils along the cliff,” she began, voice low and even. “They’re more than wards. They tell a story. Fragmented, but intentional.”

Azriel stood beside her, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He wasn’t watching the scroll.

He was watching her.

The way her lips moved. The concentration in her eyes. How her fingers, stained with ink, traced each glyph with care and confidence.

Something about it made the bond hum low in his chest, insistent and steady, like it already knew what he wasn’t ready to admit.

With each line she spoke, her voice grew stronger. She forgot the room. Forgot who was listening. She just existed.

Brilliant. Unafraid.

She looked windswept, her braid loosening at the edges, skin kissed golden by sun and sky. Azriel’s hands twitched at the thought of touching her.

Rhysand asked a quiet question about the sigils, something about age, structure, or Court alignment.

She answered before he could finish. Eager.

“It predates the Courts,” she said, angling the scroll.“The structure is later, but the script is—Look here—”

Azriel stepped forward. Not for the scroll. For her voice.

“The symbol here,” she explained, “is mirrored in the fourth line of the southern wall’s carvings. It’s repeated, but the tense shifts. When that happens, the meaning changes, from protection… to memory.”

Azriel blinked. “Memory?”

Her head turned toward him. Caught off guard, a little breathless.

“Yes. It’s a mnemonic sigil. It only activates when remembered aloud or with intent. The magic is tied to remembrance. That’s the anchor.”

He nodded, though he barely heard the words. Her voice, measured, intelligent, full of quiet excitement, wrapped around him like a spell.

The bond tugged, a subtle pull beneath his ribs. His shadows drifted toward her. Not pressing. Just drawn.

“That’s rare magic,” Rhys said, intrigued.

“It’s forgotten magic,” she replied. “It wasn’t meant to last, but it did.”

Azriel nearly smiled, nearly reached for her.

Instead, he watched, shadows coiling low at his feet like they were fascinated, too. 

She turned back to the scroll, pointing at the glyphs, warnings of dormant power, spells that still dreamed beneath the stone. Magic that lingered like breath in the silence. Even Rhysand leaned forward, drawn in.

She was brilliant. 

So quietly brilliant that she didn’t seem to know it, and Azriel watched her like she had caught starlight in her hands and offered it to the world without hesitation. 

She was brighter than him, brighter than anyone he had ever known, and something like pride bloomed sharp in his chest, a feeling he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Her eyes flicked to him now and then, searching for something he couldn’t name. Something he feared he couldn’t give. 

Then it struck him how lovely she was. Not just in the way her hair caught the light or the way she smiled when she found something new in the scroll, but in the way she existed. Gentle. Steady. A comfort.

A comfort he didn’t deserve.

When she finally rolled the parchment closed, ink smudging her fingertips, her shoulders stiffened, as if she remembered where she was. Who was she speaking to.

She bowed again, softer. “I hope it was useful.”

Rhysand inclined his head, thoughtful. “More than. Thank you.”

She looked at Azriel then, her eyes searching his, uncertain and almost seeking approval. He stepped forward, feeling the bond stir faintly in his chest, a warmth he hadn’t deserved.

“You did perfectly,” he said, voice low.

She exhaled, just slightly.

Rhys looked between them, quiet and calculating. Azriel recognised that expression. He’d seen it on his brother’s face for centuries. It meant I know. This time, it was laced with something that made Azriel want to fade into shadow.

“There are more wards deeper in the Illyrian caves. You’ll keep working on them. Together," Rhys said calmly.

“Of course, my—” she caught herself, “Rhys.”

Azriel said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice, but he stayed close, his shadows brushing along her back, an instinct he couldn’t stop, a tether he didn’t understand.

“You’re welcome to stay here during the assignment,” Rhys said to her. “Everything you need will be made available. Azriel knows the libraries. I’ll inform your High Priestess that you’ve been reassigned, for as long as necessary.”

He turned to Azriel. “You’ll continue training the Valkyries with Cassian. Y/N, you're welcome to join if you choose.”

“My lord,” she said quietly, worry flickering behind her eyes, “there’s no need for all this…”

“I’m not demanding anything,” Rhys replied, kind but firm. “I’m offering. You’ve earned it. Think on it overnight.”

She hesitated. Her gaze shifted sideways, towards Azriel. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said quietly.

She exhaled slowly, tension slipping just slightly from her frame. 

“Thank you, Rhys,” she said quietly, stepping closer to Azriel without even realising it.

He opened the door and let her slip through. But before he followed, he caught Rhysand’s gaze. One glance. A look that said, “Be careful,” more than anything else.

The hallway was quiet, washed in soft golden light. Faelight drifted lazily overhead, glowing gently along the polished stone.

They walked in silence. She stayed beside him, shoulder to shoulder, her steps steady but uncertain, like someone testing the depth of still water before diving in.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. His presence was all he could offer her, and even that seemed excessive. The bond softly pulsed, quiet but steady. He tried not to notice it. Not to want.

When he looked at her, he saw the exhaustion deep in her eyes, not just tiredness but years of shrinking herself, contained, as if safety was always conditional.

The House opened a door near the end of the hall.

“Your room,” he said softly. “Mine’s down the hall. If you need anything...” He cleared his throat. “Just knock. Dinner will be ready soon. I can walk you down.”

She paused in the doorway, eyes fixed on the candlelit room, then turned to him.

“Stay?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

Azriel’s heart hammered in his chest.

“Of course,” he said.

The room was quiet and peaceful. A breeze lifted the gauzy curtains at the balcony doors. She walked slowly, her fingers brushing the wood and velvet, then sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap.

Azriel hovered near the doorway, wings folded close. His shadows were steady now, circling his ankles like guards protecting him from the fear of rejection.

“I don’t mean to keep you,” she said, her voice careful. Hesitant.

“You’re not,” Azriel replied, gentler than before. “I wouldn’t have stayed otherwise.”

She nodded, but he saw the flicker in her hands, the nervous curl of her fingers.

A pause.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He nodded.

“You’re the spymaster. The shadowsinger.” Her brow furrowed. “I’ve heard stories, but what does that actually mean?”

He exhaled slowly, stepped into the room, and settled into the chair across from her.

“It means I hear things others don’t. I see what people try to hide. I go where I’m needed, even when no one wants to admit the need is there.”

She watched him closely.

“It sounds lonely,” she said.

Azriel looked away, jaw tightening, his heart pounding harder in his chest.

“It is,” he admitted. “But it’s the only place I’ve ever fit. Sometimes it’s easier to be the ghost in the room than the one trying to be seen. They understand that I need the shadows to feel like I belong.”

“Like Rhysand.”

Azriel nodded. “And Cassian. Feyre. Mor. They’re my family.” 

His eyes drifted back to her. The question caught in his throat, clumsy and uncertain, but he asked anyway, “You avoided looking at Rhys tonight. Was it him or his power?”

She paused.

“Both,” she whispered. “He reminded me of what I’ve tried to forget. That sort of power isn’t always kind.”

Azriel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Rhysand is many things, but cruel isn’t one of them. Still, I understand. Power has teeth. Even when it means well.”

She nodded slowly, then was quiet for a moment, her gaze falling to the floor. 

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible, and she seemed to be considering her words carefully before she spoke. 

“Are you angry with the Mother?”

Azriel blinked, his normally carefully neutral expression shifting, confusion, then concern softening his features.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his chest tightening with each breath.

“That I’m your mate,” she said, still watching her feet swing gently from the edge of the bed. “A stranger.”

Silence followed the end of her sentence. 

A sharp, sudden fury flared in Azriel’s chest. Not at her, but at the thought that she believed she was unworthy of him.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, a cold sound that made her lift her head, startled, meeting his eyes at last.

“I have prayed to the Mother for my mate for centuries,” he said, voice rough, almost trembling. “And now that I’ve met you, I want to fall to my knees and thank her. The Cauldron. The Mother. You.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came, just a stillness.

“You’re not a stranger,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’re mine.”

The bond shimmered between them, an invisible tether, but undeniable like a heartbeat echoing through them both.

“I don’t need time to believe that,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll give you as much of it as you need.”

Her eyes were wide and glassy, something fragile and unspoken flickering within them. “Thank you,” she whispered.

A soft bell chimed through the quiet room.

“Dinner’s ready,” Azriel said, reluctantly breaking the moment.

“Should I change?” she asked, glancing down at the fitted robes that clung to her like a second skin.

Azriel’s eyes followed her movement. His shadows curled tighter around him, as if they too noticed how easily she’d settled into his space. How quickly she’d become the only thing in it.

“No,” he said, eyes snapping back to hers. “You look beautiful.”

Her lips parted again, surprise, maybe, or something deeper. Then she turned, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity’s mirror and froze.

A horrified sound escaped her throat. “You were going to let me meet the inner circle looking like this?”

Azriel blinked. “Like what?”

She spun toward the bathing chamber, hands flying to the wind-tossed braids tangled atop her head. “Like a half-blown thistle in the middle of a storm,” she muttered. “Cauldron boil me—”

He followed, lingering in the doorway as she fumbled at the intricate, now-messy braids. Her hair, a rich, silky brown, had loosened into chaotic waves that still somehow managed to look radiant, and still, she scowled at it.

“Azriel,” she said, and his name on her lips felt like a blessing. He straightened. Every nerve ending alive.

“Help me.”

It wasn’t a request; it was a command. Clear. Firm. Completely unfazed by the fact that they were barely more than strangers.

He stepped behind her as she leaned forward over the marble vanity. His hands, glowing faintly with blue siphon light, reached toward her hair.

The strands slid between his gloved fingers like silk. He tried to focus on the knots, the soft, silky feel of the strands, anything but the way her scent now surrounded him, soft, wild, and maddeningly sweet, like wildflowers after a storm.

She stilled beneath his touch. Slowly, unknowingly, she began to lean into it.

He worked with delicate precision, fingers grazing the nape of her neck as he unravelled each braid. Her breath hitched once so softly it could’ve been imagined, but then she bit her lip, as if catching a sound before it could escape.

His jaw tightened.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Instead, she sighed softly, reluctant, as his fingers brushed through the last few strands.

He lingered.

Just a moment too long.

Then she stepped back, lifting her hood, hair now cascading in soft waves down to her waist. She studied her reflection in the mirror, satisfied.

Azriel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She shifted slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror, and there it was again, that quiet, unspoken look, as if she’d already lived inside his bones long before they’d met.

His voice was low, reverent. “You’re… breathtaking.”

She said nothing, but her eyes softened, like maybe she would’ve said the same.

Somehow, it seemed like they’d done this a hundred times before, stood like this. Touched like this. As if the bond had always been there, waiting.

As if this moment had been written into the lines of their skin.

The walk to the dining room was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Azriel stayed close, not touching, but near enough that his presence felt like armour.

The House lit the halls in warm gold, shadows trailing them like whispers. He could feel her tension, the faint stiffness in her shoulders.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She glanced up, wide eyes flicking to his face. There was a question on her lips, but before she could ask, they crossed the threshold into the dining room.

Voices. Laughter. The clink of silverware and glass.

Then silence.

Eight pairs of eyes turned to her.

She paled.

Azriel instinctively shifted, placing himself slightly in front of her, not shielding, but ready. A silent message: she’s not a curiosity.

Before he could speak, Mor stood and crossed the room, all warmth and velvet.

“I’m Morrigan,” she said, her voice all velvet and strength. “Call me Mor.”

“Y/N,” his mate replied. Soft. Controlled.

Azriel noted the tension in her posture, but she didn’t shy away.

Mor led her into the room gently, introducing her to the others, and Azriel watched his shadows trail after her, drawn not by command but by instinct.

Across the table, Rhys and Cassian shared grins, knowing and teasing. He ignored them and headed for the wine decanter. He poured two glasses, one for himself, one for her.

She was already seated between Mor and Amren when he came back, her hood down, face revealed. Her fingers fiddled with the stem of her robes.

She glanced up at him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Azriel’s fingers briefly brushed her shoulder, grounding her or maybe him. Then he took his seat opposite her, next to Feyre and Rhys, who were watching him like they didn’t recognise him.

Conversation resumed, cautiously at first. Mor and Amren flanked her like shields, sunlight and steel. To his surprise, Elain leaned forward, asking a soft question about her robes. 

She responded calmly about her role in the temple, explaining how she’d be staying to study the mountain’s wards and ancient script. Her voice remained steady, but Azriel could sense the frayed edge through the bond. She was coping, but just.

“I mentioned to Nesta,” Rhys said casually, “that you might be interested in Valkyrie training.”

Across the table, Nesta, who had barely spared a glance at her until now, perked up, eyes narrowing not with scepticism, but something closer to interest.

“Oh?” Nesta leaned forward slightly, wine glass in hand. “You’ve trained before?”

“Some,” his mate replied, lips curving just a bit. “I don’t want to intrude… but I wouldn’t mind learning more.”

Nesta’s eyes brightened, not mocking or challenging, but engaged. Azriel blinked, surprised by how warm Nesta’s tone was, how different this was from the usual ice she wore like armour.

“Well,” Nesta said, voice edged with something almost like approval, “we train every morning. You’re welcome to join us.”

Azriel lifted a brow. Cassian did too. Neither of them missed it, Nesta Archeron being friendly on a first meeting.

His mate hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I’d like that,” she said softly.

Nesta gave a single approving nod and turned back to her water.

Azriel leaned back, trying not to stare, but Cassian was already smirking behind his glass.

What in the Mother’s name was happening tonight?

Then she glanced toward Azriel. Just a flick of her eyes, but he saw the tension behind them, the subtle wear, the quiet strain.

He gave her what he could. Not a touch, not a word, just his shadows, curling beneath the table and brushing lightly against her fingers.

She welcomed them.

Let them twine through her fingers like silk. Her eyes dropped to them briefly, as if she could see them, feel them in some deeper way. She twirled her fingers, letting the threads of darkness dance between them.

Then, she smiled. Maybe at something Mor had said, but her gaze always found his again, as it always did.

As if it needed to.

As if he needed her to look at him that way.

Azriel leaned forward and silently refilled her glass before his own, ignoring the stares and smirks it earned him. When new dishes were passed around, he reached for them first, sliding them closer to her, gesturing with just his eyes to the ones she might want.

She responded in kind: subtle glances, small nods or shakes of her head. A private language they hadn’t learned, but already knew.

As the evening wore on and conversation turned mellow with wine-sweetened fatigue, chairs scraped softly against the stone floor. Laughter grew quieter, warmer. Slowly, the others drifted deeper into the House of Wind.

Azriel stood, glancing once at Cassian, who was smirking.

He crossed to her, where she sat beside Mor with the last sip of wine cradled in her hand. He brushed a finger over her shoulder.

Her head turned, cheeks flushed. “More wine, or...?”

“I think I need rest,” she said softly, rising.

Mor leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Azriel didn’t catch the words, but he saw the flush in her cheeks and how she didn’t look at him after.

Together, they gave their thank-yous and slipped from the room, the whispers and curious glances following behind them.

Azriel stayed close beside her. Not touching, but near enough that their hands brushed now and then.

“I think they like you,” he said.

She huffed a soft laugh. “I think I survived.”

“You did more than that. Nesta invited you to train. That’s her version of a love letter.”

Her laugh came again, softer this time, unguarded. God, that sound he’d memorise if he could.

They reached her room. The door opened quietly, candlelight flickering inside already. His shadows moved with her now, as if she called to them.

She paused in the doorway, turning slowly. Hesitation flickered in her eyes, and he could almost see the thoughts shifting behind them, quiet and uncertain.

Azriel tilted his head, voice low. “Tell me. I can feel it, you want to say something.”

Her eyes flicked to his, uncertain. “I just…” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to be this. For you. A mate.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how not to mess it up.”

His heart fluttered, not out of fear, but recognition. He’d felt that way before, too, like he might mess it up before it even started.

“You’re not messing anything up,” he said, stepping closer. “There’s no version of you I was waiting for. You’re it. Already.”

She looked up, eyes wide and wary. “But you’re Azriel, The Spymaster. The Shadowsinger.” 

She paused before continuing. “I don’t know who I am without the Temple, without the priestesses. I don’t know if that’s enough for someone like you.”

He didn’t answer right away. How could he explain that most days, he still felt like he was trying to earn his place? Even now, standing here with her, he doubted himself.

“I don’t expect you to have answers,” he said gently. “I’m still learning too.”

The bond between them thrummed, soft and steady, like it was listening.

“If you need time,” he added, quieter now, “I’ll wait. If you need space, I’ll give it. But if you ever need to leave…” His voice caught. “Just tell me first.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with everything unsaid.

“I’m not going to leave,” she whispered.

His eyes didn’t waver. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

She nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting to a near smile. 

“Goodnight, Azriel.”

He hesitated. His shadows curled tighter at his feet. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her, gently, final. Still, the bond tugged at him through the wood. Faint. Present.

He lingered a moment longer, hand clenched at his side, as if letting go of her entirely might unravel something inside him. 

He turned, and there Rhysand stood at the end of the hall, cloaked in darkness. 

Azriel expected him, walked towards him, and stopped a few paces away.

“You waited,” Azriel said flatly.

Rhys crossed his arms. “Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d let that dinner end without a conversation?”

Azriel said nothing.

They walked away from her door, into the hush of the House.

Rhys glanced sideways at him, all High Lord calm and brotherly patience. “So?”

Azriel didn’t look away. “She’s my mate.”

The words rang out like a vow. As if speaking them made them real, permanent.

Rhys nodded slowly. No surprise. Only understanding in his eyes.

“I figured,” he said.

Azriel exhaled. “It snapped into place like lightning, and now it hums in my bones. Like I’ve known her forever.”

“And her?”

“She’s scared,” Azriel said. “But I think she trusts me.”

Rhys studied him for a long moment. Then a small smile curved his mouth.

“She’ll be good for you. That dinner—” he shook his head. “It’s the most alive I’ve seen you in years. I hope she stays.”

Azriel nodded, voice quiet. “I hope so, too.”

A moment went by before Rhys slapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Get some rest, brother. You’ve waited a long time for this.”

Azriel gave a tight nod and turned to leave, but he already knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not with every thread of the bond still humming with her name.

The sunrise over Vallaris painted the sky in soft gold and muted lavender. He stood at his window, arms crossed, shadows curling at his feet. Sleep had evaded him for days, but with her now under this roof, he doubted it would return anytime soon.

He’d risen early, earlier than usual. Arranged for the twins to deliver breakfast to her room: fresh pastries, fruits, strong coffee, and a selection of books he thought she might like. He didn’t expect her to join them for training, not yet. He wanted her to rest. To settle in. To feel safe.

So when Nesta asked where she was, voice sharp with expectation, Azriel’s only answer had been, “She needs time.”

Cassian gave Nesta a pointed look, and the subject was dropped.

The training ring filled slowly. Gwyn arrived first, followed by Roslin, Ilana, Deirdre, and Ananke. Then Emerie, quiet and focused, took her place beside Nesta.

They greeted him politely. Soft smiles. Gwyn gave him the same warm look she always did. Once, that smile might have meant something. Now, he could barely hold it.

He hardly noticed any of them, because in his mind, she was still curled in bed, maybe reading or sleeping. He hoped she was resting. Hoped she liked the books. Hoped she knew he was thinking of her, always.

He didn’t expect the sound of footsteps behind him. Didn’t expect the soft scent of her, flowers and something warmer, carried on the wind. Then she was beside him.

Dressed in flowing midnight-blue Night Court robes, the hem brushing the training mat. Her hair was half-pinned, half-tousled from sleep. A steaming mug of coffee in her hands.

She didn’t speak right away, just sipped her coffee and looked out over the ring like she’d been there all her life.

“You didn’t wake me,” she said, eyes finally meeting his.

“I didn’t want to rush you,” he replied, voice quiet.

There was a pause. Something gentle flickered between them.

“I liked the books,” she said, a little softer.

“I hoped you would.”

She sat on the bench just beside him, her shoulder brushing his thigh for the briefest moment. Across the ring, Nesta offered a short wave. She returned it with a warm smile that looked far too familiar for someone who’d only met them the day before.

Cassian glanced at Azriel from across the mats. Said nothing, just offered him a knowing look.

Azriel didn’t return it. He couldn’t. Not when she was sitting beside him like this, as though her presence hadn’t tilted the ground he stood on.

He turned slightly, just enough that his shadows shifted between them, reaching, gently. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her hand, still wrapped around the mug, brushed against them like she welcomed them. She welcomed him.

For a moment, Azriel thought, if this was what mornings would look like with her, even just sometimes, it might undo him in a way nothing else ever had.

She didn’t move for a while. Just sat beside him, warm coffee in hand, her gaze calm as she watched the priestesses begin their stretches. There was no tension in her posture, but Azriel noticed how her eyes lingered, quietly studying Nesta’s form, the way Emerie adjusted her stance, how Gwyn corrected Deirdre’s alignment with a subtle gesture.

She was watching closely. Not idly.

After a few minutes, she leaned down and opened the small cloth bag she’d brought with her. Inside, a worn book rested between a notebook and a pen, one of the texts he’d asked the twins to bring from the library. Something on ancient wardings. She balanced it easily in her lap, thumbing the corner of a page before looking up again.

“I didn’t want to get in the way,” she said softly, sensing his attention. “But I thought I’d at least observe.”

“You’re never in the way,” Azriel replied without hesitation, barely above a whisper.

She gave him a quiet look at that. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise. Just something softer, and she nodded once, accepting the words like they were a promise.

Azriel turned back to the ring, but he didn’t stop noticing her, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how she absently underlined phrases in her notebook with graceful, practised strokes, how her attention flickered now and then to the footwork being demonstrated in the ring. Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words she read. Every so often, her brow furrowed in thought, and she’d scribble something in the margin.

He couldn’t help himself.

Between giving instructions, correcting Nesta’s balance, and helping Gwyn adjust her grip, his gaze always drifted back to her. Sitting quietly, not demanding space or attention, and yet commanding it all the same.

At one point, Gwyn stumbled, distracted by something Roslin said, and Azriel stepped forward to catch her arm before she could fall. She laughed, flushed, thanking him.

From the edge of the ring, he felt it: a flicker of emotion. Subtle. So small.

His mate’s shoulders had tensed ever so slightly, and the page she’d been turning froze beneath her fingers. A blink later, she resumed reading, her expression the picture of serenity.

He knew her already. Felt her through the bond, and what he sensed now was something sharp and subtle, pressed down beneath that gentle exterior.

Jealousy.

It was faint and fleeting. Not born of possessiveness, but of uncertainty. Of not knowing yet where she stood, of watching others smile at him and wondering if they had smiled like that before.

He didn’t comment or draw attention.

Instead, as the rotation changed and the priestesses paired off, Azriel stepped out of the ring and moved toward her. She didn’t look up immediately, but he knelt in front of the bench, hands resting lightly on his thighs, careful not to crowd her.

“I can train you if you want,” he asked softly.

Her eyes lifted slowly. She studied him, not guarded, but thoughtful. “Tomorrow,” she said after a pause. “I want to watch a little more today.”

He nodded and stood to go, but just before he turned, her fingers grazed his. A light touch, brief. Intentional.

That was enough. Enough to steady him, enough to make his heart pound and for the bond to sing. 

Later, during the drills, he caught glimpses of her watching intently, brows furrowed, her gaze flicking between him and the priestesses. She absently chewed on the end of her pen, scribbling something in the margins of her book. 

Then, suddenly, she stood up. The book still in one hand, her mug left on the bench. She walked up the stairs silently.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. A sharp, unwelcome rush of panic surged through him. 

Had she misunderstood something? 

Was he already too much for her to handle, or not enough?

Was it jealousy after all? Discomfort? Regret?

The questions arrived in waves, quick and relentless. Doubts crept up from the dark corners of his mind, dragging with them that old, gnawing fear that he wasn’t what she needed. That he had never been. That he would never be enough.

Still, he moved through the motions: correcting stances, guiding rhythm, catching missteps, but a part of him remained anchored to that bench. To the place where her mug sat cooling in the morning sun. To the space she’d just left behind.

When the training finally finished, the priestesses and others stretched and chuckled, lingering in their small groups, but Azriel didn’t hang around. He quickly muttered a goodbye and headed inside without looking back.

He found one of the twins in the corridor, who smiled knowingly and pointed towards the library.

Azriel slowed as he reached the open door, his shadows curling out before him, brushing the corners of the room.

She sat curled in one of the velvet armchairs, the book open across her knees, lips moving silently as she read. Her pen hovered above the page, pausing now and then to scribble something in the margins.

Relief spilled through him like water over parched stone.

He stepped inside.

“You found something,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

She looked up, startled, before nodding. The book rested open on her lap, her finger still holding her place.

“Yes. It’s old, but fascinating.” She hesitated, then held it up slightly, more to herself than him. “Some of the texts Rhysand keeps in here reference protective rituals, symbols I’ve never seen before.”

She shook her head. “I think some were meant to shield more than just the body. The soul, maybe.”

A soft smile tugged at the edge of her mouth, dry and a little sharp. “That’s why I left. Not because of the priestesses sending you flirty smiles… though that was educational.”

His lips parted slightly, caught off guard.

“You noticed,” he said after a beat, eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with fear.

“I notice everything,” she murmured, turning another page with a gentle flick. “Especially when people look at you like they’ve done it before.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. The shadows behind him shifted slightly, unsettled, but he didn’t speak.

She didn’t meet his gaze again. Just said, “I didn’t leave because I was jealous. I left because I’m not ready to figure out what it means to sit there while people touch you like they have permission.”

Azriel stood still for a long moment, reading between her words, what she was saying and what she wasn’t. Then he moved closer, slowly, and sank into the chair across from her, his hands resting on his thighs.

“You don’t have to figure it out right away,” he said quietly. “I’m not expecting anything from you.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing playful or soft in them, just wary quiet, a storm that hadn’t made landfall yet.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s still hard to watch.”

That truth sat between them, raw and unpolished. He didn’t try to smooth it over.

After a long silence, she added, “I found some of the symbols again, similar to ones etched on a stone at my temple. I don’t know how they connect yet, but there’s something here. Something old and forgotten.”

His throat worked. “You want help?”

She hesitated, then she slowly closed the book and set it beside her. “Maybe. When I know more.”

He nodded, accepting the boundary, not pushing. Not yet.

“If you want to train tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “I’ll be on the mats at dawn.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in mock consideration. “You’ll have to wake me,” she said, voice light but edged with challenge. “And I expect the pastries and coffee again.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Noted.”

A moment passed between them. Quiet. Comfortable. Then he nodded toward the book beside her.

“I’ll let you read,” he said, voice softer now. “Come find me if you need anything. I’ll be somewhere in the House, and if I leave, I’ll come say goodbye.”

Her gaze lifted again, catching his in that steady, unreadable way she had. She didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Just watched as he turned and walked away, and he felt the weight of her eyes on his back until the library doors closed behind him.

A few hours passed.

He’d spent them in the sitting room, trying, and failing, not to listen to Morrigan and Cassian go on about her.

“She’s perfect for you, Azriel,” Mor was saying, practically glowing with delight. “Truly. After everything, you deserve this. She’s strong, clever and just soft enough to make you loosen up a little.”

Cassian let out a low laugh, feet kicked up on the table as he nursed his drink. “You’ve been brooding for centuries, brother. She smiles at you once, and you hand her the moon.”

Azriel said nothing, merely sat, stone-faced, twirling his glass. It didn’t stop them; in fact, his silence seemed to encourage them.

“I mean, do you remember the way you passed her that platter last night at dinner?” Mor said, mimicking his deep, solemn voice with exaggerated dramatics. “Take this, my mate, the love of my soul—”

Cassian cut in with a laugh, clutching his chest. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve waited through centuries of pain and shadows just for this moment—”

Azriel gave them both a deadpan look. “Are you finished?”

They weren’t. Of course, they weren’t. They had been waiting for this just as long as he had.

Cassian launched into some unsolicited advice about wooing, which quickly derailed into an entirely too vivid recounting of his and Nesta’s two-week-long frenzy, complete with gesturing and far too much detail about positions Azriel never wanted associated with his brother-in-arms.

A quiet laugh, unmistakably divine, echoed from the doorway.

Azriel’s heart seized.

He turned sharply, shadows coiling at his back, and there she was. Leaning against the doorframe, books cradled in her arms, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said dryly, voice full of poorly-concealed laughter, “for those beautiful images of you and Nesta, Cassian. Truly. I can’t wait to ask her how she feels about you sharing that particular position.”

Cassian paled on the spot. Mor nearly choked on her drink.

She strode toward them slowly, unhurried, graceful despite the smirk still curling her lips. Azriel remained frozen on the couch, spine straight, hands clasped too tightly in his lap. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not when every word felt like it might come out too raw.

Then, with a quiet certainty that undid him more than any sharp remark ever could, she perched on the armrest beside him. Close enough for her scent to wrap around him like something intimate, familiar.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Light, tentative, almost nothing, but it was enough to make his chest ache.

Something inside him eased, slowly and warily, but it eased. Every tightly-wound nerve tensed with the contact. That strange, fragile hope, the one that had been quietly growing in the corners of his chest every hour since they met, stirred again.

She didn’t look at him directly. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere ahead, as if she hadn’t just broken down the walls around him with nothing more than a few steps and a featherlight touch.

If anything, he leaned into it, just slightly, instinctively, drawn to her warmth without meaning to or knowing how to pull back.

He must not have been as discreet as he thought. Across the room, Mor and Cassian were both watching with matching expressions: Cassian, smug; Mor, practically glowing.

Their eyes darted to her hand, still resting lightly on his shoulder, and to the way his shoulder now pressed slightly against her hip. 

Azriel ignored them and didn’t care. 

He’d take any touch from her that he could.

The Next Morning

Azriel stood in the doorway of her room, balancing a tray in one hand. The smell of fresh coffee wafted up, mixing with the warmth of honey-glazed pastries and the faintest hint of cinnamon. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

She was still curled in bed, tangled in sheets, with her hair a soft riot around her face, as the early morning light sliced through the curtains in gold bands. He allowed himself a quick look, just a moment longer than he should have.

He cleared his throat, quiet but firm. 

“You said I’d have to wake you.” She stirred, a sleepy noise slipping from her lips. Her eyes blinked open slowly, still foggy with sleep, then focused on him and the tray in his hands.

A lazy, satisfied smile curled at her lips. “You actually brought the coffee.”

“And the pastries,” he said, crossing the room to set the tray beside her. 

She propped herself up on one elbow, accepting the mug he offered. Their fingers brushed. He tried not to dwell on it, but the bond bloomed in his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“I remembered.”

She arched a brow at that but said nothing more. Instead, she sipped her coffee and reached for a piece of pastry, her expression unreadable and still soft with sleep.

After a few bites, she glanced at him over the rim of her mug. “You really expect me to train before sunrise?”

“You said you wanted to,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “But if you’ve changed your mind—”

“I didn’t say that,” she interrupted, already tossing the sheets aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Azriel’s breath caught as she sat there, slowly finishing the pastry, dressed in a navy silk camisole edged with lace, with the matching shorts riding high on her thighs from sleep. He looked away before his gaze could linger, instead fixing it on the early light stretching across the window, though the image of her remained in his mind. 

When she appeared again a few minutes later, dressed in tight Illyrian leathers, boots half-laced, and hair pulled back, it nearly took his breath away. The leathers hugged her like a second skin, every line and curve clearly visible in the dim morning light. She held her mug with both hands, cradling it for warmth, her cheeks still flushed from sleep, but her eyes sharper now.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. His cheeks flushed with heat, and from the small, amused twist of her lips, he knew she saw it.

The bond stirred, low and steady like a distant drumbeat, always there, just under the surface.

He didn’t speak. He simply knelt in front of her, his gloved hands moving without thought as he tied her bootlaces with quiet care.

As he finished, fingers brushing the leather, something shifted.

Her hand slid into his hair, light, uncertain, instinctive.

He froze.

The touch was so gentle he might’ve imagined it, but then it lingered, her fingers threading slowly through the strands like it was second nature.

She stilled, maybe realising what she’d done.

“I—sorry,” she mumbled, hand starting to pull away.

His voice came quickly, quiet but sure. “Don’t be.”

He looked up at her, still kneeling, with the morning sun behind her like a soft halo, as if she were the goddess who answered his prayers. 

His voice dropped, steady now. “I like it. When you touch me.”

Her lips parted, a flush rising to her cheeks, and still, she didn’t step back.

“I like having my hair played with,” she admitted, almost shyly, like it was a secret she hadn’t meant to tell.

Then, more slowly this time, she reached again, fingers slipping into his hair with greater intent. She tugged gently, testing. Azriel exhaled, barely a sound, but it made her smile.

When she finally let him go, the warmth of her touch stayed like an echo on his skin. He rose slowly, not rushing the moment or looking away. She held her mug close to her chest now, but her eyes searched his, uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, as if afraid she’d gone too far.

Azriel shook his head once. “You don’t have to be. You’re here. You’re trying.”

A moment passed between them.

He met her eyes. “Ready?”

She nodded.

Together, they stepped into the quiet hallway, toward the sparring ring, the early light painting soft gold across the floor. Their shoulders brushed, just barely.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy or awkward; it was theirs.

The morning air was crisp as they stepped onto the training ring, the stone beneath their feet cool from the night. Dawn had only just broken, casting soft gold light over the courtyard. It was quiet, no Cassian, no priestesses, just the two of them and the hush that came with early hours.

Azriel watched her roll her shoulders, stretching out her limbs with ease. The leathers hugged her frame, each movement revealing toned strength beneath soft curves. His eyes traced her without permission, heat coiling low in his gut before he forced himself to look away, guilt creeping in quickly behind the desire.

She bent low into a stretch, hips rolling, body fluid, and he realised, a little too late, that looking away wasn’t helping much either.

“You’ve done this before,” he said, watching her fold into a stretch.

She glanced up, eyes wide like he’d caught her red-handed. “A little. I’m just copying what the priestesses did yesterday.”

Azriel’s brow lifted. “Right,” he said dryly, because the priestesses certainly didn’t do that hip roll.

When she stood, her eyes sparkled with something sharp. He narrowed his gaze. “Get into stance,” he said.

She did.

Immediately, his suspicion sharpened, perfect foot placement, relaxed shoulders, and a steady, precise centre of balance.

“You’ve trained in the Day Court,” he murmured, stepping toward her.

She smirked but said nothing, just watched him, steady and calm.

“I know that stance,” he continued. “I have a contact in Day who moves exactly like that. If I’m right, your next move is—”

He lunged.

She ducked low, wrapping an arm around his forearm and spinning inward. Her fist stopped just millimetres from his face, close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin.

He smirked, looking from her first at his nose to those dark eyes staring at him with a false innocence. 

“I should have known,” he said as she released him, stepping back.

“What, that I’m from Day? That I haven’t just been a priestess.” she teased, a lazy grin on her face as they started to circle each other. “Or that I could give you a good knock on the arse?"

His eyes narrowed, that smirk turning into a grin as he whispered, “both.” 

They moved instantly. Their sparring became quick, smooth, with strikes, dodges, and counters flowing like a dance, one neither had choreographed, but both instinctively knew. Each punch was faster than the last, testing, probing.

Azriel ducked a roundhouse and moved in close, gripping her wrist and twisting her arm softly behind her. But before he could pin her, she drove her elbow back into his ribs and broke free. Her laugh was low, breathless, buzzing with excitement.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he growled, circling again.

“I was being polite,” she shot back, panting slightly now. Sweat glistened at her temples.

He moved in again, silent, steady, a predator’s grace. Close enough to feel the rush of her breath against his cheek, to smell the heat rising off her skin: sweat, salt, something sweet and wild that drove him mad.

She blocked him, forearms crossing fast, colliding with his chest in a clash of controlled force. The contact rang through them both like a strike of lightning. Their bodies met with a thud, chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing hard from the momentum.

Neither of them moved.

Her eyes locked on his. Her breath hitched. His hands were still on her arms, tight enough to feel the tension beneath her skin. The space between them thinned until it wasn’t space at all, just heat and thunder and tension strung tight enough to snap.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Azriel felt the shift deep in his chest, like gravity, like inevitability.

“I thought this was sparring,” she breathed, voice gone soft and smoky, like it had been scraped raw by restraint.

“It was,” he murmured, his voice nearly hoarse.

A heartbeat passed.

Then she fisted his leather and dragged him down to her.

The kiss wasn’t a question; it was devotion.

It was molten. Desperate. Their mouths collided in a tangled mess of teeth and tongue, breath and desire. Her back pressed softly against the training ring wall, but she didn’t stop; she welcomed the force. Welcomed him.

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer and anchoring her there. Her hands were everywhere, slipping beneath his leathers and spreading across the heat of his bare back. Her nails dug in just enough to make him growl into her mouth.

“Azriel—” she gasped, breaking for air as his mouth found the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. His breath scorched her skin, lips dragging with reverence, with hunger.

His restraint shattered. In a flash of movement, he spun her to the mat, his body following hers like gravity, like fate. One hand grabbed her wrists above her head, the other slid beneath her leathers to spread wide over her waist, possessive, claiming.

She laughed beneath him, breathless and wild, eyes full of heat. Her legs wrapped around his hips like instinct.

“You like this?” she murmured, brushing her mouth over his. “Me on my back while you pretend you’re still in control?”

He huffed a dark, amused sound against her jaw. “You’ve been in control since the moment I met you.”

Her teeth grazed his earlobe. “I knew it.”

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, kissing her again, deeper this time, demanding. His body rocked into hers, their hips grinding in time, and she gasped into his mouth.

“You like it when I fight you,” she breathed.

“I like it when you lose,” he shot back, biting her lip until she moaned.

Her fingers had already found the buckles of his leathers, fevered and sure, undoing them with trembling hands. His own hand slipped beneath her waistband, his fingers grazing soft skin, heat gathering where they made contact. She arched into him, her mouth open and wanting.

Every sound she made was etched into him.

His name was whispered like a secret.

The gasp when he kissed just below her navel.

The whisper of “Don’t stop,” as she rolled her hips, her body pliant beneath his, every inch begging for more.

His shadows wrapped around them protectively, dark silk brushing her wrists, her thighs, making her shiver in his grasp. There was no one else in the world, only this. Her. Them.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, voice frayed and reverent, kissing down her throat, across her collarbone.

She dragged him closer with a whimper, one leg hooking around him tighter. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling, anchoring.

He was lost in her, utterly, blissfully lost.

His shadows slid around her wrists again, not binding, but holding. Cradling. As if they, too, didn’t want to let go.

Azriel whispered against her lips, “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her legs tightening around his waist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again, then down, down her neck, across the delicate skin beneath her jaw, the edge of her collarbone. Each touch was a vow. His hand, warm and calloused, slipped beneath her shirt again, sliding higher this time, until she arched into his palm with a gasp.

She was fire beneath him, burning, beautiful, real.

Her hands moved too, pushing his leathers down his shoulders, dragging fingertips along the planes of his chest, learning him like a map. Her touch made him shiver, his restraint unravelling thread by thread.

There was no distance now. No armour. No roles.

Only Azriel and his mate, the woman who had undone him completely.

Their breaths mingled, their limbs tangled. Clothing became an afterthought, pulled aside, pushed down, discarded in silence and gasps and hurried touches. He worshipped every inch of her skin he revealed, every sound she made etched into his soul.

When he finally pushed inside her, it was slow, careful.

They both gasped, then stilled.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails biting in, and his forehead dropped to hers, eyes squeezed shut, as though even this was too much, too perfect.

“You’re okay?” he breathed.

She nodded, whispering, “Yes. Azriel…”

Her voice broke on his name.

He moved then, rhythm building in a slow, devastating tempo that left her trembling beneath him. Their bodies moved together, not frantic, but with a deep anchoring. Their eyes never strayed. Every thrust, every moan, every whispered name was soaked in meaning.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a surrender.

It was two souls who had spent too long alone, finally finding their match in the dark.

His shadows curled around their joined hands, a silent echo of everything they weren’t saying aloud.

When she came undone, it was quiet, her back arched, her mouth parting in a gasp that was only his. Azriel followed with a broken sound against her skin, his grip tightening like he was afraid she might vanish, but she didn’t.

When the world finally stilled, he lay there above her, inside her, his forehead resting against hers.

Their breathing slowed. Her fingers traced lazy shapes across his spine.

Then, the creak of a door.

A dramatic, drawn-out whistle.

“Well, well, well,” came Cassian’s unmistakable voice, thick with amusement. “Here I was, thinking you two would eventually get around to it, but on the training mat, Az? Really?”

Azriel froze, chest heaving, his wing immediately wrapping them in a cocoon of darkness, shielding her naked body from Cassian’s eyes.

Her head thunked back against the mat with a groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Azriel didn’t move, still half-draped over her, both of them very much naked.

Cassian stepped further into the ring, arms crossed, grin wicked. “You know, I always suspected you were a little filthy under all that brooding, brother. But this? This is a new level.”

Azriel exhaled a slow, murderous breath. “Cassian…”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Cassian said cheerfully, already turning back toward the exit. “Rhys is going to die when he hears about this.”

The door shut behind him with a final click.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then her soft, stunned laughter broke the stillness.

Azriel dropped his forehead to her collarbone and groaned.

“We are never living this down,” she whispered, breath still short, cheeks flushed.

“No,” he muttered. “We are not.”

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered on her lips.

Azriel hadn’t moved; his forehead still rested on her collarbone, his breath ghosting across her skin, steadying. She could feel the war waging in him. Embarrassment. Restraint. A flicker of uncertainty.

She lifted her hand, brushing fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, slow and gentle. “It’s just Cassian,” she whispered. “He’ll forget it by breakfast.”

Azriel huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a groan. “No, he won’t. He’ll tell everyone by breakfast.”

Her smile curved against his cheek. “Let him.”

He pulled back enough to see her face, and the moment he did, the heat returned, low and aching. Her eyes were still heavy with need. Her lips, still parted, kiss-bruised and soft. Her body, still curled around his, craving him.

Still wanting.

God, so did he.

Still, neither of them moved, because she was still beneath him, still burning, still wanting, and so was he.

“Where were we?” she said, lifting her hips in a not-so-subtle reminder.

Azriel growled, mouth returning to hers. “Right here.”

The rest of the world disappeared again.

[sapphicandgraphic]

Sick As A Dog—Chapter 5

Summary: You’re a dog walker. When your favorite clients notice you’re not feeling well, they insist on taking care of you.

Chapter: 5/? In which Yelena interrupts, misunderstands, and cock-blocks. Reader panics and spirals and does what she does best—runs.

Warnings: Lots of angst in this one! But once the dust settles, WandaNat come for their girl 💖

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and supported the SAAD series! I think this will be one of the last chapters (if not the last?) in this storyline, but I’m planning to pick up again with the same characters after a little time jump to the future (maybe a couple months after this weekend) and keep building out the SAAD universe. Thoughts?

Yelena bounded up the steps to the brownstone late in the afternoon, not even bothering to knock. The door swung open and she kicked off her boots, expecting to see Oscar running toward her. But the house was oddly quiet.

“Nat?” She called, striding into the kitchen. “I’m here to negotiate the return of your hostage.”

She opened the refrigerator, taking a long drink from the bottle of orange juice. The tangy sugary drink hit her tongue like lightning. She smacked her lips, then screwed the top back on and returned the bottle to the shelf on the door with a self-satisfied little smirk. Natasha hated when she did that.

Turning around, she noticed that the kitchen was a mess. Dirty dishes in the sink. The aroma of something sweet and savory hung in the air.

“Waffles!” she muttered the word like a curse. “Without me!”

She grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl, taking an enormous bite as she jogged down the hall, climbing the stairs two at a time.

The upper floor was quiet too. Yelena stopped chewing, straining to hear. There was a soft murmuring of voices coming from the guest room.

She called your name as she opened the door. “Okay it’s time to give me back my—“

Yelena froze mid-sentence.

You were lying in bed. Wanda was scrambling backwards, sheets tangled around her waist. Both of you were half-dressed.

“Yelena,” you yelped, voice cracking as you struggled to sit up. Your eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed in surprise…and something else. “What are you doing here?”

In any other situation, the guilty expression on both your faces would have been priceless. But Yelena’s blood ran cold as she scanned the scene.

“I was worried about you,” she said flatly, breaking the tense silence. “Seems like you’re feeling better, though?”

You nodded, wincing a little. She shifted her attention to Wanda.

“Where’s my sister?” Her words were clipped, accusatory, and you physically flinched. Wanda instinctively reached out, gripping your hand. This only stoked Yelena’s outrage.

“Your wife?” She added, enunciating each syllable with knife-like precision.

“She took Oscar for a walk,” Wanda said calmly.

“Funny.” Yelena’s eyes flashed at you, flat and cruel as a shark going in for the kill. “Thought that was your job.”

You ducked your head, letting out a shaky breath. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. What the fuck am I doing here?

Wanda stood up, intending to diffuse the situation. But you scrambled to your feet before she could speak.

“I was just about to head out.”

“Really?” Yelena arched a doubtful eyebrow at you, still clad in pajamas.

You swayed a little as the blood rushed to your head. But you blinked through it stubbornly, avoiding Yelena’s cool gaze.

“Yeah, didn’t realize it had gotten so late,” you said, doubling down. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

Wanda made a noise of disagreement as you took a few slow but determined steps across the room, gathering your dirty clothes from where Natasha had folded them on the dresser the night before and ducking into the bathroom.

Through the door, you heard Wanda’s voice, low and angry, but couldn’t make out the words. Then Yelena replied, louder and more bombastic. You realized they were speaking in Russian. Somehow this made you feel even more alone, isolated. You’d always be the outsider, no matter what. Suddenly, the urge to run was overwhelming. You tried to take a breath, calm down a bit, but your chest felt tight, your pulse skittering.

You pulled on your jeans with trembling hands. Yelena shouted. Raised voices weren’t your favorite, even in the best of circumstances. You bit your lip, hard, trying to quell the anxiety and guilt and shame clawing up your throat.

You patted your pockets, grateful to find your keys there. Now, where was your bag? Your boots? You closed your eyes, casting your mind back to yesterday. They should be in the entryway, by the umbrella stand and coat rack.

You placed your hand on the doorknob, taking a deep breath. You’d have to make a run for it. You steeled yourself, opening the door and cutting directly across the bedroom, making a beeline for the hallway. One foot in front of the other. Nothing else mattered except getting away from this confrontation.

You thought you heard Wanda say your name, but you kept your eyes trained on the floor, covering the distance quickly.

Yelena was still standing in the bedroom doorway. For just a second you caught her eyes. What you saw there was instantly burned into your mind—judgment, mistrust, uncertainty. Like you weren’t the person she thought you were. It gutted you with all the force of a punch, stealing your breath.

You shouldered past her and slipped down the stairs, moving so fast that you almost lost your balance on the landing.

You pulled your boots on with clumsy fingers, driven by adrenaline, by the need to escape. The sound of footsteps propelled you upright.

Yelena appeared at the top of the stairs, watching you with that same intense expression. But it softened as she watched you fumbling. Despite the outrage that had flared in her chest, she could see you were a wreck.

“Where are you going?”

You didn’t answer, didn’t meet her gaze. You grabbed your bag, flung the front door open—and collided with Natasha.

“Little wolf?” She murmured, steady arms looping around your waist. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Her gray eyes searched your face, concern etched into every feature. Then she heard Yelena’s voice and she looked past you, her lips parted in surprise.

For a fraction of a second you allowed yourself to lean in, resting your mouth against her neck. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Natasha stilled, trying to understand what was going on. By the time she realized it was goodbye, you were already wrenching yourself out of her arms, stumbling down the steps, ignoring the sound of their shouts as you turned the corner, ignoring Oscar’s frantic barks.

Everything faded into the background. You stared at the sidewalk, stepping into an intersection just as the light changed. Horns blared, tires screeched, but you kept walking. Somehow you made it to the subway, boarded a train. The rest of the journey was a blur.

The next thing you knew, you were climbing the stairs to your apartment. Everything hurt. Your head. Your chest. Your heart.

You locked yourself in your bedroom and turned off the lights, turned off your phone. But your brain kept running a mile a minute. You replayed the look on Natasha’s face, regarding you with such tenderness; remembered the feeling of her strong arms holding you so carefully.

But she hadn’t followed you. Neither had Wanda. And that told you everything you needed to know.

You weren’t worth chasing. Especially not if the choice came down to you or Yelena. Of course they’d pick her. She was their family.

They’d helped you out, sure, but their kindness was just that—kindness. As for the kissing…you must have misunderstood, taken more than they had intended to give. An uncomfortable stab of pain twisted in your stomach, and you almost doubled over as bile threatened to rise in your throat. What was wrong with you? Why did you always fuck everything up?

You fell into bed and slept, fitful and miserable and alone.

It was dark when something woke you up. A noise in the hallway. Then you heard a key in the lock, the front door opening. The sound of footsteps crossing the hardwood floor. A shadow appeared under your door. Your muscles ached, but you propped yourself up, tense and uncertain.

“It’s just me.”

You weren’t sure if you were relieved or disappointed to hear Yelena’s voice. You fell back down into the sheets, shivering and sweating and strung out from the mix of emotions.

“Hello? Are you alive in there?”

Your friend sounded almost as miserable as you felt. She rapped her knuckles gently against the door. You heard her jiggle the handle experimentally, then sink to the floor with a heavy sigh. You held your breath.

“Come on,” she said. “Give me something.”

There was a note of real concern in her voice now. You coughed, raising your head a bit to project.

“Alive,” you called out hoarsely.

You heard her exhale, sharp and relieved. “Will you let me in?”

You deliberated, unsure if you could face your friend right now. But then you swung your legs out of bed and shuffled to the door, opening it just a crack.

“Hey.” Yelena’s eyes softened. “There you are.”

You gave her a small smile. “Here I am.”

For a long moment, you just stared at each other, navigating the new uncomfortable space between you. In all the years you’d been friends, nothing had ever shaken your dynamic like this.

“I’m sorry, about before,” you said, stumbling over the words. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Really?” Yelena said, doubt flickering across her face. “Because it looked like—“

“I swear,” you interrupted, face burning with shame. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

Yelena made an uncertain noise, like she didn’t quite agree with your characterization of events. But you didn’t give her a chance to elaborate.

“And it won’t happen again,” you said, even as those words made your own chest want to cave in with grief.

Yelena regarded you, eyes owlish and calm.

“Let’s talk when you’re feeling better,” she said after some deliberation. The pain and exhaustion in your voice had her worried about pushing you too far. “Get some sleep.”

You moved to close the door, but Yelena placed her foot in the way. You looked up, surprised. There was a pause before she spoke again.

“And call Natasha—she’s really worried about you.”

If she’s so worried, where is she? You swallowed back this bitter retort, and nodded once.

“I’m serious,” Yelena elaborated, unable to suppress a little eye roll. “She’s practically crawling out of her skin. Wanted to drive over here and pick you up. But Wanda said you might need some space.”

You had never wanted anything less. But you couldn’t tell Yelena that.

“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Space makes sense.”

It looked like Yelena had more questions, but she swallowed them back for now.

“I have an early flight tomorrow,” she said. “But let’s talk when I get back?”

“Deal,” you said with a soft smile.

A few minutes later you had thrown yourself back into bed, reaching reluctantly for your phone.

The screen showed you had a long list of missed calls and voicemails. You stared at the notifications for a few minutes, deliberating. Hearing their voices right now would feel so good. But then you remembered Yelena’s face at the brownstone, her look of disgust, betrayal.

You deleted them all without listening.

Next, you glanced at the unanswered texts. They had started not long after you left.

Call us when you can.

Did you make it home alright?

Just let us know you’re safe. Please.

With a determined little frown, you typed a quick reply:

Home. Sorry for all the trouble.

As soon as you sent it, you switched your phone off and closed your eyes. Sleep came mercifully fast.

You woke up late the next morning. Pale light was streaming in through the window. At first, you thought that was what had woken you up. Then you realized there was someone knocking at the front door. No. Not knocking. Pounding. A little jolt of apprehension shot through you, propelling you up and out of bed.

Maybe the neighbor’s cat had gotten out again? You yawned, pulling on a robe, pushing a hand through your tangled hair as you opened the door.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

The sound of Wanda’s voice almost brought tears to your eyes. It was like a physical wave of tension left your body all at once. You sagged against the doorframe, drinking her in.

“Hi.”

Her eyes were slightly red, as if she’d been crying. But other than this small detail, nothing about the other woman seemed out of place. She looked immaculate, breathtaking, too ethereal to be standing in the dingy hallway.

“How are you?”

“Terrific,” you rasped, sad smile playing around the corners of your mouth.

Wanda made a small noise in the back of her throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She pressed her palms against her thighs, like she was physically restraining herself from reaching out to touch, to check for herself that you were alright.

“You look terrible,” she said. “Worse than yesterday. Have you eaten?”

You didn’t answer, peering around her with sudden curiosity.

“Nat’s downstairs in the car,” she said, answering your unspoken question. “We didn’t know if we should….but we were just worried about you.”

You winced. “I’m really sorry. About everything.”

“We’re not mad,” Wanda said gently. “Well, not at you. But we do need to talk, if you’re up for it.”

You glanced up at her, gathering the robe closer around your body with a little shiver.

“Not necessary,” you said with a watery smile, desperate to avoid this conversation, to never hear the words of rejection spill from her perfect lips. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. It should never have happened in the first place, and it won’t…it won’t happen again. I promise.”

Wanda opened and closed her mouth several times, eyes widened in shock, in heartbreak .

“Is—is that what you want?”

You shook your head, confused. Why was she making this harder than it needed to be?

“No,” you said. “But it doesn’t matter what I want.”

Your words hung in the air for a moment.

Then Wanda breathed your name, closing her eyes in disbelief. When she opened them again, they were bright and sharp. She stepped a little closer, reaching out to cup your jaw.

“That’s the only thing that matters.”

She spoke with such conviction you almost believed her.

“If you’ll give us another chance,” Wanda continued. “We’ll show you exactly what you deserve.”

The other woman scanned you from head to toe, her dark, earnest eyes brimming with something that looked like love. You shuddered, leaning into her touch.

“Yelena is my best friend,” you whispered. “I can’t lose her.”

Wanda opened her mouth to argue, but another voice cut through the silence before she could speak.

“Nobody’s losing anybody.”

Natasha’s voice was low, but it carried clearly in the empty hallway. Your eyes found hers as she crested the stairs and walked toward you both. Something about the sight of her broke your last bit of resolve. You felt your chin quiver, your eyes prick with tears as you breathed her name.

“Little wolf,” she said, drawing you into her arms without hesitation. “You gave us quite a scare.”

“Sorry,” you said.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Nat said, her voice rumbling against your chest as she held you close. “You panicked, needed time to process everything. I understand.”

You nodded, relived that you didn’t have to explain yourself. Natasha drew back slightly, holding your face in her hands.

“But it was incredibly dangerous running out into the street like that,” she said, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

You swallowed nervously. “I’ll try to be more careful next time my best friend walks in on me in bed with her sister’s wife.”

Wanda tried and failed to stifle a laugh. Natasha arched an eyebrow at you.

“Brat,” she said, ruffling your hair.

You grinned, feeling the tightness in your chest unwind slowly.

“Now come on,” Natasha said. “I’m double-parked downstairs.”

You glanced around uncertainly. “Where are we going?”

“Home,” Natasha shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then she caught Wanda’s eye, confusion flickering across her features. “Didn’t you tell her?”

You scrunched your nose, disliking the idea of another surprise. “Tell me what?”

Wanda shifted her weight, looking a little…nervous?

“We were hoping you’d come back for a few days,” she said. “The house felt…very lonely without you there last night.”

Your heart leapt at her words and you smiled. “Yeah?”

“Oscar was super sad,” Natasha said, an adorable pout on her lips. “He really liked cuddling up with you.”

“Does that mean…” you trailed off, not sure how to ask the question. Wanda stepped forward, tangling her fingers in your hair. Slowly, she leaned in and brushed her lips against yours. You moaned, eyes fluttering shut.

“We’ll figure out what it means,” she said, breaking away to give you a look full of certainty. “Together.”

“Promise?” Your voice shook with longing, with need.

“Together,” Nat echoed, her gaze so unwavering and confident that you couldn’t help but smile.

[eyekoninurarea]

Your Idol: Debut Vlog Series

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

masterlist

word count: 986

series summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. but the moment the music hit, everything changed.

episode summary: wherein the first filming disaster is edited to the best the editors can, witness as sailors get to know more about their idols on the first episode.

authors note: this is quite literally like a filler, this is chapter 3 in vlog form for me to get a feel for writing in this format. this segment, messed up my frequently used emojis and my brain fried from all the usernames i had to think of jesus christ. give me your thoughts and opinions abt this kind of set up? next up, another experimental part Cami's first live.

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): fluff, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works.

[SIREN5 x KATSEYE: Debut Diary Ep. 1 — "First Contact (ft. Chaos, Confusion & Cringe)"]

Uploaded by: SIREN5 OFFICIAL

🟢 Premiered 4 hours ago | #SIREN5 #KATSEYE #SYRENCHAOS

🎬 [INTRO CLIP — SOFT MUSIC, FADE-IN TEXT]

> “SIREN5: DEBUT DIARY – A behind-the-scenes series documenting the rise of our newest global sirens. Welcome to chaos personified.”

📍SEGMENT 1: "5:50 AM: The Calm Before the Screech"

🎥 [CAMERA: Shaky handheld style, opening shot of Hana in the kitchen]

Caption: “Leader Hana, 5:50AM. Zero makeup. Infinite caffeine.”

🎙️ HANA (deadpan):

“We’ve been training at 6AM every single day for four years. And SYRE’s body still isn’t used to it.”

📷 Cuts to: Rina doing jumping jacks, singing fae-folk-rock gibberish

📷 Cuts to: Cami swearing at a rice cooker

📷 Cuts to: Amara looking like she has a 9–5 and is already over it

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🧃@syrenshrine: “Rina has main character energy and no supervision.”

🔥@cami-solo-when: “I need a cami vs kitchen spin-off RIGHT NOW.”

☕@Amaraismycomfort: “Amara with a protein shake and lip balm is my 2025 moodboard.”

💀@rip-syre: “SYRE really fighting for her life every morning huh.”

😭@hanahelps: “Hana blinking in Morse code. Send help.”

🎥 Cue thump, slipper throw, and this offscreen gem:

> “Tell Geffen I’m dead. They’ll have to debut with four.”

📷 Cuts to: Cami laughing her ass off

> “Girl, you wrote the debut song. What are you talking about?”

📍SEGMENT 2: "KATSEYE VISITS: AND EVERYTHING FALLS APART"

🎥 Crisp 4K footage. Door opens. Screaming erupts immediately.

📷 Cut to KATSEYE looking STUNNED at the doorway like they just walked into a zoo exhibit.

[Screen Text Overlay: “?????????”]

📷 Cut to Hana body-blocking like a trained security agent

> Caption: “Composure: barely hanging on.”

🎙️ HANA:

“Good morning. Sorry for the mess. We usually train early. Today was… a late start.”

📷 Cami offscreen yelling about hot oil and nipples. Staff shrieking in subtitles.

📷 Megan whispers to Yoonchae: “Did she just—”

📷 Manon ducks as Daniela merely glances at the flying feather headband

📷 Lara sidesteps a flying tank top

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🤸‍♀️@katseyekollective: “Lara dodging flying tank tops like a warrior 😭”

🌈@laraismytype: “Flirty Lara meets feral Rina. I smell a crossover.”

😩@softmeganclub: “Megan looked so stressed the entire time and I love her for it.”

😂@danielashasfallen: “Daniela watching the chaos like she’s watching art happen in real time.”

🎥 Cue: Amara brushing her teeth mid-walk like a background NPC

> “Oh hey, the cool kids are here.”

📷 Cami emerges like glitter-fueled thunder:

> “Oh my god. Are we filming? Are we hot? Is that Megan in my house? IS THAT RISING GLOBAL POP STAR SENSATION LARA RAJ?!?! Is this a lucid dream or should I remove the bra from the lamp?”

📷 Camera pans over to the lamp in question; the bra is covered in a pixelated mess of squares and intense censorship.

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🤸‍♀️@iwishcamiisreal: “Not Cami quoting Manon in front of Manon”

🌈@laraismytype: “IS THAT RISING GLOBAL POP STAR SENSATION LARA RAJ?!?! 😫😫😫 cami is so relatable i fear”

🐧@amarathelivingtruth: “AMARA ONE CHANCE PLS OMG SHE LOOKS SO DOMESTIC PLS LOOK MY WAY”

🦨@geniussyresimp: "HELP- THE CENSORED BRA I'M WEEPING"

📍SEGMENT 3: "SYRE.exe has stopped responding"

🎥 Door creaks open. You emerge like a disaster princess in a penguin onesie.

📷 Zoom in on your half-conscious face

📷 Daniela. On the couch. Watching. Smirking. Glowing.

📷 Cut to you looking at your slipper. Counting your fingers. Then back to Daniela.

[Screen Overlay: Existential crisis loading…]

🎙️ SYRE:

“Nope. Not dreaming. No [BEEP] way. [BEEP] me gently with a chainsaw.”

📷 Zoom in on Cami absolutely losing it.

📷 Cue the fall. SYRE faceplants. Everyone freezes. Daniela stands, concerned.

🎙️ SYRE:

“I hate this timeline. I’ll just die here, Please don’t perceive me, I'm in the process of decomposing. But please pretend none of this happened. Especially not the scratching. Or the counting. Or the internal breakdown. I’d like to start this day over and this time not emotionally detonate in front of my crush, uh… I mean a colleague. Industry peer. Company sister. Fellow idol. Woman I respect very respectfully.”

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🫠@syrebraincell: “‘Please don’t perceive me’ IS SO REAL.”

🐧@syrelivinghertruth: “DID Y’ALL SEE SYRE IN THE PENGUIN ONESIE. I’M IN SHAMBLES.”

💘@syrexdanielacore: “Syre seeing Daniela was like a Sims character spotting death.”

🧼@rinabrafanacc: “SYRE TRIPPED OVER RINA’S BRA AND TRIPPED OVER HER WORDS TOO. I’M NOT OKAY.”

🪦@girlbossgrave: “She called her a ‘colleague.’ In a onesie. SYRE is so GONE I fear”

🌞@danislays: “Daniela being concerned then laughing at her like they're in love GOODBYE.”

🎥 Cut to Cami, smug:

> “She’s been in love with you since your debut. It’s kind of her origin story.”

🎥 Hana, stepping over your body, still sipping coffee like it’s a sedative:

> “Welcome to our home.”

📷 Cut to KATSEYE watching like it's National Geographic.

📷 Yoonchae whispering: “This is a sitcom. We’ve entered a sitcom.”

📷 Rina takes over the camera:

> “This is SYRE, by the way. Gay gremlin. Idol powerhouse. Known sufferer of Daniela Avanzini exposure.”

🎥 Final moment: you hiding under your penguin hood, mumbling a wrecked “Good morning.” Daniela grins, all slow-burn confidence.

> “Morning, SYRE.”

📷 Cue tragic violin and funeral filter added by the editors

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🐧@syrekin: “SYRE’S SPIRIT LEFT HER BODY AT ‘Morning, SYRE’ I saw it.”

💗@sirendaniedit: “Bro the penguin suit to lover arc is real.”

🔥@siren5chaos: “Not the bra tripping arc + publicist panic soundtrack 💀💀💀”

🎤@katseyefan: “This vlog deserves an Emmy for documentary excellence.”

😭@hanasuffers: “Petition to get Hana a paid vacation and noise-cancelling headphones.”

🐧@syrelivinghertruth: “Give my poor baby syre a break.”

☎ @camilelelele: “This is so chaotic it's like they gave SIREN5 a camera and a dream and said ‘make content’ and they did.”

🎬 [OUTRO: SOFT MUSIC, WHITE TEXT OVER BLACK]

> Next episode: “Cooking Night Disaster: Featuring Fire Alarms, Daniela Serving Face with a...Fire Extinguisher?, and SYRE Screaming Over a Pile of Dirty Dishes”

🔔 Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to see more from SIREN5 and KATSEYE!

taglist: @awkwardtoafault, @cheerlanader

[zeka-maki]

ʚɞ Voice lines about their s/o aka YOU! ʚɞ

A/N: um hey guys, this is my first post on this acc. This idea struck me at 3 in the morning and i had to write it. Tbh im highkey geeked out, so sorry if this is terrible 😞 Anyways, hope you enjoy!

Tags: Fluff, Voice lines

Characters: Phainon, Jing Yuan, Anaxa, Aventurine

ཐིཋྀ Phainon:

About [Y/N]: Oh, you want to know about [Y/N]? I must warn you, once I start, I won't stop. Here's a fun thing, they once told me they wanted to taste the water in the Vortex of Genesis! Actually... Don't tell them I told you this, I prefer not to be scolded by my lover...

ཐིཋྀ Jing Yuan:

About [Y/N]: I assume Yanqing has already told you about them? Mmm, that kid has taken a liking to them quicker than I thought. It's expected, [Y/N]'s virtuous traits cannot be ignored easily, perhaps that's what made me fall for them in the first place. Oh? You look surprised, did I break a news to you?

ཐིཋྀ Anaxa:

About [Y/N]: An intriguing question you pose. Although I believed being a scholar means having a little to no space for romance, [Y/N] has proven me wrong. And I must say it has caught my eyes and heart. Only they're the one strong enough to put up with one of the Seven Sages.

ཐིཋྀ Aventurine:

About [Y/N]: My, my, what's with the sudden questions about [Y/N]? But I'll humor you this once. [Y/N] is quite the impossible bet to place, the outcome is almost never predictable. One slip up and you may lose it all. Though, I must say, I've hit the jackpot on that wager. I advice you to be careful with their heart, just like I am.

[rimzaaa]

The Night That Changed Everything

Oneshot! (Request)

Pairing: Inho/Young-il x Pregnant Fem!Reader (y/n)

Summary: Months after a one-night stand that meant nothing to him, In-ho joins the Squid Game undercover as “Young-il” — only to be blindsided by the familiar face of a pregnant woman among the players. She remembers everything. He remembers almost nothing. But when truth, rage, and buried emotion collide… one night becomes the moment that changes everything.

Warnings: 18+ | Smut(non vulgar term). Angst. One-night stand implications. Pregnancy themes. Emotional tension. Physical altercation. Death (minor character) Violence. Swearing. Frontman reveal. Canon divergence. Enemies to lovers(ish)

Author's Note: This one was an anon request and I really enjoyed writing it. I was thinking about writing on the same topic but then I got this request so I thought why not. Huge love to y'all. Keep supporting and reading 🖤

Words Count: 5K+

Tag list: Lemme know if you want to get tagged in LBH fics.

@salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @filthygalli @thehellhaveubeenloca @yosoylaprincesa2004 @watasinekoru @nightlark100 @drewstarkeysrightarm @doodle-with-rhy @lunaryoongie @ilovehwanginho @yxluana @sammie217 @sammat97 @alex-17s-world @mObi4girls @maah-sama @grylian @hecticspice @manager016 @mxriesss @christmascoles

The Frontman scanned the rows of faces as the voting after the first game began.

Hidden behind the name Young-il, In-ho stood among the players, blending in like just another desperate man drowning in debt. No one knew who he really was. Not yet.

His real mission wasn’t the players — not directly. It was Gi-hun. He had joined the game a second time, intent on bringing down the entire system from within. In-ho had been sent in to keep an eye on him.

He was the last to vote.

The results lit up above them — majority ruled to stay and continue the game. He turned his head, gaze naturally drifting toward Gi-hun.

But then… something — someone — pulled his attention elsewhere.

As the players returned to their bunks, their faces twisted with disbelief, anxiety, and dread, his eyes landed on a woman seated alone on a lower bunk. Arms folded across her stomach, head lowered — not in fear, but as if she were hiding.

Something about her stopped him cold. The slope of her jaw. The flicker of her gaze as she briefly looked his way, then quickly turned aside.

Familiar.

His brows drew together as he watched her, unmoving, even as the guards entered with trays of food.

She didn’t speak to anyone. No alliances. No desperation. Just silence — and something in her eyes that didn’t match the panic surrounding her.

She knew him.

And she didn’t want to be seen.

She turned her face even more, subtly shifting as she stood to get her food — and that’s when he saw it.

The bump.

Full. Obvious. Heavy beneath the stiff uniform.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room.

“Is she pregnant…?”

“No way. How is she even allowed here?”

“What the hell?”

In-ho’s body went rigid.

Her hand instinctively came to rest over her stomach, protective.

And then it hit him.

A hotel room. A bottle of whiskey. Her laugh in the dark. Her fingers in his hair. Her body beneath his, breathless, soft, whispering his name again and again.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

His pulse spiked.

It had been more than six months. He hadn’t remembered her name. Hadn’t even clearly remembered her face.

But now — now that she was here, standing in front of him…

It all came crashing back like a tidal wave.

And the child?

Is that mine?

{FLASHBACK}

It was a rainy night when In-ho stepped into a dim bar tucked into the quieter part of Seoul. Since becoming the Frontman, he rarely went out — always hidden behind a mask, behind duty, behind secrets.

But tonight, he needed to unwind. He was sick of listening to the VIPs complain about Gi-hun — about how he was trying to expose the recruiter and dismantle the game from the inside.

He sat alone on one of the high stools at the bar, fingers curled around a glass of whiskey, letting the loud music and dim lights numb him — until she appeared.

A young, beautiful woman slid onto the seat next to him, brushing rainwater from her arms. He blinked, surprised. What was someone like her doing here, this late, alone?

“It’s not safe for girls like you to be out this late,” he said, leaning closer so she could hear him over the music, voice low and smooth.

She leaned in too, her smile teasing as her lips hovered near his ear. “Should I be scared of someone?” Her tone was playful. “You?”

As she tilted her head, her nose brushed lightly against his jaw. Their faces were close. Too close.

He smirked. Shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her cheeks flushed, and to cover it, she quickly extended a hand toward him. “I’m Y/N.”

He glanced down at her soft, delicate hand and took it gently into his much larger one. “Hwang In-ho.”

For a second, they just looked at each other. The tension was quiet but palpable.

She began to pull her hand away, but he didn’t let go. He tightened his grip, holding her there just a moment longer. Her eyes widened, caught between confusion and something deeper.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice lower now, eyes locked on hers. “Scared of me?”

“N-no,” she whispered.

And that was all he needed.

Without another word, he stood and took her hand, leading her upstairs to the private rooms above the bar.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing — maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the need to forget the weight of the Games. Or maybe… maybe it was just her. Something about her he couldn’t turn away from.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She followed quietly, heart pounding in her chest.

He opened the door, pulled her inside, and slammed it shut behind them. In the next second, he had her pinned gently against the door, crashing his lips onto hers in a kiss that left her breathless.

She gasped into the kiss, caught off guard by the sheer hunger in it — the way his lips claimed hers like he’d been starved for it. His hands roamed down her waist, gripping her like he needed to memorize every inch.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growled against her lips, voice rough with desire. “Tell me to stop… or I won’t.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Instead, she reached for his collar, tugging him closer. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took.

In-ho’s control snapped.

He spun her toward the wall, pressing against her back as his lips trailed fire down her neck. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head to the side, exposing the soft curve of her throat. His other hand slid boldly down the front of her dress, fingers teasing the hem.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all this time” he whispered darkly, lips brushing her ear. “Wearing that tight little dress, acting like you didn’t want me to ruin you.”

She whimpered as his fingers slipped under the fabric, skimming over her inner thigh. “I didn’t know you were this—”

“This what?” he smirked, dragging his mouth down to her collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “Filthy? Or desperate?”

She arched into him, breath hitching when he pressed against the wet heat between her thighs. “You’re not exactly innocent either.”

“Baby,” he chuckled, fingers slipping past her underwear. “I’ve never been innocent.”

He turned her around, eyes dark with lust, and lifted her onto the narrow counter, pushing her legs apart with no shame, no hesitation. She barely had time to catch her breath before he dropped to his knees in front of her, dragging her panties down slow.

“Let me hear you,” he murmured, lips brushing her thigh. “I want everyone downstairs to know who’s making you fall apart tonight.”

And when his mouth finally met her — warm, greedy, merciless — her head fell back with a cry, hands tangling in his hair as he devoured her like a man who had nothing to lose.

Every flick of his tongue, every groan against her skin only pushed her higher, until her body was shaking, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

And when she came, it was with his name on her lips, her fingers clenched tight in his hair, and his hands gripping her thighs like he never wanted to let go.

He rose to his feet, lips slick, eyes burning.

“You look so good when you come for me,” he said, voice hoarse. “But I’m not done yet.”

He lifted her up and sat her down on the bed and undid his belt slowly, eyes locked on hers the entire time. “Lie back, sweetheart.”

And she did.

Willingly. Desperately. Completely his.

Her dress was hiked up to her waist, her panties discarded carelessly on the floor. She lay back on the bed, chest rising and falling with every heavy breath, her hair fanned out beneath her like a halo — a siren dressed in red.

In-ho’s eyes raked over her body like a starving man.

“Look at you,” he murmured, stroking a hand slowly down her thigh, “spread out so pretty for someone you just met.”

Y/N bit her lip, eyes dark with desire. “Maybe I like living dangerously.”

He grinned, dark and crooked. “Then tonight’s your lucky night.”

He freed himself from his pants, his length already hard, throbbing in his fist. Her eyes dropped down instinctively and widened, her breath hitching just slightly. He noticed.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he rasped, stroking himself slowly as he leaned over her, pressing his tip against her entrance but not pushing in. “You were so brave before… come on, baby, show me how bad you want it.”

Y/N’s hips rolled up instinctively, chasing him, needing him to fill the ache he’d built inside her. He gripped her thighs tighter, pinning them open.

“Say it,” he whispered against her lips. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I—” Her voice caught in her throat.

His hand came up to gently grip her jaw, making her look at him.

“Say it,” he repeated, slower. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” she breathed. “I want you to fuck me, In-ho.”

That was all he needed.

With one thrust, he sank into her — deep, thick, and hot. She cried out, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“F-fuck, you feel so tight,” he groaned, burying his face into her neck. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He began to move, slow at first, grinding his hips with each thrust, dragging himself in and out of her like he wanted the memory burned Into every nerve. Each roll of his hips made her cry out his name, and he drank in every sound like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Her nails scratched down his back, her body trembling as he picked up the pace, slamming into her harder now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the private room, mixing with their gasps and groans.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled, eyes locked on hers as he pounded into her. “To be fucked like this? To be mine just for tonight?”

“Yes,” she moaned, voice breaking as her climax built again. “Yes, In-ho—God—don’t stop—”

“I’m not gonna stop,” he hissed, leaning down to bite gently at her collarbone. “Not until I hear you scream.”

She shattered around him, nails digging into his skin, mouth falling open in a silent scream as her orgasm hit like a wave — hard, wet, overwhelming.

And he followed.

With a low, guttural groan, In-ho gripped her hips, slammed into her one last time, and spilled deep inside her, his whole body shuddering as he rode out his release.

They stayed like that for a moment — tangled, panting, sweating.

Just two strangers who had just set each other on fire.

But neither of them knew then that this night… would never truly end.

Y/n lay boneless beneath him, her arms still wrapped around his shoulders, heart thundering against her ribs. In-ho’s face was buried in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word.

Just the sound of the rain pattering against the windows, the hum of music drifting up from the bar below, and the chaotic rhythm of two strangers trying to catch their breath.

Finally, she whispered, “You don’t seem like the type to bring girls up here.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and rolled to the side, pulling her gently with him so she stayed pressed against his chest. “I’m not.”

“Then why me?”

There was a pause. One that stretched longer than she expected.

In-ho stared up at the ceiling, his fingers drawing idle shapes on her bare back. “You laughed like you didn’t care who was watching. Like the world hadn’t crushed you yet.”

Her throat tightened at that. “That’s oddly poetic for a man who said I should be scared of him.”

He smirked, but didn’t respond.

She propped herself up on her elbow, watching him. “So… do I get your number, Mr. Hwang?”

He looked at her.

For a second — just a second — something shifted in his eyes. Not cold. Not cruel. Just… distant. Like he was already retreating.

“Let’s just keep this what it is,” he said gently, brushing a stray hair from her face. “A good night.”

Y/N tried to smile. She nodded like it didn’t sting.

But it did.

---

The sun peeked through the cracked curtains, casting soft golden lines across the tangled sheets.

She stirred, bare skin warming under the sunlight, a sleepy smile curling on her lips as she reached out—

But the space beside her was empty.

No warmth. No scent. Nothing.

She sat up quickly, heart sinking as she looked around the room.

His jacket — gone.

No note. No goodbye. Not even a name scrawled on a napkin.

Only silence.

Only emptiness.

And in her chest, something ached that she hadn’t expected.

She didn’t know his world. Didn’t know who he was. But she knew one thing

He left.

{PRESENT}

In-ho took a deep breath and finally stepped forward. He tried hard to remember her name, but it just wouldn’t come to him.

Y/N saw him approaching and immediately stood up, trying to slip away. But his voice stopped her.

“Hey—wait.”

He moved in front of her, blocking her path.

“I think I know you,” he said, gaze locked on hers. “You’re the girl I met months ago… in that bar, right?” His voice dropped low, shame creeping in. “But… I can’t remember your name.”

Y/N stared at him, her big eyes filled with disbelief and pain. “So you remember the night… but not my name?”

He scratched the back of his neck, guilty. “I’m… sorry.”

She didn’t answer. She tried to walk past him, but he caught her wrist gently, pulling her back.

“What are you doing here?” His voice lowered — rough, edged, unreadable. They stood so close now, pressed into the corner by her bunk. His grip tightened, not out of anger, but confusion. Desperation.

“Why do you care, huh? What’s your problem?” she snapped, struggling to pull free.

“Let me go, In-ho.”

His grip faltered the second she said his name — soft, familiar, and just as haunting.

“You… you still remember my name?” he asked quietly, as if he couldn’t believe it — or maybe he just wanted to hear her say it again.

She yanked her hand back and slammed her fist against his chest. “What else did you expect after getting me pregnant?”

His eyes widened. His gaze dropped to her belly.

“This… is this my child?” he whispered.

His hand reached out, almost instinctively — but he stopped halfway. Fingers trembling. Then, slowly, he stepped back.

And turned away.

Y/N watched him walk off, lips trembling, eyes stinging. It felt like he was leaving her all over again.

But In-ho needed air. Space.

He couldn’t breathe under the weight of what he’d just heard — what he’d unknowingly abandoned. For months, he’d lived in ignorance, while she had lived every second carrying his child.

Alone.

---

For the next game, the players were led into a massive hall — cold, echoing, and painted in colorful. At the center stood two large rainbow-colored circles on the floor, almost too cheerful for a place like this.

A robotic voice echoed from above.

“For the next game, you need to form groups of five.”

In-ho had already teamed up with Gi-hun, Jung-bae, and Dae-ho.

“We need one more,” Gi-hun muttered, scanning the scattered players around them.

“I know someone,” In-ho replied without hesitation, his eyes locking onto Y/N — her back turned, standing alone once again.

He walked over and tapped her gently on the shoulder.

She turned, immediately recognizing the touch — and rolled her eyes with a scoff. She turned to walk away, but he was already holding her hand. Gently. Firmly.

“Join my team. Uh..."

"Y/n" Her eyes flashed. “And don’t pity me. I don’t need your fake sympathy.”

The words hit hard, but In-ho didn’t let go. His voice softened to something almost unfamiliar — low, tender, nearly pleading.

“Please. It’s safer if you’re with me. Let me protect you… both of you.”

Y/N hesitated.

There it was — in his eyes. Not regret. Not guilt. But something else. Concern. Sincerity.

Without another word, she nodded.

He didn’t smile, didn’t gloat. Just quietly led her back to the others where the rest of the team waited.

And for the first time since she arrived, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

---

The players returned to the dormitory after completing the six-legged pentathlon.

Y/N walked over to her bunk and sat down heavily, exhaustion pressing down on her limbs like a second skin. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and every breath felt heavier than the last.

Across the room, In-ho sat beside Gi-hun, but his mind was far from the conversation. His eyes followed her — the woman carrying his child.

The woman whose name he couldn’t remember… but whose touch, scent, and the way she had moaned his name haunted him even now.

The front metal door hissed open.

Guards entered, distributing trays of dinner to the silent, drained players.

Y/N didn’t move.

In-ho noticed. He grabbed his tray and walked toward her, sitting beside her on the lower bunk. He balanced the tray on his knees and opened the milk carton, holding it out to her.

“You need to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, not meeting his eyes.

“At least for the baby?” he said gently.

Y/N’s gaze lifted, locking with his. For a moment, something unspoken passed between them. She took the milk box from his hand.

He opened his mouth to speak — maybe to finally talk things through — but Gi-hun and the others appeared, sitting around them with their trays.

“What are you doing here, Young-il?” Jung-bae asked, chewing noisily.

Y/N’s brows furrowed. She glanced between them.

“Young-il?” she echoed, confused.

“Yeah,” In-ho cut in quickly, his voice calm. “That’s my name. We never really got the chance to introduce ourselves.”

“I was just bringing Y/N some food,” he added, forcing a small smile. “Considering her condition…”

Y/N looked away, her mind racing.

Why would he lie about his name?

---

Lights out.

The room dimmed into silence, and Y/N shifted on her bed, a pressure building in her lower belly. She stood up quietly and walked toward the small bathroom door tucked in the corner.

She knocked gently.

A small window slid open, revealing the cold face of a masked guard.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she said softly.

“No one is allowed after lights out. Wait until morning.”

Before she could argue, another shadow loomed behind her. In-ho.

“She’s pregnant,” he said firmly, standing behind her. “Let her go.”

The guard didn’t hesitate. The door unlocked and opened.

Y/N blinked in surprise. She looked over her shoulder at In-ho, confused, but said nothing as she stepped inside.

---

Y/n stepped out minutes later, she found In-ho leaning against the sink, waiting.

He closed the door behind him and locked it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a note of alarm in her voice.

“We need to talk,” he said, walking slowly toward her until her back hit the tiled wall.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You’re carrying my child. That changes everything.”

She scoffed. “You’re nothing to us. Just the man who used me and left. No number. No name. No trace.”

“I told you from the start it was just a one-night thing,” he said sharply. “How was I supposed to know you’d get pregnant?”

“You could’ve used protection.”

“You said you were on the pill.”

“Pills aren’t guarantees!” she snapped.

Silence fell.

Then his voice dropped, rough and confused. “Why did you keep the baby?”

Y/N stared at him, the question slicing through her like a knife. Her lips trembled as emotion welled in her throat.

“Because I loved you,” she whispered. “I fell for you that night. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

In-ho’s gaze softened. Before she could react, he cupped her face in his hands and crushed his lips against hers — hungry, desperate, full of confusion and longing.

She gasped, eyes wide, and pushed him back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, breathless.

He stepped forward again, resting his forehead against hers. His voice was low. Barely audible.

“If I’d known… if I’d known you felt this way — if I knew you were pregnant with my child — I would have never left.”

He kissed her again — softer this time. Her fists clenched into the front of his jacket, and she didn’t stop him.

When they pulled apart, his thumbs brushed away the tears that had escaped her eyes.

“Let me make it right. Let me take care of you… and the baby.”

She hesitated.

“I have questions,” she whispered. “Why are you even here? I thought you were rich. Why is everyone calling you Young-il?”

In-ho froze.

His hands dropped. He stepped back.

“I… I can’t tell you that. I have my reasons.”

Her face hardened. She scoffed bitterly and walked to the door, unlocking it.

“I knew you weren’t being honest with me.”

She turned back to him with burning eyes.

“Don’t come near me again unless you’re ready to tell me the truth. I’ve survived this long without you — I can survive the rest too.”

She walked away.

And In-ho stood there alone — heart racing, fists clenched, chest burning with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.

---

The next morning, the players were escorted into a vast hall unlike any they had seen before. The walls were painted in dizzying colors, and scattered around the space were vibrantly colored doors—each one numbered.

In the center of the room stood a large horse carousel, eerily out of place in the grim atmosphere, its painted horses frozen mid-gallop, their eyes blank and glassy.

It was the Mingle Game.

All the players were instructed to step onto a large platform in the middle of the vibrant, carousel-themed hall. Once everyone was in position, the platform began to rotate slowly, disorienting in its eerie, childlike cheerfulness.

As the robotic voice announced a number, the players had to form groups of that exact count and rush to find a matching room before time ran out.

Those who failed — died.

In-ho stood close to Y/N, his hand resting protectively on her lower back. But she didn’t respond kindly — her sharp glare was enough to remind him she was still furious. For abandoning her. For hiding things. For walking away when she needed him most.

The game progressed, bodies shifting, footsteps echoing, gunshots ringing out each time someone failed to find a room.

Then came the final round.

“Two players.”

Without hesitation, In-ho grabbed Y/N’s wrist. “Come on,” he muttered, pulling her quickly through the crowd.

He rushed ahead, spotting an empty room, and blocked the entrance to keep others out. “Y/N, hurry!” he called over his shoulder.

But before she could reach him, another player shoved her from behind. She stumbled hard, hitting the floor with a cry.

In-ho’s heart dropped.

“Y/N!”

He sprinted to her, crouched down, and helped her up, panic in his eyes. Together, they rushed into the room — only to find another player already there.

“I got here first!” the man shouted, fear evident in his voice at the sight of In-ho’s stormy expression.

“You pushed her,” In-ho muttered darkly — more to himself than anyone else.

And then, without warning, he lunged forward, grabbed the man by the throat— CRACK.

It was over in seconds.

Y/N stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief.

“In-ho…” she whispered.

Reality seemed to snap back around him. He turned to her immediately, placing one hand on her cheek and the other gently over her belly.

“Are you okay? Is the baby…?”

She nodded slightly, still in shock.

Without another word, he pulled her into his chest, arms wrapping around her protectively as he buried his face in her hair.

“God,” he whispered hoarsely, “I thought I was going to lose you. Both of you.”

He pulled back just enough to press a trembling kiss to her forehead.

“You… killed someone. Just like that,” she said quietly, her voice trembling.

“He pushed you,” In-ho said firmly. “And if I hadn’t… we’d both be dead. It was only meant for two.”

She stared at him, words failing.

“I can’t lose you,” he said. “I need to get you out of here.”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean? We can’t just leave.”

He met her gaze with something deeper. Something resolute.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Y/N hesitated, then gave a small nod.

“Then do exactly what I say. I promise—I’ll explain everything.”

Without waiting, he took her hand and led her out of the room. But instead of heading toward the dorms like the other players, he turned down one of the narrow, candy-colored corridors.

And for the first time, Y/N realized… he wasn’t just another player.

---

The corridor twisted into silence, the carnival colors of the game halls fading behind them. In-ho stopped at a discreet panel and keyed in a code.

A soft hiss echoed as the door opened to a private suite — dimly lit, sleek, and eerily sterile compared to the chaos outside. It looked nothing like the players quarters. No bunk beds. No peeling walls. No cameras in sight.

Just an expansive room filled with a big screen showing the footage of the dormitory, a leather couch, and a jazz music box.

Y/N stepped inside slowly, eyes wide.

“What… is this place?” she whispered.

In-ho shut the door behind them and didn’t answer right away. He moved to the couch, pulled off his player tracksuit jacket, and exhaled deeply like he had just removed a mask.

“In-ho,” Y/N said again, more firmly. “Tell me. What is going on? Where are we?”

He turned around slowly, eyes shadowed.

“I wasn’t supposed to bring anyone here,” he began, voice low. “But you’re not just anyone.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not a player, Y/N. I never was,” he confessed. “You already know my real name. And I’m the Frontman of this game.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her lips parted in disbelief. “What…?”

“I came in using the name Young-il,” he continued, stepping closer. “I had to. I’m here to keep an eye on someone — Seong Gi-hun. He came back to take this place down. I needed to be on the inside to control what happens.”

Y/N’s feet took a step back. “You’re… the one running this?”

He nodded once.

Her face paled.

“You lied to me,” she whispered, voice trembling. “This whole time — you’re the reason people are dying out there. You… you kill people for entertainment?”

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said quickly, panic rising in his voice. “I didn’t even remember—until I saw you. I swear to you, if I’d known—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, stepping further away from him. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, holding a protective hand over her belly. “Stay away from me and the baby!”

In-ho froze, guilt crashing over him like a wave.

“You’re a monster,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes. “All those bodies. All those people. And you sit up here in your private suite watching it all like it’s a damn game.”

His throat tightened. “I didn’t choose this life—”

“But you stayed.” Her voice cracked. “You let it go on. And now you’re trying to act like you care?”

He swallowed hard, a helpless ache in his eyes.

“I do care. About you. About the baby.”

She laughed bitterly. “The same way you cared when you walked away without a word that morning? The same way you couldn’t remember my name?”

In-ho took a small step forward. “Y/N, I can’t undo the past. But I brought you here to protect you. That has to count for something.”

She looked away, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

“You should’ve left me in that room,” she whispered. “At least there, I knew who my enemies were.”

---

Y/N stood frozen, heart hammering as she stared at the man before her — no longer just In-ho, the stranger who had touched her heart one night… but the Frontman. The very face behind death and destruction.

“I know how this looks,” In-ho said quietly, voice strained. “But I didn’t start here. I didn’t choose this life.”

She didn’t answer, eyes still wide, body tense like a deer about to bolt.

“I joined the games in 2015,” he continued, stepping away from her to lean against the dimly lit table, eyes clouded by memory. “Back then… I wasn’t this. I had a wife. We were going to have a child.”

That caught her off guard.

“I didn’t have money. She collapsed one day — turned out to be cancer. Aggressive. Unforgiving.” He let out a bitter chuckle, the sound hollow. “I thought I could save her. I thought if I won, I’d come back in time.”

He didn’t have to finish that sentence. Y/N felt the rest settle in the silence.

“You lost them,” she whispered.

He nodded slowly. “When I came back, they were gone. Both of them.”

Her eyes welled up. For a moment, she didn’t see the masked man anymore — just someone whose grief never had a grave to rest in.

“And so you stayed,” she said, her voice shaking. “You let them turn you into this.”

“I thought I had nothing left to lose,” he said. Then, with a trembling breath, he looked at her — really looked at her. “But now… you’re here. And you’re carrying my child. I can’t lose you too.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Tense.

He stepped closer, slow this time. Careful.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he said. “I’m just asking for a chance… to not make the same mistake twice.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell, her breath shaky, her emotions warring.

She looked away.

He didn’t press her.

No promises, no certainty, just two people standing on the edge of something that could save them… or destroy them.

[darlingsblackbook]

Honkai Star Rail x Isekai'd!Reader

Just before you fall asleep, you wish you could travel among the stars with the characters on your screen. Then, you wake up-

Cold.

The cold was the first thing I felt.

It wasn’t a gentle cold, like a chill from leaving the window cracked early in the summer morning. No, this was a biting kind of frost that gnawed at my skin and froze over my lungs with every breath I took. The air burned. I was shivering before my eyes even opened.

Where... am I?

Snowflakes pressed against my lashes as I blinked. My body lay curled on some stone, or maybe it was metal - I don't know, I can't think. It's just so cold, freezing. My fingertips felt stiff, my hair tangled with ice. Above me, the sky was grey, with spirals of steam rising from invisible places far in the distance. Everything looked... bleak.

I tried to sit up, but my limbs refused to obey what I willed them to do. My head throbbed and my vision blurred- then I heard it.

Voices.

I heard them before I saw them, they sounded distant at first, like echoes through a tunnel. Then closer. One was light and energetic. Another steady, calm. The third, warm with concern.

“Hey! I think she’s breathing!”

“She’s freezing. Give me your coat, March.”

“Wait, my coat?! Why not yours—ugh, fine, fine. Just be careful with it! I like that one.”

A weight draped over me, heavy and warm. The scent of it hit my nostrils, something faintly sweet, like fruit. Then, fingers touched my cheek.

“Can you hear me?” a girl’s voice asked. “C’mon, wake up. Please wake up.”

I forced my eyes open.

Three faces loomed over me, they looked blurred by the haze I found myself in. A girl with pink hair and wide teal eyes, her expression full of worry. A boy with quiet, thoughtful eyes, dark hair framing a sharp face. And another girl, silver hair, eyes glowing gold like starlight, staring at me with a cautious sort of curiosity.

It took me a moment to recognize them to process what I was seeing before me. When I finally did, my bloos went cold for a new reason.

No way.

“Are you alright?” the pink-haired girl asked again, her brows pinched. “You were just lying out here in the snow. We thought- well, we weren’t sure you were alive.”

The silver-haired girl crouched beside me. “What’s your name? Do you remember anything?”

The boy said nothing, but held my gaze silently, watching.

My throat tightened and my lips trembled, trying to form an answer that wouldn’t make me sound insane.

Because right now, I was staring into the faces of March 7th, Stelle, and Dan Heng.

Characters from Honkai: Star Rail. Characters from a game I had been playing just yesterday- no, the night before? The last thing I remembered was lying in bed, phone in hand, taking in the in-game scenery, whispering to myself-

“I wish I could live in that world…”

Then darkness.

Now this.

“I…” I started, my voice hoarse. “I don’t remember.”

It was the safest lie.

The easiest one.

March blinked. “Amnesia?”

Stelle tilted her head slightly. “You don’t even know your name?”

I shook my head slowly. “No. I just… I woke up here.”

“Well, that’s... not ominous at all,” March muttered, crossing her arms. “No ID, no memory, just lying unconscious in the middle of nowhere.”

“Somewhere,” Dan Heng corrected. “This is Belobog.”

Belobog. I knew that name, of course I did. The city buried in the snow and divided between the glittering overworld and the struggling underworld. It was exactly how it looked in the game.

And somehow, I was in it.

March was already helping me to my feet, holding me steady with strong, gloved hands. “You’re lucky we found you. This place isn’t exactly known for being tourist-friendly.”

“I don’t know how I got here,” I murmured as I took in my surroundings.

“Well, we’re not going to leave you out here to freeze, that’s for sure.” March smiled at me, then glanced at the others. “She’s coming with us, right?”

Dan Heng nodded once. “It’s safer. I do think we need to discuss it with Himeko and Welt before we bring her to the Astral Express.”

The Astral Express.

The train cruising among the stars. The fleet traveling from world to world. The idea of actually setting foot on it - on the train I had only ever seen through a screen - made my heart pound rapidly in my chest.

But I just nodded, keeping my expression neutral. “Thank you.”

Stelle walked ahead, leading the way down a narrow bridge stretching across the snowy ruins. The cold wind felt like tiny razors against our faces, but it no longer felt as harsh as it first did with March’s coat wrapped around me and the others flanking both my sides. I walked carefully, I felt like if I stepped a bit too hard this fragile dream- illusion, I don't know - would breqk.

It has to be a dream, right? A very vivid, very detailed dream.

But if it was, why did my legs ache from the cold? How could I feel the weight of the coat, the dampness in of my socks, the crusted snow clumped on my eyelashes?

The city of Belobog loomed ahead, tall buildings piercing the pale sky with streets dimly lit and half-buried in snow. People wearing protective gear moved cautiously through it, heads down, faces wary. The guards. I remember all of this. I remembered the tension between the Silvermane Guards and the underground.

I remember Seele. Bronya. Cocolia.

This is real.

The thought struck my like lightning.

I was actually here. Somehow, impossibly, here.

“Hey,” March said from my side, lowering her voice as we walked. “Don’t worry about your memory, okay? We’ll figure things out! You’re not alone.”

I blinked, already feeling guilty of my lie. “Thanks.”

I looked up ahead to the train station’s distant platform - an elegant and strange construction that didn’t look like it belonged in a city half buried in the snow. A soft glow hummed at its base.

The Astral Express.

My heart twisted and I felt nauseous- because, how in the fuck is this real? How am I here? How am I supposed to tell them all of their pain, sadness and past are just part of a game in my world? Of course, I wanted to be here. I don't know how many times I wished for this.

Maybe I wished too hard.

Maybe something had heard me?

I have no idea. I only know that I am no longer just a player, safely behind a screen.

I am a passenger.

[zstartrixxx]

How do you think Jack O’Connell’s characters would react to seeing their ex after a nasty breakup being with their new husband/wife. Especially if their ex had told them that they’d only ever love him and no one else. The betrayal the characters must feel.

looveee this concepts, fr <3 i think it would go something like this:

He’d feel like the most despised and wretched man in the world—because, well, you swore to him after coming undone together that you’d never leave him. And now suddenly, there you are, in the arms of another man (or woman)!? What kind of person is he to you, then? After all the vows of love, the overwhelming passion, the intimate moments you shared… by the gods…

Oliver Mellors:

It’d be hard to resist him again… Sometimes you might not even hold back and let yourself fall into it, becoming lovers once more. Or you’d leave your current partner to return to him—to the arms you never should’ve left. Or maybe you’d just ignore him, swallow your pride along with the desire, say goodbye, and move on. Your choice.

Oliver would rot inside with jealousy. He might even stare at you for a long time, jaw clenched, a bitter taste in his mouth from all the hatred. But he probably wouldn’t react—at least not in front of you and your new partner. No, he’d corner you in some hallway, just the two of you, provoking you, wanting to kiss you, threatening to do it as he whispers:

“You promised you’d be mine alone. And this is how you end up? In someone else’s arms?”

Roy Goode:

And well, you’d better thank me for my services, ma’am!

Roy Goode would act like the gunslinger he is: he’d wait for the perfect moment to strike.

Don’t get me wrong! This cowboy would bide his time until the target was in position—then bam! Hit the mark—not literally, of course (unless the person you’re with deserves it…). He’d follow them, gather proof, and then show you that your new partner is nothing but a leech.

He’d smirk, trying not to show that all these months apart, he’s felt the worst feeling in the world—envy mixed with jealousy, this ugly thing in his chest, a near-primal rage he hides under that black hat and shy demeanor. All because he loves you so damn much and just wants to see you riding (him) with him again.

He’s not that bad, y’all, come on…

Patrick Sumner:

“Did you really have the audacity?”

He’d ask through gritted teeth, staring at you with disgust. After all the abandonment in his life—his parents, his mentor, himself—you walking out of his life too sounds like a sick joke. This man was destroyed when you left him—maybe because he realized the relationship wouldn’t work, maybe because he relapsed into laudanum… but you made a final decision.

Even now, months (almost a year) later, with both of you changed, he’d stare right through you, a stormy sea drowning you, and… well, maybe on this particular day, you’d end up in some corner reminiscing about old times? Maybe.

Patrick Sumner would punish you for making him suffer—he’s a proud man—but it’d make you rethink your current relationship. Sometimes, you’d crawl right back into the arms of the man who ruined you.

Lion Kaminski:

This poor bastard would isolate himself, cry, take out all his rage on punching bags (and a few faces) because you’re gone. He’s not the jealous type—or at least tries not to be with you—but seeing you with someone else, holding hands, laughing across the street?

And he was just coming back from training, Stan annoying the hell out of him, and suddenly his world collapses. He’d think, “Was I not good enough!?” while feeling like there’s no solid ground under his feet, no heartbeat in his chest.

Poor guy. He’d be the saddest man in the world if he saw that.

Remmick:

Remmick wouldn’t even let you go.

Jokes aside about this beloved vampire’s possessive soul—if you did escape his claws and his eternal love, he’d lose his mind. Feral.

If you’re human, the thought of you wasting a finite life with someone else, living all the emotions and experiences a normal person could have, would fill him with conflicting feelings: relief (knowing you’d live a simple, happy mortal life) and a seething rage that’d haunt him—unless he crawled back to you on his knees, begging for another chance. Otherwise, he’d pack his things and vanish so he’d never have to face you again.

It’s up to you whether you return to his arms or not.

If you’re a vampire—especially if he turned you—the shared mind-link would make the separation worse. You might be apart in body, but never in mind—almost soul. Remmick would use the bond to track you, to know where you are, who you’re with, what you’re doing. You’d try to sever the connection, but that little voice in the back of your head would always whisper:

“Come back to me. Come back to me, ah khree…”

[thisonegirl]

Further thoughts that I don’t really feel need elaboration:

Boggs is definitely within my top 5 characters. He was one of the only people that saw Katniss for the CHILD she was. He didn’t see the Mockingjay, he saw a girl thrown into the middle of a war as the face of it. He was kind, understanding, honest and protective. I generally love how Suzanne writes her black characters like Reaper, Cinna, Rue, Thresh, Beetee and so on, but Boggs is my favorite of them all.

I deeply dislike Coin. This time around, as I watched with adult eyes (maybe a bit biased too) I realised that she was unlikable from the get go but it was mainly just the annoyance in the condescending way she spoke and her slight tendencies of authoritarianism. Then BOOM, the shoe dropped and yes, she was as bad as Snow.

Finnick’s death hit me harder this time around. Again, watching with adult eyes and minds as well as context. He is an incredibly strong person that deserved far more than the cruel cards he was dealt. He and Annie deserved their fairytale happy ending.

I saw someone say that they hated that Katniss had kids at the end and to that I say you missed the point. She finally left safe enough to bring kids into the world. That was the point. THE WORLD IS FINALLY SAFE.

I pity Katniss so much. Such a heavy burden was placed on her all because she had a good heart. I love her even more for taking it in stride and becoming the hero they needed her to be even if it wasn’t what she wanted. I thought a bit about MHA when Deku says that “my body moves on its own”. How he moves to help before he can even think. Katniss is a bit like that, she helps because it’s her natural response too.

I wonder if Haymich thinks of all the posters that have been painted from his games up until the last one. It’s sad that he hasn’t seen the ones from before.

I like Joanna. Quite a bit actually even though she had some misdirected anger towards Katniss.

I’m happy that Haymich opened up to Katniss and Peeta. I love that he let them in. 

Someone said Prim was always meant to die. The reaping, the bombing in 12, the bunker evac in 13. In a way I get what they meant but it still felt “wasteful” that she ended up dying in the end. Her sister saving her life was the catalyst to the whole thing. In my wishful thinking, I would’ve loved to see them all together enjoying the fruit of their fight and love.

I’m sorry but I can’t help but compare Katniss’ mom to Haymich’s. Their reactions to their husbands’ deaths are on such different ends of the spectrum.

I hate Snow, despise him even. But even I cannot deny the aura that man has. I’M SORRY but when he said “We both know I’m not above killing children, but I’m not wasteful.” CHILLS BUT IN THE WORST WAY.

Plutarch is such an interesting character and I love the mystery that he carries. Someone who cannot be placed in any box. Such a spectacular mind.

Someone said “Coin was lucky Maysilee wasn't around to read her and her fuckass bob” AND PERIOD!!

There was something poetic about Katniss ending a cycle before it began with Coin and letting the people end the Snow.

“We go home.” Haymich, Katniss and Peeta going off together was so special to me. I love that they found the peace and solace they deserved and chose to spend it in each other’s company.

Beetee had a pregnant wife y’all… let me leave it at that.

Maysilee had one hell of a poster.

[boiledkwamaegg]

Some College of Winterhold doodles. They make me so sick, in a good way. Yapping below the cut...

I don't think I've talked about this before but Brelyna goes way back in Faenil's creation history, like back when I was actually playing Skyrim as Faenil and they weren't so fucked up and evil yet lol... They were my magic-only playthrough so of course I had to put them into the College of Winterhold, and there I made them have this little situationship with Brelyna, because I always thought she was really cute :)

It was a huge deal for me back then because I had only just come out as nonbinary myself, so I made an effort to play as a nonbinary character too (this is also why it is important and a little personal to me that Faenil gets gendered correctly) and then I wanted to have some type of ship going on, and it was gay as hell!!!

Anyway, as you may know, in my TES universe the entire province of Morrowind has been hit with my genderfuckery spell, so I decided to make Brelyna genderfluid. I actually don't know if she was born in Morrowind but I'm assuming so since she's Telvanni, and some dialogue hints that she's even been there... And this would probably make her pretty old actually, like would she have lived through the Red Year... Lots to think about. I'm not gonna keep Brelyna very lore accurate though, I redesign all of the NPCs and am gonna hit all of them with my own personality headcanon beams. As you can see, Onmund is gonna have some much needed character as well. NPCs are too blank and boring in the game lmfao

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (3)

about. you're flunking all your subjects. He’s a virgin. So you strike a deal—he tutors you academically to win a girl he has a crush on, and you tutor him in sex, simple.

parts. chapter 02, chapter 04

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.90k (???)

content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Explicit sexual content – blow job, making out, handjob, semi-public tension, teasing, dirty talk, reader guiding Megumi through his first sexual experience. Power dynamics. Smug, experienced reader. Slight humiliation kink if you squint. Megumi is flushed and wrecked and learning. This is a part of an ongoing tutoring-for-sexual-experience fic. Reader is not kind. She is hot and she knows it. ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP I DON'T WANT NO SMOKE OR SOMEONE BEING A HATER IN MY COMMENTS.

notes. i've been missing for two days, I rlly hope you won't be bored with this long ahh. and please try to not skip some parts since its important for you to understand the thoughts behind the actions.

You were supposed to be past this, supposed to be untouchable, unshaken, unbothered. That was your thing—right?

You didn’t cry over boys. You broke them. You didn’t second-guess yourself. You walked out first. You ended things before they could ever reach the part where you might actually get hurt. But now, you were lying in your bed, legs tangled in your sheets, staring at your ceiling like it held answers, and for the first time in a long time, you felt… small.

You hadn’t cried since the fight with Megumi, not really. But now, everything was creeping in. Quietly. Slowly. Like the kind of pain that doesn't hit you all at once—but chips away at you until suddenly, there's nothing left.

It wasn’t supposed to matter, it was just tutoring, just a deal, just a boy with glasses and too many books and a sharp tongue who should’ve meant nothing. But why—why—was it his voice in your head? Not Noritoshi’s, not the boy who said he loved you.

Not the boy you gave everything to for over a year—the one who knew all the worst parts of you, the one who held every dark thing you never dared show anyone else. The boy who kissed you like possession, who yelled in hotel rooms and made you feel insane for asking to be seen, for asking to be loved properly.

The boy who said you were too much. Who slammed doors and then begged at them the next day, who hurt you and then convinced you it was love. Noritoshi had everything—your trust, your secrets, your body, your pride. And he still made you feel like you weren’t enough.

He knew you, but he never saw you, and now here you were, spiraling over someone who did.

Megumi. Fucking Megumi Fushiguro.

The one you swore you’d never even glance at twice. The one you called boring. The one who annoyed you with his quiet judgement and his folded sleeves and his constant reminders that you could be better—if you wanted.

You hated that.

You hated the way he looked at you like he expected more. Like you weren’t just some pretty, mean girl with fake lashes and perfect skirts and an Instagram full of filters. You hated that he listened.

That he remembered how you hated black tea and liked your pen to have a cap instead of a click. You hated how he looked at you during tutoring—like he was trying to understand you, even when you were being difficult. Even when you didn’t want to be understood.

Noritoshi never asked how your day was, but Megumi always noticed if it was bad.

Noritoshi made you feel crazy for crying. Megumi… made you want to cry just because he was kind when you didn’t know what to do with kindness.

Fuck.

You turned over in your bed, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your chest felt tight, like there was something inside it you didn’t want to name. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You didn’t even like Megumi. You couldn’t. That wasn’t the plan. And even if you did, how could you ever trust that feeling again? How could you let yourself get close after what happened with Noritoshi? After all the fights? The screaming? The apologies that meant nothing?

You thought Noritoshi would break you once. But instead, he broke you over and over again, in pieces so small they were impossible to hold. and you were still recovering from that.

So how could you let someone like Megumi in? How could you admit that he made you feel safe when you barely knew what safety looked like? How could you admit that in just a few weeks, he did more than Noritoshi ever did in twelve months?

It terrified you.

So instead, you clenched your jaw. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a weird reaction. A blip. Temporary insanity. You didn’t like Megumi. You couldn’t. You were just tired. You were just lonely. You were just angry, but none of those excuses explained the ache in your chest or the way your body still remembered the warmth of his hands on your waist.

You turned over again, you weren’t going to cry, you weren’t going to want him, you were going to forget it ever happened. Except you wouldn’t. Not really.

Because this feeling—the one clawing its way up your throat right now—it was something you hadn't felt in a long time. And that scared you more than anything else.

You leaned back in your chair, a groan escaping your lips as you stared at the pages in front of you. The words blurred together, a mess of historical dates and political concepts you could hardly care less about. If you were being honest, the only thing running through your head was the last few weeks. Megumi, and the words thrown at each other.

And now here you were, stuck at Nobara’s place, trying to study with her. She had a way of being productive even when she was too loud, her energy bouncing off the walls as she flipped through her notes with casual ease. You couldn’t even focus on the words in front of you.

"Are you even paying attention?" Nobara asked, voice laced with amusement as she glanced at you, catching you mid-eye roll. "You’ve barely looked at your book since we started, and I’m starting to think you’re just here for the snacks."

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. "I am paying attention, okay? I just... I hate civics."

She snorted, clearly unconvinced. "You say that about every subject, Y/N. But civics? Really? You hate it because it’s boring, or are you just avoiding actually trying?"

You threw her a look, already irritated. “I just don’t see the point. Why do I need to know how the government works? The most important thing in life is looking good and having fun.”

Nobara didn’t flinch. “You’ve got a warped view of life, you know that?”

“Hey, I didn’t get the memo about life being about politics and the will of the people,” you said, leaning back and crossing your arms defiantly. “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive just fine without knowing what a civil servant even does.”

"Well," Nobara began, flicking through her notes, "you might want to get it straight if you want to graduate."

You groaned again, ignoring her, but then she dropped the bombshell.

“So, tell me this, since you're so into skipping the whole responsibility thing," she said with a smirk, leaning in slightly. “Do you know what the kenpo means in relation to our government system?”

You stared at her, blinking. "What? What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Civics,” she replied flatly. "You know, the basics of how the government works. Japan’s constitution and all that.”

For a second, you were thrown. The question felt way too real, way too... serious. But more than that, it made you freeze because—shit—you remembered.

You blinked, trying to clear the fog in your brain. The words Nobara had just said echoed in your head, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. You shifted in your seat, leaning back, but then the memory of Megumi popped up—completely uninvited—and your heart stuttered a bit.

“The kenpo is a significant part of Japan’s post-war constitution,” Megumi said, flipping through his textbook. His voice wasn’t just calm—it was smooth, as though he'd memorized everything the night before.

You blinked. “Kenpo? What the hell is that?”

Megumi didn’t look up from his book. “The Constitution of Japan. Article 9, kenpo, which means the renunciation of war. It’s basically what keeps Japan’s military stance neutral.”

You stared at him for a long moment. “Are you on drugs? How the hell did you pull that out of your ass so easily?” You chuckled under your breath. “Like, are you secretly some government nerd who spends his nights reading about laws and shit?”

He didn’t react. Just flipped the page and kept going like it was no big deal. “No, just... you know, I study. Helps me understand shit.”

Now, back in Nobara’s room, you blinked as you realized the memory had pulled you in unexpectedly. You were so lost in thought that you’d almost missed her question.

“Did you hear me?” Nobara’s voice snapped you back to reality.

You looked at her. “Yeah, sorry,” you said, trying to shake off the mental images of Megumi casually schooling you in civics like it was nothing. “So… kenpo, huh?” you repeated, the word awkward on your tongue as it suddenly felt like a stupid joke.

“Exactly,” Nobara said, eyes narrowing a little, as if you should've known. “We’re studying this stuff for our shiken.”

You couldn’t help but wince. The term ‘exam’ had never felt so intimidating. “I think I need to study more than just government,” you muttered under your breath. “Maybe you’re right. I should try harder… and stop being an idiot about it.”

But as your thoughts drifted, you couldn’t help but think back to that tutoring session—how easy it seemed for Megumi to rattle off facts, making you feel completely out of your depth.

You suddenly felt the sting of your own inadequacies again, and it pissed you off. But then, you remembered his impassive face when he’d explained it all to you like it was nothing.

“Maybe I do need to try harder...” you said quietly, more to yourself than to Nobara. But of course, Nobara was quick to pick up on your mood.

“Exactly, don’t just sit there and whine about it,” she shot back, “You got this. You’re not dumb, just need a little focus.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

But as you sat back down, your mind couldn’t let go of how much Megumi had impressed you. No one else could’ve made civics feel like it was worth paying attention to, and yet... he did.

The day had barely begun when Gojo dropped his usual “important announcement” on the class.

It was a Tuesday morning, and as usual, you were walking the fine line between paying attention and planning your next social media post when he suddenly cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the entire class with a smirk that hinted at some ridiculous news.

"Alright, alright," Gojo’s voice boomed, loud enough for the entire class to hear. "Listen up. You’ve got an essay due next week."

You sat up straight, automatically feeling that familiar rush of anxiety that only came with the word essay. Everyone groaned in unison, and the collective energy in the room dropped a few degrees.

"Don't even think about it," Gojo continued, barely suppressing his grin. "It’s on a political topic in Japan. Your job is to research it, write your thoughts, and show me you actually give a damn about your grades."

He paused, looking around the room, gauging everyone’s reactions. "So, get ready to do some actual work. For once."

You felt a familiar knot in your stomach—mixed emotions all at once. The topic was nothing new. You’d been through political essays and assignments about Japanese government structures before, but this one felt different.

You had the tools this time. You had the resources. You had the chance.

It wasn’t like the other times where you’d half-assed everything or relied on cheating your way through. This was an opportunity to show that you could actually do something—for yourself. You had Megumi’s tutoring sessions to thank for that. Even if you hadn’t directly paid attention to every word, something had changed inside you. You were no longer the same lazy, apathetic person you used to be. You couldn’t go back to that version of yourself anymore. You refused to.

You glanced around at the other students, most of whom were still caught up in the collective sigh of dread. Some were already pulling out their phones, others frantically taking notes to pretend they were paying attention. But for once, you didn’t feel that sense of dread. You felt... determined.

This was your shot. You weren’t going to let this be another failure. You were done with disappointing yourself.

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you caught the tail end of what he was saying: “...and the topic? Something like the kenpo, the Constitution, or Japan’s stance on foreign relations. You choose, but you better make it count.”

You didn’t even pause. Your hand shot up without thinking.

"Yes, Y/N?" Gojo raised an eyebrow, amused by your sudden enthusiasm.

“I’ll take the Constitution,” you said with surprising confidence, not caring who heard you.

“Ah, the kenpo,” he mused, clearly impressed by your choice. “Alright. I like it. Maybe you’ll finally do something interesting with that brain of yours.”

You didn’t care for his praise, but his approval made something stir inside you. You didn’t need his validation. This was about you. For the first time in ages, you were doing something for yourself, not for attention, not for anyone else’s approval.

The class continued on, but your mind had already shifted. You had a purpose now.

After school, you couldn’t shake the feeling that today was different. That essay, that political topic—it wasn’t just another assignment. It was the first step toward proving to yourself that you weren’t the lazy, self-destructive person you’d been in the past. This was about growth. Real growth.

You walked through the crowded hallway, determined. As you passed by the lockers, you saw the usual faces—people talking, laughing, their lives unfolding without a care. But for once, you didn’t feel like you needed to be part of that world. You were doing something for yourself, and you could feel the difference already.

You were going to finish this essay. You were going to nail it.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d be one step closer to doing something that really mattered for you.

You stood there in the hallway, clutching your books to your chest like they were some kind of shield. The hallway was buzzing with the usual noise—people chatting, lockers slamming, the clatter of footsteps—but it all felt so far away. Like you were standing outside of it, looking in. You should’ve felt free after making the decision to focus on that essay. You should’ve felt confident, like you finally had something to prove.

But instead, all you could hear were the voices in your head.

You’re doing this for yourself. You’re not weak. You’re strong. You don’t need anyone...

But even as you told yourself that, the insecurity gnawed at you. It clawed at your thoughts like a persistent itch you couldn’t scratch.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you turned the corner, but it certainly wasn’t this.

There, across the hall, Megumi was standing, leaning against the lockers. His usual scowl was in place, though something about it seemed softer today, quieter. His gaze wasn’t on his phone or the floor like usual. No, today it was directed at something—or someone.

Miwa.

She was walking past him, laughing at something with her friends, not even noticing that Megumi was watching. You saw the way his eyes followed her, how his gaze softened just slightly as she passed by. It wasn’t a look of deep affection or anything dramatic, but the way he watched her… it made something twist deep inside you.

It shouldn’t hurt. It really shouldn’t. You weren’t even sure why it felt like it did. You barely knew why you were standing there, frozen, as the pieces of your chest started to break apart, slowly.

You’re just being ridiculous, you told yourself.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

You didn’t want to feel jealous. You didn’t want to care. But there he was, your Megumi—your Megumi, in some twisted sense, right?—just staring at her from across the hall, like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment. And you hated it.

You’re so different from her, the voice in your head whispered. She’s sweet. She’s easy to love. You? You’re just… a mess. You’re tough. You push people away.

The voice hurt, but you couldn’t stop it. You weren’t soft. You weren’t gentle. You didn’t smile like that, not naturally.

And sure, you could walk away, pretend it didn’t bother you, but it did. It really fucking did.

Megumi had always been this person who kept to himself, never revealing much, never opening up to anyone. But when it came to Miwa, when it came to her effortless charm, his guard was nowhere to be seen. He just stood there, eyes locked on her, and something in you broke a little more.

Why does it matter?

But you couldn’t help but wonder:

Why don’t I matter like that?

He wasn’t even talking to her. Hell, she didn’t even know he was watching. But in that moment, you realized something. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Miwa, and it hurt in a way you couldn’t explain.

You turned, walking away quickly, your heart pounding in your ears.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t hurt. He’s not yours.

But there you were—walking away from it anyway, pretending it didn’t feel like someone had ripped something from your chest. You told yourself you were fine, but deep down, it was all unraveling.

You weren’t supposed to feel vulnerable. You weren’t supposed to let things like this get to you.

But here you were, wondering why you’d never be the one Megumi watched like that.

The clock on your desk read 3:30 AM, but the words on the screen still seemed to blur together. You’d been at this essay for hours—struggling to organize your thoughts, to make sense of it all. Your mind kept drifting back to Megumi. To the way he looked at Miwa. To the disappointment that welled up in your chest every time you thought about how far you’d fallen.

But this? This essay? You had to do it. You had to prove to yourself that you were more than just a pretty face, that you could do something right on your own. Something that mattered.

The tears were just waiting to spill over, but you kept pushing them down. They didn’t fit here. Not with the pressure of your name. Not with the weight of your reputation.

You rubbed your eyes, groaning in frustration when your screen stayed stubbornly blank. Your mind wandered again, this time to your father. He always said the same thing—you have potential. But did you really? Or was it all just a fucking game of appearances?

And then, as if on cue,

your father’s soft knock on your door was the first thing that registered. It took you a moment to process it, and then another to look up from the essay you’d been trying to work on for hours. The blinking cursor on your screen seemed almost mocking in its silence, and you could feel the weight of your thoughts pressing down, suffocating you.

"Daddy?" You didn’t bother trying to hide the crack in your voice, the exhaustion. It wasn’t worth it.

The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the frame with his usual casual smile, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. Even after all these years, he had that aura about him—the kind that made the world feel like it was all just a little bit lighter. But tonight? You couldn’t pretend to be the girl who had it all together. Not anymore.

"Hey, kiddo," he said gently, stepping into your room without hesitation. He always did this, always came to you when he knew something wasn’t right. "I heard the tap-tap of your keyboard from down the hall. What’s going on in here? You didn’t turn into a zombie, did you?"

You managed a small smile, even if it felt like it was painted on, too thin to be real. "Just a stupid essay, nothing major." Your eyes flickered back to the screen, but the words weren’t making sense. Nothing was making sense. "It’s... whatever."

He didn’t buy it for a second. He never did. He moved closer, leaning against the desk, glancing at the papers you hadn’t touched. "You sure? Looks like someone’s been fighting with a word processor."

You chuckled weakly, shrugging. "Yeah. Me versus an essay. Guess who’s losing."

"Ah, classic. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure essays are just a trap set up by the universe to make us feel like we have to prove we’re smart. Just a conspiracy," he added, trying to lighten the mood, his tone playful. He ruffled your hair a little as if to say it’s okay, even though the unease hung in the air like a storm cloud.

You pulled away from the touch, instinctively, and your stomach churned. The pressure inside you only seemed to build. "I don’t think that’s what it is, Daddy." You could feel the familiar ache in your chest, like everything you had worked so hard to maintain was slipping through your fingers.

He straightened up a little, letting out a small sigh. "Alright, alright, I get it. You’re not in the mood for Dad’s conspiracy theories."

His voice softened, but not with pity—no, he wasn’t the type to give you that. Instead, it was warm, steady, the kind that had always managed to make you feel like things weren’t quite as bad as they seemed. Even now, his presence was a comfort. But it wasn’t enough to silence the growing voices in your head.

"Hey," he said, nudging the chair next to you with his knee, "why don’t we take a break? You’ve been working at this for hours. Your brain’s probably fried by now."

You just stared at the screen. The cursor blinked, waiting for you to move. It wasn’t the essay that was bothering you; it was the constant pressure, the constant need to be more than just what everyone else saw. It was always about appearances. Never letting anyone see the cracks, even though you were the one who had to fill them every single day.

"I don’t know if I can do it," you muttered under your breath, voice small. "I keep fucking up, Daddy. I try, I really try, but it’s never enough."

He didn’t say anything at first, just waited, letting the silence hang in the room. You tried to ignore the tightness in your throat, but it only made it worse. The words came out before you could stop them.

"I thought I had everything figured out. That I could just coast through everything. But now… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’ve let everyone down, including myself."

His face softened, eyes full of understanding, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You cursed under your breath, wiping it away quickly, but it didn’t stop the flood that followed.

"Sweetheart," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "you’ve got to stop holding yourself to these impossible standards. You think you need to be perfect all the time, but no one expects that. Not from you, not from anyone."

You shook your head, the tears blurring your vision. "You don’t get it," you said hoarsely. "You don’t know what it’s like. Everyone’s always expecting something from me, and if I don’t deliver—if I fail—they’ll see me for who I really am. Not the ‘perfect daughter’ they want. And I’ll lose everything. My reputation, my place. I’ll be nothing."

He sat down next to you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "You’re more than just your reputation. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"No," he interrupted softly, "no buts. Listen to me. I don’t care about what other people think. I don’t care about how you’re seen. What matters is you. You have so much more inside you than this... this pressure you're carrying. And I’ll always be here, no matter what you do or how many times you fall down. You don’t have to do it alone."

You choked on a sob, your body shaking as you leaned into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could protect you from everything, even yourself. His heartbeat was steady beneath you, a rhythm you clung to as if it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

"I just want to be enough," you whispered against his chest, barely audible. "I want to be... something good. For once."

"You already are," he whispered back, pressing his lips to the top of your head. "You’re my daughter. You’re everything to me. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone."

Your sobs broke loose then, and you let them come. Let yourself fall apart in the safety of your father’s arms, not caring about the essay, not caring about the image you’d been trying to keep up for so long.

You didn’t need to be perfect. Not for him. Not for anyone.

You woke up late, the alarm blaring its usual obnoxious tune, but this time you didn’t hit snooze. You just… didn’t feel like getting up. Still, after the long conversation with your dad, a sense of calm had settled over you that you hadn’t realized you’d needed. It wasn’t the kind of calm that fixed everything, but it was enough to get you out of bed and, against all odds, to school.

You sprinted down the hall, your bag bouncing against your side, heart pounding as you dashed toward Gojo’s office. Missing the first period wasn’t ideal, but you’d already made a decision. You were doing this. Not for anyone but yourself. Not for Megumi—whatever that was. No. This was about you. You had your own shit to prove. You were sick of falling short.

You burst through the door of Gojo’s office without knocking, barely catching your breath, and locked eyes with him. The typical cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a soft surprise behind his glasses.

"You’re late," he said casually, but there was no judgment, just curiosity.

"Yeah, I know," you replied, already opening your notebook, the pages freshly filled with the essay you’d been working on all night. "Here. I got it done."

Gojo raised an eyebrow, the sudden seriousness of your tone catching him off guard. He took the paper from you and glanced it over. His eyes scanned the words, his lips moving ever so slightly as he read. He seemed focused—more focused than usual.

"Huh," he said, breaking the silence. "Okay… I’ll check this."

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You just stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of you. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, but there was something else now—something that felt like you were finally getting it right. The words on the page felt like you, like they belonged to you. You hadn’t relied on anyone else. You hadn’t slacked off or tried to get by with minimum effort. This was your work. And it felt good.

"Good work, Y/N," Gojo said, surprising you. His voice was softer, more genuine than you were used to hearing. "I’m impressed."

You blinked. Impressed? Was that really the word he just used? You hadn’t been expecting that. You wanted to feel smug, to let that adrenaline fuel a comeback, but… no. You actually felt something else. It was a quiet, simple sense of accomplishment. And it felt better than you expected.

"Thanks," you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips. The moment was brief but important, like the first small victory after a long time of feeling like you were just slipping by. But as soon as the pride started to settle, your mind wandered, as it always did, to him.

Megumi.

How would he react to this?

You almost scoffed at yourself for even thinking about it. It didn’t matter what he thought, right? You weren’t doing this for him. You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone. But your mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at you, cold and angry—words you’d hurled at him like daggers, only to have them stab you in return. He had no right to make you feel like you weren’t enough.

So why did it matter so much?

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts. "You want me to grade it now? Or… are you heading back to class?"

You gave a quick nod, barely aware of your body moving toward the door. "Yeah. Sure."

"Don’t go thinking this means you’re off the hook, though," he added, a bit of that teasing tone returning. "You’ve still got work to do."

You waved him off, not bothering to look back as you left the office. But as you walked out into the hallway, the quiet thrum of your heartbeat was steady. For once, it wasn’t anxiety or fear—it was anticipation. You weren’t sure where this would lead, but for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were in control of your own story.

And maybe, just maybe, Megumi would notice.

You and Nobara were hanging out by the lockers, leaning against the metal doors while the noise of the school buzzed around you. It was one of those rare moments where you didn’t have to be the perfect, untouchable “bad bitch” everyone expected you to be. Instead, you were just… talking. And it felt weirdly nice.

“Well, I’ll be honest, I thought you’d be a little more chill after everything with, you know, Megumi,” Nobara said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth and flicking it with her tongue. Her eyes studied you carefully, like she was trying to read a chapter in a book she couldn’t quite finish.

You scoffed, flipping your hair over your shoulder, giving her a pointed look. “I am chill. I’ve always been chill.”

“Bullshit,” she grinned, “You’ve been a walking hurricane lately. Like, you keep acting all tough, but you’ve been so fucking quiet.”

“Not quiet,” you replied, eyes narrowing in a fake attempt at annoyance. “I’ve just been—occupied.”

“Occupied with what?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “With your grades? Or trying to pretend you don’t have a damn heart?”

You laughed it off, crossing your arms. “No heart. No problems.” You rolled your eyes dramatically. “And don’t go all psychoanalyst on me either. I know what you’re gonna say.”

“Oh really?” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

You scoffed again. “I don’t need to figure you out, Nobara. You’re pretty simple to read.”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow again, her grin widening. “And here I thought you were all mysterious and complicated. Guess not.”

You leaned back, hands on your hips as you gave her an exaggerated look. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like I’m some emotional wreck.” You smirked, acting all nonchalant, but the words stung. “I’m fine, alright? Totally fine.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s why you’ve been disappearing every time someone mentions Megumi. Total ‘I’m fine’ energy there.”

You shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his name, but you quickly masked it with a snarky smile. “You think I care about what he’s doing? Please.”

“Oh really?” she said with a teasing grin. “Because I seem to remember you having a meltdown in the cafeteria like, a week ago. Pretty sure your ‘I don’t care’ act needs some work.”

“Stop acting like you know shit,” you snapped, but it was all a front. You hated that Nobara could always see through you. “I’m done with him, alright? So drop it.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you are,” she said, not buying it for a second. She popped her gum again, a knowing glint in her eyes. “But tell me this—what’s really going on with you?”

“Nothing,” you shot back quickly, “Everything’s fine. I’ve been busy. That’s it. Now, can we stop talking about this?”

Nobara opened her mouth to argue, but then she stopped, glancing down the hall as she caught sight of the clock on the wall. “Oh look,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ten o’clock.”

You rolled your eyes, not understanding why that was significant. “And?”

She grinned devilishly, her gaze flicking to a figure in the distance. “Guess who’s about to show up.”

You blinked. "Who?"

“The one, the only…” she paused dramatically, “Megumi Fushiguro.”

Your heart skipped in your chest, but you refused to show it. You hated how he still had that effect on you. “Oh, great. What do you want me to do, roll out the red carpet?”

“Pfft, I’m just saying, you’re still not done with this whole ‘I’m the bad bitch who doesn’t care’ thing. That shit’s getting old, you know?” she said, the tone of her voice softening for just a moment. “You’re only fooling yourself.”

You straightened up, feeling the familiar defensiveness bubbling inside of you. “I’m not fooling anyone.”

“Sure you’re not,” she said, her eyes narrowing, but she didn't push it further.

You hated that she could read you like a book, but you weren’t ready to admit any of that to her. To anyone.

And then, there he was.

You didn’t even need to look hard; Megumi was walking toward you, his typical hoodie and glasses hiding his expression, but you could feel the weight of his presence as soon as he entered your field of vision. You instinctively tensed.

You stood there for a second, unsure of what to do. There was this insane part of you that wanted to go to him, talk to him, maybe even try to make things less...awkward. But your pride? Your damn pride wouldn’t let you.

“Go on, talk to him,” Nobara said with a grin, nudging you gently.

You ignored her, walking up to Megumi, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you tried to mask the nerves building up in your stomach. You kept your gaze steady, but when you finally reached him, you faltered slightly. There was something in your chest, like an empty, aching pit.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I handed an essay to Gojo today.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable as always. “Good for you.”

You blinked, the words stinging more than they should have. “Yeah, well... It was a little late, but I tried.”

He nodded once. “Try harder next time.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway, feeling stupid and small.

“Good talk, huh?” Nobara muttered, glancing between you and Megumi as he walked off, his back turned without a second look.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to hold your composure. But it was hard, so damn hard to pretend it didn’t hurt. It hurt more than you wanted to admit, and you hated yourself for letting it sting.

“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Great.”

The soft hum of the lamp in your room was the only sound that filled the space as you sat at your desk. You’d somehow managed to grab one of the materials Megumi had made for you, the one with the little notes scribbled in the margins. The ones he’d given you after that one tutoring session that—well, now that you looked back on it—felt like a turning point.

The paper felt heavier than it should have, as if each mark, each word, was weightier now. His handwriting, a scrawling mess in some parts, neat and careful in others. But what hit you wasn’t just the content. No, it was the bits of comments he left here and there, like he was trying to break through his own usual, distant shell.

"Try connecting this with the main idea." "You're overthinking this, just read it carefully." "Good effort. I’m not totally convinced, but it's a start."

It wasn’t like he had to leave these notes. He didn’t need to care. He didn’t owe you anything. But there they were. Tiny pieces of advice, encouragement, frustration. And the one that made you smile for a second: "I know you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for."

For just a moment, your heart ached at the thought.

He didn’t have to say that. Megumi could have dismissed you like everyone else did. He could’ve walked away, let you fail, but instead... instead, he chose to give you a chance. And now? You were sitting here, staring at it all, because you knew deep down you had to prove him right.

But how could you do that now?

Your eyes flickered to the small sticky note stuck on the top corner, where he’d written a single line in the same pen, his handwriting barely legible: "You can do this. Just try."

You exhaled, biting your lip, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

You remembered that day—his quiet, reserved voice telling you not to give up. It wasn’t a normal pep talk. It was more... personal. Like he was giving you something fragile, trusting you with a little piece of him. And somehow, you'd been too busy pretending to not care, too afraid to admit how much it affected you, that you fucked it up.

You remembered how he’d looked at you that day, his shoulders tense but his eyes softer than usual, like he was on the edge of saying something more, but he kept pulling back. And you? You were too wrapped up in your own self-image, too proud to let yourself show any weakness. So you made a joke, cracked a smile, pushed it away.

But now? Now, you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d let him in. Wished you hadn’t been so fucking scared to be vulnerable for once.

Because if you’d been honest with yourself, you'd realized—just then—that Megumi had started to become someone you didn’t want to lose. Not just a tutor. Not just a guy you kept pushing away. But someone who saw past all the shit, all the walls you’d built around yourself.

You remembered when he opened up to you, just a bit, about the shit he was dealing with. About how much he hated being treated like he wasn’t enough—like a fucking robot in the eyes of everyone else. How he was constantly forced into situations where he had to be something he wasn’t.

You saw it. You saw that flicker of vulnerability in him that he hardly ever let anyone see. And you? You shut it down. You shut him out.

Your hands gripped the paper a little harder, and you exhaled slowly, frustration building up inside your chest.

"Why the hell did I have to be so goddamn stupid?" you muttered, slamming the paper back onto the desk. You leaned back in your chair, letting your head fall back to stare at the ceiling.

All that shit with Noritoshi. With the way things always went wrong. You’d shut yourself off from everyone, including Megumi, thinking you could handle it alone. And you did handle it... but now, sitting here, you realized how empty that felt. How lonely. How cold.

He thought you could be someone to trust. And what did you do? You let your pride, your stupid fucking pride, tear that down.

The thoughts swirled in your head—self-hatred mixed with the anger you had at yourself. You slammed your hand down on the desk, frustrated with how badly you’d messed up. You could feel the tears starting to burn at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away.

It wasn't just Megumi you were angry with anymore. It was you. You’d fucked it all up. And now, you had to live with that.

But what hurt the most? What really fucking hurt was knowing he wasn’t going to just come back and fix it. No. You had to fix this. You had to make it right, because if you didn’t, you’d lose whatever fucking chance you had with him.

And somehow, as much as you hated it, you realized that wasn’t a possibility. You didn’t want to lose him.

Maybe it was time you admitted that.

So, with a sigh, you pushed the paper back in front of you, knowing that this was more than just about a grade anymore. This was about proving something to yourself. About showing Megumi that you were worth the trust, worth the time, he’d invested in you.

And for the first time, you didn’t want to fail, not this time.

You stood there, staring at the building in front of you, your fingers clutching the crumpled piece of paper that seemed to have mysteriously found its way into your hands again.

It was Friday, the day Megumi had always made clear he wasn’t free. He’d said it casually enough back then, like it was something so ordinary that there was no reason to question it. “I’m not free on Fridays,” he’d said, voice flat and unaffected. But now? Now, you were standing here, outside what looked like an abandoned gym, the same address scribbled on the paper he’d let slip out of his textbook once.

What the hell is this place?

The paper hadn’t meant much then. It was just an address, a scribble, nothing more. But now, the fact that you were standing outside of it felt like something more—a revelation, maybe? Or just a damn mistake.

Was this where he goes? The thought kept pushing at you, refusing to stay buried. The building in front of you was weathered, the windows cracked, and the doors? Rusted. It didn’t look like a place Megumi would spend his time. Not at all. And yet, here you were.

You could almost hear his voice in your head, telling you he wasn’t free on Fridays, reminding you with that cold tone that he had other things to do. Other things that didn’t involve you.

But then why?

You didn’t know what had made you follow that scrap of paper, but somehow, here you were, your heart hammering a little too loudly, the nerves making your hands shake. You had no idea what you were hoping to find. What were you looking for, exactly? An explanation? A reason?

You inhaled sharply, trying to pull yourself together, pushing back the mix of doubt and curiosity that gnawed at your insides.

It’s none of your business, you told yourself, but the words felt empty. Because it was your business. Megumi was your tutor—your reluctant tutor, but still, he was the one you asked for help. The one you asked to let you in. And now you were standing outside, on the edge of some kind of answer, but you weren’t sure if you actually wanted to know what it was.

Is this really the kind of guy you want to know?

You stepped closer to the door, the sound of your shoes crunching against the gravel beneath you. Hesitation lingered in every movement, but your legs carried you anyway. There was something pulling you forward, an urge to know, to break down whatever wall he’d built between you.

The door creaked open as you reached for the handle, the scent of dust and old leather filling your nose as you stepped inside.

The gym was empty.

The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and old wood. The lights overhead flickered in a slow rhythm, casting uneven shadows across the worn-down equipment. Punching bags hung in the corner, their leather faded and cracked from years of use. Rusted weights lined the walls, a neglected space that felt like no one had cared for it in a long time.

What was Megumi doing here?

You looked around, feeling more and more out of place by the second. This was nothing like the Megumi you thought you knew—the quiet, reserved guy who seemed like he didn’t care about anything. This place was rough, tired, forgotten. So was he.

You didn’t expect to see him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t Megumi.

The man sitting on the bench had a relaxed, confident posture, like someone who belonged in a place like this—worn-out gym flooring, cold lighting, walls sweating the weight of discipline. His eyes flicked up as you stepped in, and when they landed on you—miniskirt, tank top, lip gloss still glossy—it wasn’t judgment you felt.

It was scrutiny.

Like he was sizing you up for something you didn’t know you were auditioning for.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, shit.”

Your brows pulled in. “What?”

He stood slowly, broad frame shifting with ease, cracking his neck before he stepped forward just a bit, boots heavy against the floor. “Didn’t think a girl like you’d actually show up.”

You stepped back, fingers tightening around the crumpled paper in your hand. “Excuse me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite mocking either. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite. You’re the one Megumi’s been tutoring, right?”

You blinked. “How do you—?”

He shrugged. “He doesn’t say much. But ‘m not stupid. Kid’s been dragging home worksheets and stress for weeks. Took a guess.”

Your heart stuttered, embarrassment bleeding into caution. “Why would he be here?” you asked sharply, voice a little too defensive. “And who the fuck are you?”

The man gave you a low, amused look, voice loose and grounded. “Friend of his dad,” he said, vague but intentional. “Used to run with the old man. Name’s Yoshinobu.”

He offered no last name, no further details. Just a beat of silence between you before he nodded toward the bench across from the ring.

“You came this far. Might as well sit down.” You didn’t move.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Then he turned back toward the ring, where the lights were dim, but movement flickered behind a mesh curtain. You could hear it faintly—dull sounds of something hitting leather. Gloves. Skin. Breath.

Your fingers twitched around the paper. You glanced at the exit behind you. You could still walk away.

But instead— You sat, "Where's Megumi?"

Renji said nothing more. Just leaned back, ankle over his knee, arms sprawled against the bench like he’d done this a hundred times.

“You'll see,” he muttered eventually, almost too casual.

And so you did, no answers. No explanations.

Just the heavy, humid stillness of a worn-out gym. And the echo of fists hitting something hard in the distance. Over and over and over again.

The sound came before the sight.

The sharp thump of gloves hitting canvas. The squeak of shoes on the floor. And then— Megumi stepped into the ring.

And you—holy shit.

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe a hoodie, a scowl, more of the same stiff, buttoned-up Megumi Fushiguro who tossed study packets at you like you were a charity case. Not... this.

Not him. Shirtless.

Sweat-slicked skin, broad shoulders flexing as he rolled out his neck. Arms defined. Stomach lean and tight, with the kind of abs you only see in boxing anime or underwear billboards. Veins along his forearms. Knuckles wrapped. A thin scar near his rib you never noticed before.

And his hair—still messy, still unruly, but wet and spiked, falling into his face in that way that made your jaw clench because— What the fuck.

You were drooling. You were actually drooling. And the worst part?

He didn’t even look surprised to be here. He didn’t look embarrassed or shy or like he was hiding. He looked like he belonged in that ring—like it was the one place he let go.

Yoshinobu chuckled next to you, like he caught the twitch in your lip or the way you were suddenly sitting very, very still.

“Yeah,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the ring. “Kid’s been doing this for years.”

You tore your eyes away just long enough to hiss, “He’s been hiding that body under those crusty-ass sweatpants?”

Renji smirked. “Not the only thing he’s been hiding, I’d bet.”

You gave him a side-eye.

“Relax, I’m not saying I know your business.” He leaned back. “But I��ve seen a lot of fighters. That kid? He’s sharp. Holds back too much sometimes. Always thinking five steps ahead. Got that from his old man. But when he lets loose?” He shook his head. “It’s brutal.”

Your gaze snapped back to the ring.

Megumi was facing down a taller man across from him—thicker built, more muscle, maybe even more experience. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Megumi didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down.

Then the bell rang. And just like that— He moved. Fast. Clean. Deadly.

You could hardly keep up. He dodged the first punch with a low slip, twisted his body, came up with a hook to the ribs so fast it barely made sense. His form was perfect—like he wasn’t even thinking about it, like it lived in his bones.

Another hit. Another pivot. A sweat-slicked arm. You actually let out a noise. A soft one. Embarrassing.

You crossed your legs tighter and leaned back on the bench, trying not to show it, but your face was burning.

Yoshinobu glanced over, clearly amused. “Not what you expected?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the ring. “I’ve seen better.”

You hadn’t. But you’d die before admitting that.

Megumi’s opponent landed a jab. He shook it off like it was nothing and came back swinging—faster, stronger, sharper. His entire body snapped with every motion. Power in every movement. Rage in every breath.

He wasn’t just fighting. He was working through something. And God, it was hot. You hated yourself a little for thinking it.

But you couldn’t look away, even if it burned, even if it hurt.

He was relentless.

The guy he was sparring with was taller, broader, probably stronger by weight class—but Megumi?

He was smarter.

You watched as he moved around the ring like the ground bent to his will—his footwork barely audible, shifting weight like water. He let the other guy swing wild—miss, overextend, pant like a dog—and Megumi waited. Studied. Measured.

Then he snapped.

A lightning-fast left jab cracked against the man’s cheek. The sound echoed across the room. You flinched. But Megumi didn’t.

He followed through without hesitation—hook, uppercut, block—his body twisting and coiling like a loaded spring, punching through the air with enough force to make you wince.

Every time his fist connected, sweat flew off his knuckles like it was vapor. Every time he exhaled, his jaw flexed, sharp under the bruised light. Every time he moved— You swore it did something to your chest.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You just sat there frozen, pulse thudding in your ears, mouth dry, lips slightly parted like an idiot.

Yoshinobu let out a long whistle next to you, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“I don’t know what your deal is with him,” he muttered, tone unreadable. “But don’t hurt him.”

You blinked, dragged out of your haze. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. He was still watching Megumi. “He’s a good kid. Stubborn, quiet. Doesn’t care about much. Not money. Not praise. Not even winning, sometimes.”

You stayed silent.

He continued, voice low, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “So when Toji mentioned he’s tutoring some attractive girl—his words, not mine—so imagine my surprise when he started to ramble about asking me certain things."

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, and?”

“And then,” Yoshinobu said, barely hiding a smirk now, “he starts taking longer showers in the locker room. Like ten, fifteen extra minutes.”

Your jaw dropped.

“What—?” you blurted. “Are you—? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

He shrugged. “Just saying. Maybe you’re not just his tutor project.”

Your face burned. You whipped your head away, cursing under your breath.

“I’m not—he’s not—” You scowled. “He doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

Yoshinobu tilted his head. “No?”

“No,” you snapped. “He’s probably still mad about the fight. Whatever.”

But your eyes said otherwise.

They dragged back to the ring—because even now, even when your heart was still sore, when everything inside you screamed you should hate him for how he talked to you, yelled at you, shut you down—

He still moved like he was carved from stone and fire. Still burned like something you couldn’t stop watching. Still made your stomach flip when he shifted and the sweat slid down his back, over the cut of his waist.

And he didn’t look at you once. Not even once.

Yoshinobu must’ve sensed the shift in your silence. “He fights like this when something’s in his head.”

You said nothing.

The match kept going. The guy threw another heavy swing, but Megumi ducked, moved so fast you almost missed the counter jab that sent the man stumbling backward. His chest was heaving now, face red, breath ragged.

Megumi didn’t gloat. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t say a single word.

He just reset his stance. Chin down. Eyes sharp. Fists up.

Focused. Controlled.

It hit you all at once.

That was the boy who sat beside you with textbooks and red pens. That was the same boy who rolled his eyes at your dramatics and still added notes in the margins. That was the same Megumi Fushiguro who kissed you with inexperience and slow-burning want—and still let you break his heart before he ever admitted it.

You hated this.

You hated the way your chest ached. You hated the way you wanted him to look at you—just once. You hated the way he didn’t. And still, you couldn’t look away.

The fight was over. But the tension still lingered in the air like smoke—thick, clinging, inescapable.

Megumi stepped off the mat, bandages undone, hanging in strips from his wrists like ghosts of the fists he'd just thrown. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was still coming down from the adrenaline, but even from here, you could tell how calm he looked on the outside. Unbothered. Still. Like none of that meant anything.

You wanted to scream at how easy he made it look.

Yoshinobu watched from beside you, arms folded. “That was clean,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even use his full weight.”

You swallowed thickly, unable to tear your eyes away from Megumi. He was wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt now—that shirtless torso lifting, exposing the bruises on his ribs, the scars on his waist.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Yoshinobu’s voice cut through again. “You planning to keep gawking, or are you gonna go talk to him?”

You flinched slightly. “I’m not—”

He gave you a look. The kind that saw through all your usual bullshit, the kind that made your spine straighten.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on between you two,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking between you and the boy across the room, “but he’s not gonna make the first move. Not when he’s like this.”

“Like what?”

Yoshinobu shrugged. “Closed off. Pissed. Hurt. Take your pick.” Your throat tightened.

He turned away with a quiet sigh. “Go.”

You watched him kneel by the guy Megumi had just knocked down, murmuring something low, like a check-in, a reassurance. The other boy nodded slowly, rubbing his ribs.

Megumi, meanwhile, started walking to a bench. He still hadn’t seen you.

But you’d already disturbed so much, hadn’t you? You took a breath, and walked.

Every step echoed too loudly in your own ears. The gym felt cavernous now, like it was holding its breath, waiting for this exact collision. Him and you.

You stopped a few feet from him. His head was still tilted back. Eyes still shut. Bandages slack against his thighs. He looked peaceful.

God, you hated him for that.

You weren’t peaceful. You were a hurricane pretending to be a person. You were mascara smudged in the dark, whispers behind lockers, a reputation clinging to your throat like perfume. You weren’t someone who stayed.

But you were here, he didn’t see you at first, or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

His back was to you, chest rising and falling, fists still flexing at his sides. His bandages were half-off, peeling from his knuckles like scorched paper, sweat dripping down the slope of his spine. The gym lights weren’t kind, but on him, they didn’t have to be — they only carved the lean muscle of his back in harder lines.

You stopped short. Because goddamn, he looked— shut up. You shut it down. Now wasn’t the time.

You opened your mouth to speak— He turned around.

Slowly. Deliberately. And the second his eyes landed on you, the air shifted. His voice cut through the air like a blade. “What are you doing here.”

Not a question. A warning.

He was shirtless, breathing hard, chest streaked with sweat and god knows what else. His black shorts hung low on his hips, legs braced wide as he flexed his wrist slowly — as if shaking off the last of the fight. He sat down with a quiet thud, legs spreading carelessly as he leaned forward on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like you weren’t even worth the effort.

You swallowed.

This was worse than cold. This was indifference, and it felt like hell.

You held up the paper in your hand, voice shaking despite everything in you trying to sound composed. “I found this. Once. It fell out of your notebook when we were—”

“Leave.”

He didn’t even glance at you.

You blinked. “I—I didn’t even know what it was back then, okay? I didn’t know what this place was.”

“I said leave.” His tone dropped. Sharp. Clipped. You flinched. But you didn’t move.

“I remembered what you said,” you rushed, stepping closer. “About not being free on Fridays. I remembered, and I—I was curious. That’s all.”

He stood suddenly, and you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes, he was taller like this. Broader. Angrier.

And even now, when he looked like he wanted nothing more than to get away from you, he still looked stupidly good.

His chest heaved once as he scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Then he turned, and walked.

Not toward the ring. Not toward Yoshinobu. Toward the locker room. You panicked. You followed, because you weren’t done. Not this time.

“Wait—wait!” you called, footsteps echoing as you chased after him. “I’m not here to fight, I swear—just listen to me!”

He shoved open the locker room door, and you didn’t even hesitate before slipping in behind him. The slam echoed through the tile like a slap. He didn’t face you. Not at first.

He yanked a towel off the bench, wiped his face, cracked his neck. Like you were just noise behind him.

“Megumi,” you tried again, voice thinner now, fragile around the edges. “Please.”

That made him freeze.

“Please?” he repeated, quietly. He still wasn’t looking at you.

You nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

“And I need you to get the fuck out.”

You stepped forward. “I need you.” Silence. That got him. He turned, finally, eyes sharp and hard and fucking exhausted.

“For what?” he snapped. “To be your emotional punching bag again? I am just a emotionless virgin to you after all."

“No. I'm sorry.” He stared at you like he didn’t believe a word.

“I just—” You exhaled, chest tightening. “I need you to know I’ve been trying.” He said nothing. You pulled your bag around and yanked out a wrinkled paper. “Gojo gave us an essay about constitutional rights. I finished it.” Still nothing. “And today, Nobara asked me a civics question and I—I remembered what you said. About the electoral process. About proportional representation in the Diet. And I said it right, I think. Mostly.” Megumi blinked, jaw twitching.

You pushed on. “And yesterday, I tried answering a question about Newton’s third law. You said, ‘equal and opposite reaction,’ right? I think I got it.” Still, he didn’t speak. He was looking at you now. Really looking.

“And physics? I remember... I remember you said momentum equals mass times velocity, and I tried—” Your voice cracked. “I tried. I’m still trying.”

You laughed a little, bitter. “I don’t even know why I care. Why I wanted to get better. It’s not like anyone expected me to.”

Megumi’s hands were braced against the locker behind him, shoulders still tense, like if he moved, he’d explode.

You lowered your voice. “But I did. I do. Because I wanted to prove you wrong. I wanted to show you that I’m not just some spoiled, shallow bitch who uses people.”

Your throat tightened. “And maybe at first, it was just about spite. But it’s not anymore.”

The locker room was too quiet now.

You bit your lip. “You made me feel like I was capable of more. Of being someone better. You were the first person who made me want to stop coasting.” Still, he said nothing.

You swallowed. “I know I said things I can’t take back. I know I hurt you.” Your voice broke again, softer. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I wanted to.” You waited. His face didn’t change. He just… stared. And you didn’t know what that meant yet.

But you’d said it. You’d fucking said it. And now it was up to him.

You didn’t know what else to say.

You’d poured it all out—your voice raw, your throat aching, your pride shattered at his feet. And still, he just stared at you. Silent. Stone.

So you filled the silence the only way you knew how.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you muttered, eyes falling to the floor. “But I need you to tutor me again.”

That caught his attention.

Your breath hitched as you pushed forward—too fast, too vulnerable now to stop yourself. “I meant it. I remember everything you said. All those little examples, your stupid metaphors, even that time you made fun of me for not knowing what a veto was—”

Still nothing. His hands were still braced behind him. Still staring.

“I don’t care if you think I’m a mess,” you whispered. “I just… I just want to be better. And you’re the only one who ever made me believe I could be. I need you to help me get there.”

You looked up finally. “Please.”

Silence.

Then—

He moved.

Fast.

A blur of heat and muscle and fury, Megumi was in front of you before you could even blink, grabbing your face in both hands and crashing his mouth to yours.

You gasped, and that was all the invitation he needed—his tongue slid deep between your lips, hungry, slick, and fucking claiming. There was no hesitation, no sweet slow burn. Just raw, unforgiving heat. Teeth and breath and everything you’d both been swallowing for weeks.

His hands dropped to your waist, yanking you flush against him like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, tugging hard, and he growled—actually growled—into the kiss.

He kissed like he hated you for making him want this. Like he was punishing you and punishing himself all at once.

His palms slid down to your ass, gripping hard, forcing you closer as he slotted a thigh between yours and shoved you against the nearest locker. The cold metal hit your back, but you barely noticed—your brain was too fogged, lips bruised, hips grinding down instinctively against the heat of his thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered into your mouth, voice cracked open, wrecked. “Why do you have to do this to me?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, dazed. “I don’t know, but don’t stop.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your waist, dragging over your ribs, up under your shirt, fingertips scorching against bare skin. You could barely breathe, barely think. His mouth found your jaw, your neck, biting hard enough to bruise before sucking the pain away, tongue hot and wet.

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs squeezing tight around his.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed against your skin, voice full of heat and hurt and everything in between. “But I can’t stay away.”

You kissed him again—desperate, wet, open-mouthed—and he groaned deep in his throat, like he was starving for you. His hands cupped your ass again, lifting slightly, grinding you down against his leg so good it made you gasp.

Your hips moved on instinct. The friction was dizzying.

You tangled both hands in his hair now, tugging, pulling him deeper, and he let you—let you own him for a second, just like you always tried to do. But this time, he gave in.

No more rules. No more distance.

Just heat. And tongue. And teeth.

And the crashing, furious kiss of two people who’d tried so fucking hard not to want each other—and failed.

You were still gasping against him when he broke the kiss, chest heaving, lips slick and red from how hard he’d kissed you. His hands gripped your waist like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

Your hand dropped to his shorts.

His breath hitched.

You looked up at him with wide, daring eyes. “Can I?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything—just stared at you like he couldn’t believe what you were asking. And then he nodded.

Slow. Tight. Jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees.

He watched the whole thing—eyes dark and blown, hands falling to his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. You tugged his waistband down, and his cock sprang free—and holy fuck—you were right.

So right.

Big. Thick. Heavy. Veined. The flushed tip already slick, like he’d been aching for this longer than he wanted to admit.

You bit your lip, fingers wrapping around the base as your throat tightened with anticipation.

“Fuck me…” he breathed.

You glanced up.

He was staring straight down at you, hair messy, sweat dripping down his chest, jaw flexing like he was trying so hard not to lose it already.

“You look so pretty like that,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “On your knees. Fucking perfect.”

You smiled, wicked. “Gonna let me make you feel good?”

He groaned—half growl, half prayer. “Please.”

You licked a stripe up the underside, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing every ridge and vein. His hips twitched. Your lips wrapped around the tip, suckling lightly as your hand stroked the rest, wrist twisting gently.

“Oh my god,” he hissed. “Your mouth—fuck—”

You took more. Inch by inch, pushing down until your throat clenched around him, spit pooling, mascara probably already smudging. He was so thick your lips were straining around him, jaw aching—and still you kept going.

“Jesus—fuck—just like that,” he gasped. “Shit—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

Your tongue licked under the head as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks, letting him hear how wet and messy it was. Slurping. Gagging a little when he hit the back of your throat—but you didn’t stop.

You moaned around him instead.

His hand shot out, threading into your hair—gripping, tight, controlling.

“Fuck—fuck,” he growled. “You were made for this, weren’t you?”

You blinked up at him, tears starting to prick in your lashes from the stretch.

“You like this?” he bit out. “Like choking on my cock?”

You moaned again, harder this time—vibrating around him.

His hips thrust forward suddenly, and he groaned deep, watching your throat bulge, your jaw stretch wide around him. You gagged a little again—but fuck it, you loved it. The way he cursed. The way his legs trembled.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “All pretty and ruined, just for me.”

You sucked him harder. Faster. Spit dripping from your chin, his cock slick with your saliva, your fist pumping the base while your mouth worked him with obscene, wet sounds.

He was shaking now, barely holding back.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he warned, voice cracking. “Fucking hell—don’t stop. I’m so close—shit—”

You sucked him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat one more time, and that was it.

“Fuck—fuck!”

He came hard—hot and thick, spilling down your throat in long, shuddering pulses. You swallowed around him, gagging again as he groaned so loud, hand still tangled in your hair as his entire body trembled.

You held him there until he stopped twitching, until he was completely empty—then finally pulled off with a slick pop, licking your lips, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He was still staring down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild and fucked-out.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

You grinned up at him, ruined and satisfied. “That good, huh?”

He just groaned again and tugged you up by your wrist—dragging you into another kiss, filthy and full of spit and tongue and everything you didn’t say.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

You barely had time to adjust your shirt when a voice called out—lazy, amused, and way too casual for the situation.

“Yo, Megumi.” Your heads snapped toward the entrance. Yoshinobu stood just outside the locker room, one brow raised, arms crossed, clearly trying not to smirk.

“Toji’s gonna walk in any second,” he added, voice like a warning wrapped in a grin. “If you still want to keep that pretty little lady around for your tutoring sessions, you better hide.”

Megumi groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. You wiped your mouth, slow.

Yoshinobu winked at you. “Hey, no judgment. I’d let her tutor me too.”

Megumi slammed the locker door shut hard enough to echo. “Get the fuck out.”

Yoshinobu just laughed and walked off, muttering, “You’re welcome, Romeo.”

As soon as Yoshinobu disappeared down the hallway, the panic kicked in.

“Shit,” you muttered, already bending to the floor. “Where the fuck—where did half my notes even go?”

Megumi was beside you in seconds, shirtless and flushed, sweat still clinging to his chest as he reached for your crumpled worksheets. His hand was still wrapped in bandages, movements tight and clipped as he grabbed a page and shoved it at you.

“You seriously brought all this to a gym?”

“Don’t start,” you snapped, snatching it from him. “Not when your dick’s the reason I dropped half my life on the floor—”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, eyes wild. “Do you want him to hear us?” Your mouth shut instantly.

You scrambled to shove the rest of your notes back into your tote bag—history quiz key, Gojo’s half-legible assignment sheet, your favorite black pen.

Megumi cursed under his breath. “Where’s your phone?”

“Under the bench—fuck—” He dropped to his knees, grabbing it just as the locker room door creaked again.

“Megumi?” came the voice. You both froze.

Toji. Your blood went ice cold.

Megumi’s eyes darted to yours, and without a word, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you hard toward the showers, around the tiled wall, and straight into the small, grimy private washroom stall. He shoved the door closed with his hip and snapped the lock shut in one motion.

The second the lock clicked, you were pressed together. Tight space. Too tight. Your back hit the tile. His bare chest brushed yours.

His hand was still wrapped around your waist. Warm. Big. He didn’t let go. You didn’t breathe. Toji’s footsteps echoed into the locker room like gunshots. Closer. Louder.

“Megumi?” he called again, annoyed now. “The hell are you hiding for?”

The stall was dead quiet. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Megumi’s chest rose against yours. He was breathing slow, controlled, but his eyes were locked on yours—burning.

His thumb moved once against your side. You swallowed, lips parted.

Outside, Toji’s boots scuffed the tile. He moved past the benches. You could hear him pause, like he was scanning the room. Listening.

“Thought I heard voices,” he muttered.

The air in the stall was thick. Hot. Oppressive. Your thigh was brushing his. His hand was still at your waist, tighter now, like if he let go, something would snap.

You looked up. He was already looking at you.

And fuck, that look—like he wasn’t just thinking about getting caught. He was thinking about what would happen if he didn’t stop. Right here. Right now.

Toji scoffed outside. “Brat probably bolted. Whatever.”

Footsteps. The creak of the locker room door. Then a slam. Silence.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You glanced down at it. Then up at him. Then cracked a grin.

“God,” you breathed, still half-giddy, “we really just sucked each other’s souls out and hid in a locker room washroom like porn extras.”

Megumi snorted, wiping a hand down his face. “I knew Yoshinobu was up to something the second he opened his mouth.”

“Uh-huh. And yet you still let me drop to my knees.”

He groaned. “Don’t start—”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you teased, voice syrupy and smug. “You were into it. You were talking, Megumi. Like, actual dirty talk. I almost dropped dead.”

His ears went red instantly. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Oh no, babe,” you said, drawing out the syllables like velvet. “You called me pretty while I was choking on your cock. I’m gonna hold onto that forever.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like kill me.

You laughed. The air lightened, just for a moment. But then Megumi’s face shifted. Softer. Serious.

“I… I meant it,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck with his bandaged hand. “The pretty part, yeah. But also—” His voice caught for a second. “I’m sorry. For what I said before.”

The words hung between you. Still. Gentle.

Your chest tightened.

He kept going. “I was angry. But not at you. Not really. I was pissed at myself, and I took it out on you. I called you shallow, I said you didn’t try, and that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

You stayed quiet.

“And I shouldn’t have…” His eyes flicked to yours again, raw around the edges. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. To you.”

Your breath hitched.

To you.

He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered. Not just because you kissed. Not just because you gave him head in a locker room. But because, somewhere in all of this—he actually gave a shit about you.

You blinked fast.

“Well,” you said softly, trying not to sound as shaky as you felt, “you were kind of right.”

He frowned. “That’s not the point—”

“I know. But it’s true.” You shrugged. “I didn’t try. I was mean. I used people to feel powerful. But… I didn’t want to be that around you.”

Megumi’s mouth parted, like he didn’t know what to say.

So you added, with a wry little smile, “Guess we’re both disasters.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Speak for yourself.” You rolled your eyes—but the moment lingered.

You didn’t say anything else. But to you echoed in your mind. And you knew, without question, you’d remember it.

You leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the floor. The heat had simmered down. Your pulse was slower now.

But the words were still in your throat.

“…I’m sorry too,” you said quietly.

Megumi looked up.

You didn’t meet his eyes. “For what I said. The virgin comment. That was…” You sighed. “It was mean. And low. I was just mad and stupid and lashing out like I always do.”

He was quiet.

Then, “It’s okay.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s not. I knew it would hurt. That’s why I said it.”

A pause. You looked at him again.

He didn’t look upset. If anything, he looked… calm. Maybe a little sad.

“I get it,” he said softly. “You were angry. I was, too. I didn’t even care what I said until after you left.” He shrugged. “I don’t really care about the virgin thing, to be honest.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“I mean,” he said with a weak laugh, “not anymore.”

That made you smile—just a little.

A warm silence settled. The kind that felt… earned.

Then you cocked your head, eyes drifting down his chest.

“So…” you said slowly, lips curling into a smirk. “Nerd boy’s a boxer? Way to break the stereotype, Gumi.”

Megumi groaned. “Here we go—”

“No, seriously,” you said, pushing off the wall, circling him a little. “All this time I thought you were just some uptight know-it-all with no social life, and now you’ve got this—” You gestured to his body. “—situation going on.”

“Please stop talking,” he muttered.

You ignored him. “If you really wanted to bag Miwa, you should’ve just taken your shirt off in front of her. Instant success.”

He frowned. “I don’t—what?”

You raised a brow. “You’ve got arms, Fushiguro. Do you even know that? Should I start a fan club? The Biceps for the Blue-Haired Girl campaign?”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the faint pink in his ears.

“I don’t box to impress girls,” he said finally. “It’s not about that.”

You blinked.

He shifted, eyes dropping for a moment before he spoke again. “My dad’s really into it. He used to box when he was younger. I think… I think it’s his way of keeping me grounded. Especially since things have been rough with Tsumiki.”

Your teasing faded.

He continued, voice low. Honest. “It helps. Clears my head. Makes me feel like I’m in control of something. And he knows I’ve been struggling, so he’s trying to… I don’t know. Connect. Without pushing too hard.”

You stared at him, a little stunned. That wasn’t something Megumi usually said. Not something anyone usually said to you.

“…That’s really sweet,” you murmured.

He shrugged, looking away again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” you said softly.

He glanced back at you, and you held his gaze this time.

There was still a teasing spark behind your eyes, sure—but it was quieter now. Warmer. You saw him. Really saw him, and you liked what you saw.

You leaned your shoulder against the tile again, biting back a smile of your own.

“So…” you said, voice light but curious. “Does this mean the deal’s back on?”

Megumi blinked at you. You raised a brow. “Tutoring. Both kinds.”

He scoffed, looking away like he wasn’t about to smile—but you saw it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Then curled.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Deal.”

You saw him by the lockers before he saw you—hair a little messier than usual, collar loosened, black glasses perched on his nose like he was born to judge the IQ of everyone passing by.

God, he looked insufferably smart. Pen behind his ear, shirt sleeves rolled neatly past his forearms like he had an oral defense due in five and a girl to make cry right after. No bandages today. No bruises. No gym sweat.

Just Megumi.

Back in his clean-cut, honor roll disguise.

You walked up slow.

Like prey turning into predator.

“So…” you said, voice lazy, teasing. “Your place free later?”

He didn’t even flinch. Just closed his locker like a professor finishing his office hours and looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He looked almost amused at your expression, but of course, didn’t smile. That would be too easy.

“My dad’s got people over,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Old friends. Loud. Crude. You wouldn’t like them.”

“Oh,” you said. “And what? You’re worried they’ll scare me?”

Megumi looked you up and down—slow, unimpressed.

“No,” he muttered. “They’ll annoy the hell out of you. And then you’ll start insulting them and I’ll have to explain why my tutor is verbally assaulting grown men.”

You snorted.

“I wouldn’t even raise my voice,” you said sweetly. “I’d just call them broke and unimportant and move on.”

He sighed, looking away like he was trying not to laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence between you crackled. People passed by in little clusters—some staring, some pretending not to—but Megumi didn’t care. He just stood there with his sleeves rolled and his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, like he wasn’t the one ruining your concentration.

You hesitated.

Just a beat.

Then: “My house.”

His head tilted. Just slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Megumi’s gaze lingered, like he was trying to read between the lines.

You lifted your chin. “It’s quiet. It’s clean. My dad’s out. And I’m not about to wait another week because your trashy relatives want to drink beer and yell at the TV.”

There was a long pause, then Megumi nodded once.

“Alright.”

That’s all he said. And then he walked off like he hadn’t just accepted an invitation into your damn world.

You stood there, watching him go, and tried to get your face back to neutral.

It didn’t work. You were smiling. Ear to fucking ear. Like a clown in Prada.

You could already feel the whispers behind your back as people glanced at you from the corner of their eyes, because yeah. Yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro? The nerd in the glasses? Him?

He was tutoring you, and now he was going to your house.

You caught one girl staring too long and raised your brow with a sharp little smile.

“What, bitch?” you snapped. “Yes, it’s Megumi. No, you can’t have him.”

Then you turned on your heel and strutted down the hallway like the queen you were, mentally rearranging your bedroom and maybe—just maybe—deleting the playlist labeled for fucking.

Because if he showed up? You wanted to be ready.

You barely made it ten feet before a voice you didn’t ask for slithered up from behind.

“Well, well,” Aiko purred, her tone all sugar and spite. “The queen bee herself. Slumming it now, huh?”

You turned slowly.

She stood there with her knockoff handbag, fake tan peeling at the collar, and a smirk like she thought she mattered. Her eyes flicked toward your retreating hallway glance—right where Megumi had gone moments ago.

“Him?” she said. “You’re really hanging around him now?”

You didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” Aiko grinned wider. “Tell me this is, like, community service or something. Please say you’re not actually with Fushiguro.”

You blinked at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean…” She scoffed. “Come on. He’s a loser. Always has been. Total social suicide.”

You just stared.

Aiko kept going, not seeing the cliff she was running toward. “Like yeah, he’s tall and all, but what else? He’s got zero presence, always alone, and he wears glasses, babe. Not even the hot kind. He looks like he’s allergic to sunlight. And you—” she waved a manicured hand toward your outfit, “—you’re you. Everyone watches what you wear, who you’re seen with. And now you’re doing hallway strolls with fucking Fushiguro?”

Silence. Dead, heavy silence.

Then, You took a step forward. “Say that again.”

Aiko’s smile faltered. “Say what?”

“Call him that again.”

Her face twisted with something smug. “What? A loser? I mean, sorry, but he is.”

That was it.

You closed the distance, grabbed a fistful of her hair so fast she gasped—and leaned in close, voice low and sweet like venom in champagne.

“You listen to me, you crusty, clearance-rack bitch. The next time you open your mouth about him like that, I will ruin your life in ways you can’t even spell.” Aiko’s eyes went wide, terrified. She didn’t dare move.

“He’s more of a man than anyone you’ve ever begged to text you back. So watch your fucking mouth. Or I’ll show you what social suicide really looks like.”

Then you let go—slow and deliberate. Her breath hitched. Her lip trembled. You gave her a tight, pitying smile. “Now run along. Before I start listing your body count in front of the juniors.”

She practically bolted.

Nobara wandered up from behind, chewing gum like she’d just witnessed a crime. “Jesus. You need to be arrested for that one.”

“She called him a loser,” you said flatly.

Nobara blinked. “You yanked her hair like she owed you money.”

You shrugged. “I was being nice.”

And as you walked off, flipping your hair and smirking like you didn’t just threaten someone into silence?

You felt proud. Let them all whisper. Because yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro is tutoring you. He’s also making you lose your goddamn mind.

What the fuck about it, bitches?

The car ride over had been quiet.

Not awkward—just charged. You didn’t speak much, and Megumi didn’t ask questions. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook the whole way, like he was trying to remind himself this was still tutoring.

Not… whatever it had started to feel like lately.

When you pulled up to your house—gates sweeping open with the click of a remote—he blinked. Slowly.

“This is where you live?”

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Just… surprised.”

You could see it—how he clocked the driveway lined with luxury cars, the fountain in the center, the perfectly-trimmed hedges that cost more than some people’s rent. You led him up the steps, pulling open the door with a toss of your hair. “Come on.”

The marble floor echoed under your shoes as you stepped inside, Megumi trailing close behind. His eyes flicked to the chandelier, the high ceilings, the art lining the walls.

“You can say it,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s…” He cleared his throat. “Nice.”

You scoffed. “You don’t have to lie. It’s ridiculous.”

He let out the ghost of a laugh. “Little bit.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Gets lonely sometimes,” you said, quieter.

Megumi looked at you—but before he could say anything, a familiar voice called out from deeper in the house. “Sweetheart? That you?”

Your heart dropped. You turned toward the hall. “Shit.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you called, plastering on a smile as footsteps echoed.

Megumi stiffened beside you, And then your father appeared—tie loosened, whiskey in hand, and a brow raised when he saw your companion.

“Well, well,” he said, amused. “Didn’t realize tutoring came with the full door-to-door package now.”

Megumi immediately straightened. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Your dad eyed him. “Polite. Proper. Is this the boy who’s keeping you from flunking out?”

You groaned. “Daddy, don’t start.”

“What?” he said, smirking. “Can’t I be impressed that he’s not an airheaded jock or one of those weird artsy types who cry during movies?”

“He’s standing right here,” you hissed.

Megumi didn’t say anything, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders.

Your dad just sipped his drink, eyes still on Megumi. “Relax, son. I’m not grilling you. I’m just happy she’s letting someone else use her brain for once.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing Megumi’s sleeve. “We’re going upstairs.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” your dad called after you.

“That leaves nothing,” you shot back, dragging Megumi up the grand staircase.

“You wound me, princess!”

“Go work or something!”

You didn’t stop until you were on the second floor, yanking Megumi down the hall toward your bedroom.

He was quiet—still a little stunned, maybe. You didn’t blame him.

“Sorry about him,” you mumbled. “He thinks he’s funny.”

Megumi adjusted his glasses. “He kind of is.”

You shot him a glare.

He shrugged. “In a terrifying way.”

You rolled your eyes and opened your bedroom door. “Come on, nerd boy. Let’s get this tutoring shit over with before he comes back up here and starts quizzing you on wine pairings.”

He walked in after you, looking around your room, quiet again. But there was something different in his silence now.

Not nerves. Not intimidation. Just… awareness. Of where he was. Of you.

Of the way you leaned against the edge of your desk, arms folded, watching him like you weren’t even trying to pretend this was normal.

Megumi sat cross-legged on the floor of your bedroom, textbook open, notepad ready. You were lying on your stomach across your bed, skirt flipped up just a little too high, feet kicking in the air while you squinted at the words like they personally offended you.

“…So mitochondria is not the nucleus.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Correct. They’re two different organelles.”

You frowned harder. “Then why the fuck do they both sound important?”

“They are.”

“That’s dumb. Why not just combine them into a super organelle and call it the brain of the cell?”

Megumi blinked, sighed, and scribbled something. “Because that’s not how eukaryotic cells work.”

You groaned into your pillow. “I hate this. Biology can suck my dick.”

“You barely passed chemistry. Don't give bio a reason to hate you too.”

You flipped over onto your back, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m trying, okay? I actually remembered that thing you said about ribosomes last time.”

“Which was?”

You hesitated. “They… do shit.”

He stared.

“…Protein,” you muttered, pouting. “They build protein. Calm down.”

Megumi finally cracked a smile, just a small one. “I’m genuinely shocked.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean it. That’s the first time you’ve remembered anything correctly without pulling it out of your ass.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Watch your mouth, nerd boy. I’m fragile.”

“…Okay, um… ribosomes build protein. And lysosomes are… the trash guys? Or whatever.”

You were laying flat on your back now, textbook propped on your stomach, one sock half-off your foot, a pencil in your mouth like a cigarette. You were trying. Sort of. Even mumbling the definitions to yourself like they might actually stick.

Megumi was still sitting on the floor, but he wasn’t reading anymore. Wasn’t even looking at your notes.

Just at you.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too busy frowning at the page like it had insulted you.

“...Endoplasmic reticulum. That’s the… protein highway thing. Right?”

Silence.

“Megumi?” You looked up.

He was staring.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted like he was chewing on the words.

Then, finally—

“I want to do something to you.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

His voice didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, softer now, but still steady. “Right now.”

Your lips parted. “What—like—?”

“I want to go down on you,” he said, low. “I want you to teach me.”

The air left your lungs in a slow, involuntary exhale. The room felt suddenly warmer. He wasn’t even touching you, and still—your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You… you serious?”

He nodded once. “You said you’d teach me. Right?”

You just hadn’t expected this. “Gumi…”

He exhaled through his nose when you said that. Quiet, but full of tension. “I want to know what you like,” he said. “I want to get good at it.”

You blinked, mouth dry, trying to find your usual smug tone—but it didn’t come. He leaned forward, kneeling beside the bed now, hands flat on the mattress.

“I think about it a lot,” he admitted. “What you taste like. How you'd sound.”

Your breath hitched. Heat rushed between your legs. “Shit…” You bit your lip. “You’re really fucking serious.”

He just looked at you. Still calm. Still intense. And fuck—you were wet already.

You swallowed and smirked, finally finding your voice again. “You want me to walk you through it? Like a lesson plan?” He nodded again, eyes hooded.

You dragged your finger slowly up your thigh. “Then get up here, Gumi.” His fingers curled over the edge of the bed. And he did.

Megumi climbed onto the bed, moving slow, like he didn’t want to startle you—like he was worried you’d change your mind.

You didn’t.

Not when he settled between your legs, arms on either side of you. Not when he looked at you like he’d waited for this—quietly, patiently. Not when he leaned down and kissed you.

God.

You weren’t expecting the kiss.

Not one like that.

It was soft. Intentional. His lips brushed yours once, then again, warmer the second time. He kissed you like it was something he needed to learn too, and he was determined to get it right. No sloppy tongue. No teenage teeth. Just slow, sensual pressure—like he was studying your mouth the way he studied your notes.

You made a soft sound against his lips. One that caught him off guard.

He pulled back. “Okay?”

You swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. Just—kiss me again.”

He did.

Deeper this time. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek. Then your neck. And then—when he felt you shift under him, breath hitching—he let his hand trail down your chest.

“You’re warm,” he murmured.

You scoffed. “You’re laying on me, Gumi.”

But your voice broke halfway through.

His hand stopped at the hem of your shirt, hovering.

“Can I?”

You lifted your arms without speaking.

He peeled it off slow, letting his eyes take you in. And you didn’t hide. Not this time. Not when he kissed down your chest, not when his hands slid over your waist like he was memorizing every dip and curve.

When he got to your skirt, you reached down—silent—and helped him pull it off.

Your panties stayed on.

He stared at the damp patch darkening the center.

You turned your head away, suddenly flushed. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

Megumi leaned down, lips against the inside of your thigh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I was.”

You shivered.

His hands slid up your legs, gentle but confident. He moved slow, kissing from one thigh to the other, tongue grazing your skin like he already knew how sensitive you were there. Like he wanted to worship, not just fuck. You’d had boys go down on you before—but it was always a means to an end. Messy, fast, mechanical. You never came. You always faked it.

But this?

This felt different.

“Are you nervous?” you whispered.

He shook his head, pressing a kiss just above the hem of your panties. “No.”

You looked down at him. “You’ve never done this before.”

“I want to get good at it,” he said. “I want to make you come.”

Your throat went dry.

Megumi hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. When you nodded, he pulled them down slow.

He stared.

You wanted to squirm under the weight of it—how intense his gaze was, how quiet he got. He wasn’t gawking. He wasn’t blushing.

He looked hungry.

“…Can you tell me what you like?” he asked, voice low. “What feels good?”

You exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I don’t—I haven’t really…”

You didn’t finish. But you didn’t have to. Megumi understood.

You felt his breath first. Warm, right where you needed it. Then his lips, brushing so softly over your folds that your hips bucked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just gripped your thighs gently and leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue was cautious. Testing. He moved slow, tasting you. Then again. Deeper. He moved his tongue in long, languid strokes, growing bolder as you gasped, as your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

“Gumi—” you whimpered. “Fuck—oh my god—”

He hummed, low in his throat, and the vibration made your back arch. It wasn’t perfect—he didn’t know how to flick just right yet, didn’t know your tells—but god, the way he tried. The way he moaned quietly into your pussy like he liked the taste. Like he liked how messy it made you.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “Right there—fuck—yes—”

He latched onto your clit with a soft suck, tongue swirling, and your whole body locked up. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to feel that pressure building, hot and dizzy in your belly, like something was going to snap.

You grabbed at the sheets, mouth falling open. “Wait—wait—Gumi—fuck—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. Not once.

His tongue was relentless now, sloppy and eager, spit and slick coating your thighs, chin soaked, hands digging into your hips like he needed to hold you together while you came apart.

And then you did. Hard.

You came with a cry, louder than you meant to, your legs trembling and your chest rising in jagged gasps. It felt real. Raw. Like it had been buried inside you for months, untouched. No fingers. No toys. No faked orgasms in the dark.

Just him. You collapsed back onto the mattress, heart racing, breath shattered.

He stayed between your thighs, kissing them gently, like he wasn’t ready to stop. You looked down at him, dazed. Megumi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looking up at you like he hadn’t just rocked your whole fucking world.

“…Did I do it right?”

You let out a hoarse, shocked laugh. “What the fuck—”

He blinked. “You came.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Megumi crawled up the bed slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Teach me more,” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Please.”

You dragged him down into a kiss. Tasting yourself on his tongue. And for once in your life—you didn’t feel like the one in control. You didn’t mind.

The old gym echoed with the steady rhythm of fists against canvas.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Megumi didn’t say much when he was focused like this—wrapped hands hitting the punching bag with precise, brutal timing, sweat gathering at his hairline. His school shirt was ditched somewhere on the bench, tie loosened and hanging off one corner of the bag like a casualty of war.

You were parked cross-legged on a mat near the ring, textbook open in your lap, highlighter in hand—but let’s be real. You’d read the same sentence five times now.

“Hey, Gumi,” you called, flipping to the next page like you weren’t totally checking him out. “How do I remember which cranial nerves are motor and which are sensory?”

“Mnemonics,” he said between punches. “Or just don’t fail.”

You threw a marker at him.

He dodged without even looking. “Try ‘Some Say Marry Money But My Brother Says Big Brains Matter More.’ First letter tells you if the nerve is sensory, motor, or both.”

You blinked. “…Wait. That’s actually smart as fuck.”

He smirked, still striking the bag. “Glad you’re finally using that oversized head for something.”

You gasped. “Oh, so you do think I’m smart.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I think you’re loud.”

You grinned. “Loud and sexy. It’s the full package.”

He didn’t reply—just shook his head, a breathy laugh slipping out as he went back to punching.

You closed the textbook with a dramatic sigh. “You know, watching you box is kinda hot.”

He didn’t stop. “You say that about everything.”

“Not true. I didn’t say it about that weird Gojo lecture where he compared thermodynamics to heartbreak.”

“That’s because Gojo’s an idiot.”

You snorted. “Takes one to know one.”

“I think I could take you in a fight.”

Megumi wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, chest rising slow and steady as he looked over at you. “You getting in or what?” he asked, nodding toward the open ropes.

You raised a brow, still sitting on the edge of the ring mat, textbook half-closed on your lap. “You think I won’t?”

He didn’t even blink. “I think you’ll talk more than you’ll swing.”

You stood up immediately. “Bitch.”

He just stepped back, giving you space. You climbed in, fixing your skirt, cracking your knuckles like you actually knew what the fuck you were doing. Megumi tilted his head. “That serious?”

You flexed both arms in the most unserious way possible. “I think I could take you in a fight.” He stared.

You grinned. “Better watch out, nerd boy.”

He stepped forward, slow, that usual blank expression curling just slightly into something smug.

“Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

You didn’t react. At least not outwardly. Your heart? That shit didn’t know how to act.

You narrowed your eyes, tossing your hair back like it didn’t affect you. “Hope you’re ready to get embarrassed.”

He just smirked. “You first.”

And fuck, you were in trouble. Real trouble.

You raised your fists like you knew what you were doing—which you absolutely did not.

Megumi stared at you, unamused. “That’s not even a stance.”

“Eat shit, Fushiguro.”

He sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, completely relaxed. “Keep your hands up. You’ll get decked first swing.”

You tightened your fists, legs bouncing. “I am up.”

“Barely.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, stepping closer. “You talk like I won’t lay your ass out right now.”

“You’re five-two,” he said flatly.

You lunged anyway, throwing a punch directly at his side. He dodged, clean and fast.

You jabbed again, wild and reckless, and Megumi dodged like he was bored. That just made you madder.

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Dodging! That’s fucking cheating!”

He snorted, stepping just out of range like it was easy. “I’m literally just not letting you hit me.”

You lunged at him, swinging fast—and missed again, nearly tripping when he twisted around you.

And then— smack. His palm landed hard on your ass.

You gasped. “Megumi!”

He blinked, deadpan. “What?”

You turned, jaw dropped. “Did you just spank me?!”

He looked completely unfazed. “It’s a good ass.”

“You absolute slut—” You tried to swing again, but he caught your wrist and spun you with zero effort, stepping behind you and bending a little—

“Don’t you dare—” And then he hoisted you clean off your feet.

“MEGUMI!” Your body flipped over his shoulder, hair falling in your face as he held you with one arm like you weighed nothing.

“You’re insane!” you shouted, punching his back. “Put me down, you fucking bastard!”

“Nope,” he said, too smug for someone carrying a feral gremlin over his shoulder.

“You perverted little freak—!”

He smacked your ass again, harder this time. You shrieked.

“I WILL BITE YOU.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. That warm, deep, rare laugh that you only heard when you caught him off guard.

“Fucking nerd boy with muscles, I swear to god—!”

“I told you I boxed,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world while you kicked your feet like a goddamn cartoon character.

“YOU NEVER SAID YOU’D THROW ME AROUND LIKE A DUMBELLLLLL—”

And then— A voice. Lazy. Loud. Horrified.

“Oh what the fuck—” You froze. Megumi did too.

“Oh my god.”

You twisted—still slung over Megumi’s shoulder like a dramatic, designer handbag—and craned your neck as the voice echoed through the gym’s open doorway.

Yoshinobu stood there, a water bottle in one hand, towel slung around his shoulder, his brows lifted like he just walked in on a goddamn soap opera.

“I’ve seen a lot of sparring in this place,” he said, casual but amused. “But I’ve never seen that boxing move before.”

Megumi didn’t flinch. Just slapped your ass. Hard.

“Fushiguro!” you shrieked, legs kicking. “You absolute bastard!”

He had the gall—the straight-faced, gorgeous nerve—to act like nothing happened. Just hauled you up and dumped you like a sack of attitude flat on your back in the middle of the ring.

“You’re insane!” you coughed, sitting up and shoving your hair out of your face. “Feral! I hope you get athlete’s foot!”

Megumi just wiped the sweat off his chest with a towel like you weren’t actively losing your mind right there.

“Hit the showers, kid,” Yoshinobu called, half-laughing as he crossed his arms.

Megumi flipped him off without looking and strolled off toward the back, slinging the towel over his shoulder, his back flexing with every step.

And then— Silence.

You sat on the mat, breathing hard, heart still thudding, every part of you aware of just how deeply he’d rattled you. Then—

“You gonna tell me what that was?”

You turned your head.

Yoshinobu was leaning against the ropes now, one brow raised, his smile gone.

You rolled your eyes. “It was him being a dick. What else is new?”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t smirk.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit in this gym,” he said slowly, “but that wasn’t just a dumb joke.”

You scoffed, grabbing your water bottle and avoiding his stare. “Don’t start.”

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Yoshinobu said. “And I saw the way he looked at you.”

Your breath hitched. You stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust off your skirt. “He doesn’t look at me like anything. Okay?”

“You like him.”

You scoffed. “He’s just my tutor.”

“Right.” Yoshinobu nodded like he believed you. He didn’t.

“I’m serious,” you bit out, annoyed at how hot your face felt. “He likes—” You stopped. You didn’t even know who he liked. It didn’t matter. “He doesn’t like me like that.”

“I don’t care what’s happening between you two,” Yoshinobu said finally. “That’s none of my business.”

He took a step back from the ropes, grabbing a clean towel from the rack.

“Go easy on him..”

You blinked. “What?”

Yoshinobu turned, half-glancing back at you.

“He doesn’t talk much, y’know?” he said, voice a little quieter. “Doesn’t let people in easy. And when he does—he doesn’t have backup plans.”

You folded your arms, trying to look annoyed. “What makes you think I’d hurt him?”

“Because you’re scared,” he said simply. “And scared people bite.”

Your jaw locked. He gave you a last look—measured, unblinking. “He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.”

Then he walked toward the back, leaving you in the middle of the ring, staring at the mat beneath your feet, heart in your throat.

You didn’t know how long you stood there.

But the echo of his words didn’t leave.

He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because somewhere deep in your chest—you already knew.

parts, chapter 04

taglist, @crispycatt @littlevoidfairy @bookfreakk @1-rxse-1 @starzfaerie @zephyairies @moonmaiden1996 @simonexxx1 @pinkmeatball218 @evii1e @xavisbabie @maeviees @justanotherasiangirl @tiasd1ary @shioribuns @allysainz @mwrgwt @cookies-assemble @tiasd1ary @blu3-l0v3r @camy-yh @pinkmeatball218 @chokismom @01elle-sherlock @oidloid @holymolyyikes @haithamsbb @mysteriaqueen @fxngsfxgxrty @meiyinnaise

[sweetromanova]

High Risk, Higher Maintenance: Part Nine🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha’s orders: protect the brat politician’s lonely wife. The twist? She might actually like her. (Don’t tell Fury)

Warnings: relationship abuse, emotional/verbal (not physical), stalking, manipulation/gaslighting, intent to hurt, minor character death, mentions of trauma, general emotional distress

A/N: i’m so so so sorry this is late! someone basically re-edited this whole thing for me so to them: thank you thank you thank you🫶🏼

Chapter Nine

The tension in the room sat heavy, pressing down like a storm waiting to break.

Tony stood at the head of the table, the faint blue glow of the holographic display washing over the assembled faces. A still-frame hung suspended in the air, grainy and infrared, barely a signature but it was enough. Enough to know she was there. Alive. Or not. No one said the words aloud.

"Coordinates locked." His voice was taut, clipped. "An old SSR bunker. Officially decommissioned but it’s been cycling power every seventy two hours for the last six years. Hidden in plain sight."

Bucky’s knuckles cracked, the sound sharp in the quiet. “They’ve been keeping her in a Cold War relic?”

Natasha's gaze narrowed. “SHIELD blacksite. Off the books. Burned files, deniable existence.” Her tone went flat. “Rogue operatives. Clint, these were your people once. How far did they fall?”

Clint didn’t lift his head, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “Far enough to make even Fury nervous. These people don’t bluff. Long game, slow bleed, they were never going to trade pieces. They were going to break her.”

Silence.

Then Steve stepped forward, jaw set, his eyes meeting each of theirs with steady resolve. “We move fast. No showboating. No civilian eyes. We get in, extract her and we get out.”

“No matter what we find.” Wanda said, her voice barely a whisper. Her fingers twitched against her thigh, her senses straining toward a flicker like static on the edge of a memory. Pain. Distortion. You.

Natasha was already checking her sidearm, movements precise and mechanical. Her face unreadable. “If they’ve-“

“Then we burn the place down.” Tony cut in, voice like steel. “But after we get her out. No screw-ups. Not with this.”

Behind them, Vision hovered silently, his form flickering as he cycled through light spectra, scanning the room. “Their internal comms are suppressed. Brief window. Ten minutes. Maybe twelve.”

“Then we don’t waste a second.” Steve nodded, already turning. “Prep the jet.”

Clint adjusted his quiver, voice rough. “I’ll take point. I know the structure.”

“You sure?” Natasha’s voice held no judgment, only something colder. Something harder.

Clint didn’t flinch. “I owe her that much.”

There was no battle cry. No rousing speech. Just the clicks of armour locking into place. The hiss of weapons chambered. Suits sealing.

Wanda was the last to board the Quinjet. Her hands trembled, faint red sparks curling around her fingertips. She paused on the threshold, the wind pulling at her hair.

“Hold on…” She whispered. “Please hold on for us.”

And from the cockpit, Steve’s voice came sharp and certain: “Let’s go get her and bring her home.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You hit the ground so hard it felt as though the breath had been torn from your lungs, replaced with static, a ringing in your ears and a slow, crawling realisation that you were no longer moving, only sprawled across cold concrete, stunned and shaking, with the taste of blood already thick in your mouth.

They hadn’t even stopped the van.

One moment you were inside it, if it could be called that, a space barely wide enough to curl into and the next, rough hands had gripped your arms and shoved, not with force born of anger but with something colder, more practiced.

You were ejected like something discarded. The door was still swinging on its hinges when your body hit the pavement, limbs colliding with the unyielding ground in a series of brutal, graceless impacts that left your thoughts scattered like teeth on the floor.

And then they were gone.

The vehicle peeled away without a word, its taillights smearing across the road like a final insult.

There was no warning, no gun to the head, no theatrical goodbye, just the sound of tires screeching into the distance and the faint echo of laughter that might have been real or might have just been something your mind invented to fill the silence.

You didn’t move. Not at first.

The city was still alive around you, distant horns, flickering lights, the faint thrum of music bleeding from some nearby bar but it all felt too far away to reach. You were on your side, cheek pressed against rough asphalt, the fine grit of it biting into your skin and for a long, breathless stretch of time, all you could do was listen to the thudding panic of your own pulse.

When you finally pushed yourself upright, slow, clumsy, every joint protesting, the pain arrived in full. Your arms trembled with the effort. Something deep in your chest ached when you breathed, a sharp, shifting kind of pain that warned you not to inhale too deeply. Your legs felt like they were made of water. Your skin burned, scraped raw in places, soaked in sweat in others.

And beneath all of it, a kind of deep, bone tired exhaustion sat heavy, like something you’d been carrying long before they threw you out of that van.

But you were moving now. Or trying to.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You staggered to your feet, swaying for a moment on raw, aching soles, your balance thrown by everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t. There was no closure here. No escape in the traditional sense. You hadn’t been freed. You’d been released.

Like bait.

Like a warning.

Or a final thread, tied to something far more dangerous.

Because you hadn’t imagined it, the conversations whispered just loud enough for you to hear, the rally they kept mentioning with such deliberate excitement, the way Evelyn’s name had been spoken like a countdown, not a memory. You didn’t know the full plan, not the when, not the how but you knew enough to recognise the shape of a trap when you were standing on the edge of it.

And Evelyn, unknowingly, was standing at its centre.

That was enough to cut through the fog.

You didn’t hesitate after that.

You didn’t wait to catch your breath or take stock of your injuries or ask someone for help. You just started walking, staggering at first, then half-limping, half-running, driven by something that had more to do with instinct than thought. You passed through alleys and across cracked sidewalks, ignoring the way people turned to look at you, the way conversations fell silent when you came too close, the way a mother pulled her child aside with a protective arm across their chest.

You heard snippets.

“Is she-“

“Oh my God.”

“Crackhe-“

“Someone call-“

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t afford to.

The closer you got to Midtown, the louder the noise became, music, voices, the chaotic hum of a crowd gathering for something they believed was meant to be hopeful. You saw her face plastered across banners, glossy and bright, her name echoing across LED screens with slogans you couldn’t focus on. They were waiting for her. And no one knew what was really coming.

Not the Avengers.

Not Evelyn.

Not even you, not entirely.

But you could feel it building like pressure behind your eyes, like a storm rolling in low and fast, like the static just before lightning touches the ground.

So you kept going.

You were bleeding, barefoot, barely holding yourself upright but you didn’t stop.

Because they had used you to clear the path.

And Evelyn was still walking into the fire.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The quinjet touched down two blocks from the coordinates, its landing gear whispering against concrete in the dark. The city beyond still pulsed with its usual rhythm, blinking lights, distant sirens, that low urban hum like a living heartbeat.

But here, in this industrial skeleton of forgotten buildings and Cold War remnants, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Steve was first through the door.

He moved like gravity had shifted around him, every step deliberate, shoulders squared, shield already drawn and locked in place against his back. Bucky flanked him on the right, silent but alert, the muzzle of his rifle tracking the darkness like it could sense intention. Natasha moved opposite, low to the wall, her shadow long and seamless against the concrete. Clint took to the catwalk above them, every footfall ghost light, bow drawn, eyes sharp.

Above, Tony hovered like a hawk circling a battlefield HUD flickering through thermal, electromagnetic fields and visual scans, systems grinding in real time.

They were ready for anything.

Which made the nothing even worse.

The bunker was still, not dormant but hollow, stripped bare, scraped clean, as though whatever life it had once held had been peeled out hours before their arrival. There were no guards. No camera feeds. No defence systems online. No power signatures worth mentioning.

Just a building that looked like it had secrets but breathed like a tomb.

Tony’s voice came through the comms, sharp and clipped. “No active heat signatures. No electrical surges. The entire grid’s flatlined. It’s… dead.”

Inside, the rooms stretched out like a film set long abandoned, a table in the centre of the floor, rust blooming at the legs, a single metal chair bolted to the concrete beside it. Chains lay slack at its base, smeared with something dry and dark. Blood, maybe. No one asked.

Natasha was the first to approach.

She crouched low, fingers brushing over a discarded ID tag half-melted by heat or acid, edges warped and illegible. Her face was unreadable, practiced but something behind her eyes flashed for just a moment. Something cold.

“She was here.” She said, almost to herself.

Wanda stepped in slowly, almost reverently, her hands raised slightly like she was wading into a room that wasn’t just empty but haunted. Her breath caught and she pressed her fingers to her temple as if bracing against something unseen.

“She’s gone now.” She said after a long beat. “But not far. There’s… residue. Like static. Confusion. Fear. But it’s fading.”

“Cleared out fast.” Clint added, voice low over comms. “Like they were never here.”

Steve turned toward the middle of the room, eyes narrowed. “Then why trigger the motion sensors? Why leave the bunker open?”

“Because they wanted us here.” Natasha murmured, standing now, gaze locked on the rusted chains.

“They wanted us to find this.”

“Staged.” Tony muttered. “Like theatre. Or misdirection.”

Bucky knelt beside the table, metal fingers tapping once, twice. He didn’t look up. “It’s warm.” He said. “This chair. Not body heat, artificial. They kept the temp running in this room longer than the rest of the structure.”

“Staged and recent.” Steve concluded, grimly.

And then he asked the question that settled in everyone’s stomach like stone.

“Where is Evelyn Prescott?”

A silence answered first, long, echoing, sharp at the edges.

Then Clint’s voice cut through. “There’s a rally today. Midtown. Evelyn’s name has been plastered on every surface in this city for weeks.”

Steve’s eyes widened, realisation slamming into him all at once. “They didn’t want us to rescue her…”

Tony finished it, jaw clenching. “They wanted us gone.”

From the edge of the room, Wanda flinched. “I couldn’t find her because she’s already out.”

“She escaped?” Natasha asked, whipping around.

Wanda nodded once, eyes dark. “I- I’m not sure but she knows of the plan surely and I don’t think they’d take to that likely.”

“Maybe they’re setting a trap for her too.”

Tony was already at his systems, fingers flying across his holographic display. “Satellite feed shows power fluctuations in Midtown. Could be scrambling tech, masking presence. They cleared our field here so they could move in there.”

Natasha’s fists clenched at her sides. “They knew we’d come here. They counted on it.”

Steve didn’t hesitate.

“Back to the jet. Now. We’re not losing her again.”

No one argued.

They moved fast, coordinated, sharp, no wasted motion. The soft thud of boots against the floor, the low click of weapons being reloaded, suits resealing, gear shifting into place. They didn’t speak because there was nothing left to say.

What they found wasn’t a rescue, it was a message.

And now they were racing against a plan already in motion.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The crowd was a living thing.

Thousands of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder beneath the banners, hands raised with signs, phones, drinks, chanting Evelyn Prescott’s name like a mantra, like gospel. Music pulsed from massive speakers rigged above the plaza, bass heavy and proud, swallowing every other sound.

Cameras arched like vultures from scaffolding, catching every glimmer of the stage, every calculated smile from the handlers.

Security wove the perimeter in suits and subtle earpieces. Volunteers in bright vests handed out fliers and buttons. Somewhere, someone was sobbing in joy over how inspiring this all was.

They didn’t know.

They didn’t feel it.

The storm hadn’t hit yet but it was coming.

And you were already in the eye of it.

You stumbled in from the alley behind the vendor tents, clothes torn, hair matted to your forehead, blood drying in cracked patterns along your arms. Your feet were raw. Your ribs screamed with each breath. One eye had nearly swollen shut. And yet you moved, not quickly but without stopping, weaving between crates and crates of bottled water, tangled cords, media vans.

People stared.

One staffer dropped a clipboard, mouth open in confusion.

A cameraman cursed and yanked his headset off.

A tourist snapped a photo, flash popping without thought.

You didn’t look at them.

You couldn’t.

Every cell in your body had narrowed to a single point on the horizon, the towering structure of the stage, backlit in red, white, and campaign blue, where Evelyn’s banner stretched bold and proud:

PRESCOTT FORWARD.

Somewhere in that press of bodies, someone called your name or maybe you imagined it. Your vision was swimming now, heat rising in waves off the concrete, and the pain in your side had deepened into something deeper, heavier.

Still, you moved.

Shoving through the crowd, past stunned civilians who parted not out of respect but sheer alarm. You looked like something that had crawled out of a grave, barefoot, bruised, wrapped in clothes clinging to torn skin and dried sweat. Whispers rippled like wildfire.

“Is that-“

“Is she okay?”

“Wait, is that her-“

A little girl pointed.

A man recoiled.

A woman dropped her coffee.

Still, no one stopped you.

Because your eyes were locked on the stairs leading up to the platform.

And just beyond them… Evelyn.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers arrived like a blade slicing through velvet.

The quinjet roared past overhead, sending ripples of unease through the crowd, just enough for heads to turn, for a few guards to reach instinctively for earpieces. Steve was already moving, barking commands into his comm, shield slung over his shoulder, cutting through the bodies like a man possessed. Natasha and Bucky flanked him in perfect symmetry, their presence like a cold wind before a storm. Wanda moved just behind them, her hands glowing faintly red, her expression distant, focused, reaching.

Tony circled above in the suit, HUD flickering, scanners pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Vision, talk to me.” He snapped.

“Multiple signatures on the rooftops.” Vision responded, voice calm but sharp. “Elevated. Coordinated. They’re not moving yet but they’re watching.”

“Snipers?” Steve asked, already pushing forward.

“South roof. Northwest ledge. East bank rooftop, all have line of sight.”

Sam’s voice cut in from the sky. “No drones but someone’s using power dampeners. We’re not getting full readouts on anything.”

“We walked right into it.” Clint muttered from somewhere unseen, posted in a building across the street. “I’ve got eyes but not for long. If this kicks off, it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

Steve’s voice was tight. “Not if we get her out in time.”

And then Wanda gasped.

Her eyes widened, turning toward the stage.

“There.”

The stage.

The lights flared white.

And Evelyn stepped out, smiling.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

She was radiant.

Perfectly pressed white blazer. Hair swept back like a crown. Every gesture practiced, every smile honed, deliberate, gentle. She shook hands, waved to the crowd, accepted a bouquet from a child in the front row. Cameras adored her. The press fed on her. A sea of people rose in response to her like she was royalty.

She didn’t see you at first. Didn’t notice the girl dragging herself out of the crowd and toward the stage with blood on her hands and something wild in her eyes.

But the crowd noticed.

Security moved to block you, two men with practiced hands stepping forward.

“Ma’am, I need you to-“

But one of them stopped.

His eyes went wide with recognition.

“…Wait. That’s- that’s her wife.”

And just like that, everything tilted.

You were sprinting now, half-running, half-collapsing, bounding up the stairs with strength you didn’t have, every step an earthquake through your bones. The crowd gasped as one. Phones raised. Flashbulbs exploded. Some people screamed.

And Evelyn turned.

Her smile faltered. Her whole body went still.

She saw you.

And for a moment, just a breath, the world fell completely silent.

“Evelyn!” Your voice cracked like thunder.

She stared at you like a ghost had walked across her grave.

You were close now, gripping her arms, trembling so hard it made your teeth ache. “You have to get off the stage. Now. Please. They’re coming- It’s a setup, this whole thing is-“

Evelyn pulled her arms away with practiced poise, her voice low and urgent, but not with concern.

With fury.

“What the hell are you doing? You look insane. Get off the stage.”

“I barely made it.” You choked, the panic and betrayal catching on your ribs. “They used me to clear you out, to get the Avengers away from this- this is what they wanted. Please, you have to get off-“

Her smile snapped back into place, robotic and hollow, but her voice remained venom beneath it.

“You are humiliating me.” She snarled. “Is this some psychotic break? I always knew you weren’t right.”

You stared at her, stunned.

“I was locked in a cage.” You whispered. “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought they’d get to you before I did-“

Evelyn turned, eyes scanning the crowd, the cameras.

Then, through clenched teeth: “I thought you were dead too. I saw the tape… and maybe it should’ve stayed that way.”

The world shuddered. Gasps rippled, not because of what she said, of course they didn’t hear that but just at the look of you. A senator’s wife on stage, beaten and bloody, clearly having some mental breakdown.

Hundreds of phones caught the moment.

And just beyond the crowd, Natasha saw you and ran.

She was a blur at the base of the stairs, too far to reach you in time.

Wanda’s breath caught, her eyes snapping to the rooftops. Her hands surged red.

Steve spun, screaming at the agents in suits that were lining the crowd. "Sniper on the northwest rooftop! Protect the stage, get those shields up, no one gets through!"

“I’ve jacked the line!” Tony screamed into the comms, seeing the confused looks of the agents listen to anew voice suddenly in their earpieces. “We’ve got snipers on Evelyn, MOVE!”

Clint’s voice cut like steel: “They’re moving. I’ve got three red dots lighting up, taking the shot-“

You barely heard it, the crowd roaring, the camera shutters, the pounding feet of her bodyguards running to the stage.

Your heart was breaking in front of the entire world and Evelyn… she had already turned away, wide smile set on her face as she tried to pull the attention back.

You stepped back.

And then-

CRACK.

A single shot tore through the plaza like lightning.

There were screams.

Pure chaos.

Phones dropped. Some didn’t.

Civilians scattered. Some stayed.

Microphones crashed to the ground.

Agents dived.

And on stage… a body hit the floor.

[jessequinones]

How to Write When You’re Not Inspired

I’ve been writing for...let’s call it a year or two. Or twenty. And honestly? There are months when I just don’t write. It’s not because of a lack of motivation. It’s more that sometimes, I simply don’t want to. And that’s okay.

The creative bug, as some call it, died in winter (because, of course, it’s winter). It won’t crawl back out until summer, and honestly? It’s infuriating. I want to write. But I can’t.

This isn’t about losing motivation or writers block. It’s the sheer gravitational pull of everything not writing: video games, naps, watching shows/movies, etc.

When this happens, especially to others, they begin to doubt themselves. “Did I ever even love writing?” Might be a question they asked themselves. They haven’t touched it in months, but they’re happy doing other things. And yeah, I’ve had those same thoughts too.

Here’s the first thing I remind myself: There’s no harm in needing a break. Some people swear by the “just write one word!” advice, but honestly? If that one word takes me hours and leaves me frustrated, I haven’t achieved anything. I’ve just made myself miserable. And in a world that’s already exhausting? I’d rather just stay happy.

So how do I fix this?

Honestly? I don’t have a perfect answer. Sometimes, I just have to wait for summer to roll back around before I can write again. But there are a few things that help me ease back into the flow.

1) I Get Jealous

Weird? Maybe. But it works.

I’m in a bunch of writing groups, and when I see them posting about their word counts, their edits, or, their upcoming book releases, that little bug starts gnawing at me. And you know what? It’s weirdly effective. Suddenly, I’m back in my chair, typing away.

Now, let’s be clear: I don’t write because I think I’m better than them (have you seen their work? It’s incredible). I write because I want to keep up. I want to share my own progress, to feel that same pride, to inch closer to finishing my own story. So yeah, sometimes jealousy isn’t a vice. It’s a spark.

2) Write Something Else

Picture this: I should be working on my book. But it’s cold, inspiration is hibernating, and my electric blanket + coffee combo is calling my name louder than my manuscript. (This may or may not be how I procrastinated before writing this.)

Then, the guilt hits. I haven’t written in weeks. But instead of forcing my book, I wrote a random Facebook post, and somehow...it worked.

Weird? Maybe. But sometimes, you need to grease your gears with something completely unrelated. A silly post, a rant about your pet’s weird habits, anything to remind your brain that writing can be easy and fun.

This is why “uninspired” isn’t the same as “unmotivated.” The desire is there; the engine’s just stuck. And sometimes, a low-stakes warm-up is all it takes to get the real work moving again.

3) You Can’t Write on a Cloudy Day

For me, writing requires a clear mind, one that can fully immerse me in my characters and stories. But inspiration refuses to show up, no matter how badly I want to write. Sometimes, the best course of action is to walk away.

Sure, that might mean not writing for three months. But if my brain’s fogged over, forcing it only leads to awful drafts I’ll despise later (and inevitably rewrite).

To ensure I don’t fall behind with my writing, I keep a notebook of ideas. Jotting down random thoughts means I never truly “lose” them. Weeks later, re-reading those scraps might spark excitement all over again.

The planets don’t need to align, just my focus. If my mind’s not on the page today, that’s fine. I know it’ll be there another day.

As long as the want to write is still there, the inspiration will circle back. And when it does? You’ll find me at my desk on a sunny day, ready to go.

[cleolovesrin]

DON’T TAKE THEM OFF!

You liked wearing different types of clothing, especially with your lover being the one to take them off.

Dom! Bunny Iglesias x Sub! Fem! Reader

CW: aged up characters, pictures, filming, masturbation, fingering, ass slapping, fucking in front of a mirror, p in v sex, breeding, kinda short bcs we don’t know his personality yet, lmk if i missed some warning

A/N: i love this idea anon!! Also I screenshotted your req bcs it won’t let me reply to the og req idk why 🥲 i dont mind writing for mew characters! I like guessing their personalities lol. I hope you like this!! make sure to rest and stay hydrated anon and readers! <33

MINORS DNI. Not proofread, will encounter grammar and typo errors

A cute bunny suit, a sexy black lingerie, and an elegant white lingerie. All of the lingerie and suit you bought recently perfectly fit you, your tits plump and cleavage visible. Your ass also seemed flattering with the lingeries, pairing it with stockings or a thigh collar for a cherry on top.

You’re sure your boyfriend— Bunny, would like all of these. But there was one that stood out the most: a pink lingerie with bows adorning its embroidery. Your boobs sat so nicely between the laced bra, while a bow adorned the middle of the bra. The lace panties you wore also had a pink bow adorned on the top band. Its cute, yet seductive design captured your attention while you were shopping and you knew you just had to buy it. And show to your boyfriend, of course.

So, you grabbed your camera and posed infront of a mirror. Bending over and arching your back so that your ass pops better on the picture, putting on a pretend fucked out face before the flash went off. Then spreading your legs high up the air infront of the mirror— making sure your lthe floral design of lace was visible in the picture.

Shit, your pussy started to ache. Imagining how Bunny would react to you wearing this. Your mind wandered places— like how he’ll fuck you so hard in front of this mirror or pound your pussy onto the mattress face down ass up.

You got your camera again, kneeling in front of the mirror and spreading your legs. Hitting the video record and moving your hips up and down. Pretending to bounce on his cock while you lolled your tongue out and crossed your eyes.

“Daddy…look how wet I am, for you— Ngh! So wet for your dick.”

Time passed, and you’re now touching yourself. Your hands buried past inside your laced panties, fingers rubbing your clit fast. You moaned while fingering yourself— pretending that it was Bunny instead. You closed your eyes and reeled your head back, your mouth gaping while gasps made its way out your plump lips. The squelching noises of your wetness drowned the silent room, which made the sound of the door opening and his footsteps seem silent.

“Having fun without me?”

Your eyes shot wide open. But before you could react properly— his finger already entered your pussy and his freehand squeezed your throat. You gasped a out a moan, looking up to your boyfriend who looked down on you. His eyes dark, jaw clenching whilst his grip tightened and his fingers moved your panties to the side, entering two fingers in you.

“I- I thought you were— Aah! Outside— Mmh—“ Your eyes dazed, weakly gripping his arm that had your throat on a chokehold. Hips shaking as his long fingers thrusted in and out of you.

“Well, I changed my mind and went home early. I missed my pretty girl.” You moaned, his fingers hitting your g-spot while his words made you dizzy from pleasure. Your pussy dripping out juices that made your laced panties even more translucent.

“Seeing you in this lingerie…Just makes me wanna ruin you, Mi Amor.”

His hand gripped your hair firmly while the other held your hips for support. Your legs lifted up from the ground as his dick plowed inside your pussy from behind. You whimpered at the sight in front of you— your body getting fucked roughly in front of the mirror you were once posing on.

Your laced bra was pushed up, not removed, but your boobs were popping out. Bouncing and jiggling along with his rough thrusts. Your lace panties were pushed to the side, your whole set never removed while fucked you.

“D-daddy! So rough! A-aah!”

He pushed your body to the mirror, your boobs pressed against the mirror as he fucked you even harder. You whimpered at the feeling of cold mirror pressing against your nipples, moaning as his tip kissed your cervix again and again.

Legs shaking and writhing as his dick pounded into you, his balls slapping against your clit and his hips slapping against your ass. Loud noises of your pussy squelching with every thrust, wet skin slapping, your moans and whimpers as his dick hit the deepest parts of your body.

“That’s right, Amor. Moan for Daddy’s cock.”

You screamed in pleasure as his hand slapped your ass. His hands now gripping both your tit as his length abused your plump pussy. He looked at you through the mirror, his eyes dark and feral while drilling into you. Hips moving like he’s in heat, fucking you like a rabbit.

Your pussy spasmed as you felt yourself getting near, the knot in your stomach tightening. Moaning louder and your whole body shook like a leaf, chanting and screaming out his name. Throwing your head back as you felt his tip twitch deep inside your hole.

“B- Bunny! Shit— Ngh! I’m cumming!”

His tongue licked your earlobe, biting your soft flesh. He lifted your leg up, angling his thrusts to hit deeper. While his other grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at your reflection.

“Watch yourself cum and cry for my cock. My pretty, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

You moaned louder than ever, your pussy squirting out a waterfall of cum. Your sputtering liquid stained the floor and the mirror in front of you. Your legs shaking while your mind turned to mush. Whimpers escaped your mouth as he rubbed your clit gently. Yet his dick kept thrusting in you with an unforgiving phase.

“We’re still not done yet, Mi amor.”

He manhandled your body to the bed, throwing you to bed as if you’re the lightest thing he ever carried. You gasped while he did so, the shock of him shoving your body to bed while still inside you sent shocking waves of pleasure with every move.

His hand gripped your head and shoved it onto the pillows, while his other hand kept on slapping your ass. Hips resuming to thrust unforgivingly inside you, a rim of thick pre-cum gathered on the base of his dick. From fucking you non-stop and the amount of pre-cum he produced.

Your moans and screams came out muffled, his dick hitting deep inside your pussy— rearranging your guts until it couldn’t come back to its original state. You arched your back as his dick grazed every sensation inside your pussy. A bulge evident in your stomach, denting up and down in sync with his thrusts. Gripping the sheets tightly until your knuckles turned white, your eyes glossy as you watched the edge of the bed hit the wall while he fucked you from behind.

Your clit ached once more, swollen pussy starting to spasm again as the knot in you stomach released again. Another spurt of your fluids dripping onto the bedsheets and on both Bunny’s and your leg.

Bunny moaned and threw his head back in pleasure, his tip twitched more and more as your tight walls engulfed him whole. Everytime you came and moaned loudly, your wall closed in his dick— squeezing his length in a chokehold. His hips stuttered as he felt the tip of his cock’s sensitivity arise.

A pleasured groan escaped his lips, hands pushing your hips down, digging deep inside you and slamming into you one last time. His heavy balls slapped on your clit which took out a moan from your fucked out state. His balls twitched as the tip of his dick released a thick, white fluid.

Cum flooded your insides, overflowing inside you until it reached your womb. You whined as you felt every spurt of liquid shoot inside you, the warm feeling reaching your guts.

He slowly pulled out, your pussy turning gaped and leaking. Cum dripping from your gaping hole— staining the already wet bedsheets beneath both of you.

Slapping your ass again, your body twitched and a whine left your mouth as he lifted you gently. His scarred lips pressing on your neck, then to your collarbone until it reached your lips.

You moaned against the kiss, feeling his fingers intrude your hole— pushing out his cum out of your pussy. Earning a whine from you as you weakly rode his fingers. Bunny chuckled into the kiss, gently slapping your clit before he cleaned you up.

He gave you water and a few sweet snacks after that, along with a warm bath for the both of you. Ending the day with a gentle make out session.