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capslocked · 7 months ago

Text

PROXIMITY

male reader x chou tzuyu

25k words

You’re not a bad person. And you know how that sounds apropos of nothing - defensive, unscrupulous - but it’s true. You’re like anybody else: full of mistakes, but good, mostly.

You are also aware of the way she looks at you. None of that has changed.

The slight quirk at the corner of her lips. A flicker, a smirk. A game, all doe-eyed and deep dimpled - she's playing the seduction one. It isn’t subtle, and you're losing by proxy. So you're backtracking, drawing your conclusions; you're reading into the line of her jaw, the fall of her hair. Measuring the weight behind each blink.

"You were wrong by the way," Tzuyu starts, indifferent. Through some act of divine retribution, she laughs. "Because to tell you the truth, I used to have, like, the biggest crush on you."

She’s young, and - well, she’s a lot of things. A terrible idea. Incredibly off-limits. She is anathema, red tape, an original sin. You shake your head at her, smile fading - which for anyone keeping score, is an admonishment, however faint.

Because Chou Tzuyu, you recognize, is categorically, unequivocally: never supposed to happen.

If you want a read on your current dilemma, then this is how it pans out:

You’re walking headfirst into one of the multiple terrible, terrible scenarios you've probably had an anxiety dream about. It’s an ambush, really.

There’s the text from Mina, explaining all the ins and outs of her winter hideaway, the logistical whereabouts, and the pinched photo from the outside, the endless winding driveway, the clearing in the woods. The remote location, the unfussed snow, the towering trees. There are no neighbors to speak of, just seclusion and isolation and that makes you, among the seven billion or whatever, the only one who will know precisely how fucked you are.

The door to the cabin swings open on its hinges. You kick the snow off your boots, and the air smells indistinctly of peppermint tea.

It’s a cozy place, you think. A slightly rustic aesthetic. There’s a pair of skis decommissioned over the mantle. Mina, as usual, has good taste. You peek around: the foyer, the open living space, the wood finishes, the sunken fireplace. You almost make out a bathroom, through a half-opened doorway - and the kitchen, maybe, is nestled around the far corner.

You settle in, find your bearings, and start taking these leisurely steps down the hall.

That’s when you see her. Wearing a sweater that's a size too big, draped over her frame - sleeves tucked, exposing the barest hint of skin on her wrists, her delicate fingertips. You blink once, twice. That’s a dangerous flare. The rest of her, this canvas of pale skin and soft, endless legs, the hollowed stretch of inner thigh-

Actually, you know what, you are going to delete that out of your mind; as far as you're concerned, Tzuyu absolutely does not have her long, satin-like mahogany hair spilling over her shoulder, her bare legs poking out from under that bulky cotton blend, and she definitely, very absolutely has not given you a complete lack of boundaries, so it's more than plausible for her to slide onto a stool near the countertop with her painted-toes peeking out from beneath the folded press of her thigh (the pedicure, really, now?) and look over at you like you aren’t perfectly familiar with that goddamn face. Those eyes, that jaw.

And her collarbone is out too. Ouch.

Tzuyu rests her chin in one of her perfectly manicured hands, and tilts her head: she’s very blatantly checking you out.

The problem is, you’ve recognized her immediately.

Which - god, the bottom-lines, the blurred borders. It’s been years. She's twenty-three, twenty-four now, and as it turns out, she's taller than you remember. She's thinner, taller, actually a bit filled out too-

Right, okay, no. Just. Delete that image from the internal memory.

"Oh," you breathe, because there's not a single thing you're sure you’re supposed to do. It takes a split second too long to put the brakes on everything in your brain and say, "Tzuyu." It takes even more control not to tack an unthinkingly fond 'miss' to the front of her name - you're a god-honest lost hope - but at the last minute, you settle for, "hi."

It’s unnatural. She's actually somehow prettier than you remember, and the tousled brown curls flowing down her shoulder make it worse. She smiles, gently; this soft-spoken, "hey."

She’s at the kitchen island, holding a bowl of cereal and looking at you like she’s taking inventory. The strap of her bra is black, loose around the curve of her left shoulder; she's barefoot. Any other context, and it's your favorite kind of combination, basically: casual and messy and haphazard. Perfect. She's so tall, christ.

"We've met a few times," and she's not even phrasing it as a question - because she knows for a fact that you know her - and now, well, you can see how that's a problem.

"Yeah." You drop your bags. "Nobody said anything about anyone being here, so, I'm just a little-"

“Relieved?” Tzuyu tries, and if it sounds conceited, you’ve imagined it.

“Surprised,” you amend, quickly. There is a massive amount of distance currently between the both of you - several feet and an island counter to top it off. That's good, you think.

Tzuyu runs her hands over the top of her hair, a half-effort at putting it up into some sort of a ponytail, or maybe a bun. You see now that her nails are bare. "I'd heard from Mina," she starts, "that Sana was coming here-"

And you watch, absentmindedly, as Tzuyu slides down off her chair. You watch her too carefully almost, for a beat. You want to follow the length of her legs with the same ease and shamelessness - like it's instinct or just expected; it's ridiculous and wrong to think, but-

"-with, uh, someone. She left it purposefully vague." Tzuyu finishes, then pauses. Her gaze slides across you. If the awkward stretch of silence is weird, she doesn't comment on it. “Then I heard the flight got delayed because of all the snow."

"Just Sana’s," you correct, and that's not information you should be simply giving away. She just stands there, blinking up at you.

"Huh," she says, eyebrow lifted - slower than is explicitly necessary, “so you’re like. All alone until she gets here.” She simply eats a spoonful of cereal, chews for a moment, and adds, “bummer.”

It’s true, in some sense. You sigh, rake a hand back through your hair, and your jacket falls further down on one of your shoulders; she drops her gaze down, almost imperceptibly, following the motion.

There is definitely a point where you could take notice of a lot of things, and they include, but are certainly not limited to: the fucking languor with which she is licking the yogurt off the back of her spoon, her stupidly long eyelashes fanning on the tops of her cheeks when she glances down, the frankly risque neckline of her sweater. Those kinds of things. Those kinds of details. Really, you wouldn’t dare.

"It sounds like she’ll be getting in tomorrow evening," you decide to inform her, though she didn't ask, and now she nods, focusing still on the yogurt and granola at the bottom of her bowl.

You walk into the kitchen. Rap your knuckles on the countertop. Tzuyu’s right there, and your mind is filling up with images you could really do without. That's the unfortunate, traitorous nature of all this: in any universe, Chou Tzuyu fawns over you. And she will, on accident or purpose, test you. And as for your hesitation - that's an instinct that gets activated every time you so much as meet Tzuyu in person, this invasive little impulse.

"Well," Tzuyu says, way too casually. “It’s just us then.”

"Yeah." you agree, stilted. “Just us.”

"There's wine," she decides, tilts her head. Then, matter of factly, "and coffee, hot cocoa. Mina’s more or less stocked on everything."

Her voice hits the room all nice, sweet, syrupy - god, fuck, maybe there's a window or a door here somewhere that you're supposed to open to clear the air, but when you look, there’s frost on the glass; it’s the subalpine frigidity. Tzuyu flashes you this other sort of glance - her teeth scrape the rounded spoon's tip before her lips fully fix around it. The drowsy, delirious feeling is almost involuntary at this point.

"I should unpack my things, is what I should do, probably," and now you are saying things for the sake of saying them, as an escape. "Hey, seriously. Sorry for the inconvenience."

“Don’t be,” she tells you. "The weather isn't anybody's fault."

(Here, a premonition. You look at Tzuyu, who raises an eyebrow back.)

The next logical move is: leave. Tzuyu folds her long limbs back up onto the stool, and you're - trying not to look. You're also trying not to do it consciously, actively - you're not, and not. You fail, like you did a few years ago, too - the eyes have a bad habit of wandering. She's made of porcelain, all thin wrists, thin neck, soft curves and delicate lines. She's made out of glass - she’s at her most dangerous when you’ve gone and broken her.

It’s possible, you think, she could break you too.

Look, contextually - it’s Murphy’s law, or maybe your own very specific curse. A lot of stuff happens, so here’s a rough draft, your best effort at an approximation, a smudged-pencil sketch:

Tzuyu has been on vacation in the Alps from the start of the week, or maybe the week prior - she's alone in this stupidly big cabin you're supposed to be meeting Sana in for two weeks and change of pure unadulterated, hedonistic fun. Skiing, lounging, stargazing, drinking, screwing, consummating a situationship. You know the drill.

However there ends up being an actual, literal avalanche - with snow and rocks and ice and whatever the fuck - the power goes out, and you can only assume the whole mountain's gone dark. It's like a classic, a cautionary tale: hey, dude, you're on vacation with this drop-dead gorgeous girl who will let you do whatever you want to her - in the name of love and lust and a loosely legal liability. She says she'll be yours forever, except you also heard her say that the universe is entitled to laugh at you, a bit - so you do something you'll regret (which, okay, you've done countless things you'll regret) and now you're getting punished for it, and so is the stunning temptress currently shivering in the bed next to you. Seriously, whatever you do, do not fuck her, don't let her get too attached, because oh, man - Tzuyu really likes to make herself comfortable, huh? To nestle herself into your arms, let her hand stroke circles in the dark fabric of your t-shirt, warm her cold nose into your chest, and cuddle the night away. She's so easy to give in to, isn't she? This walking, talking paradox of everything she's not supposed to be and everything she'll willingly do anyway - there's her expression, placid and rapturous in equal measures, the sleepy mumbles against your skin that sound like prayers, her damp breaths.

You should know better. You should know that this is the universe, laughing its ass off at you.

And just for the record, there is sound reason for everyone to feel, in some sense, extremely concerned by the narrative that your life has slowly, unceremoniously devolved itself into.

The first time you meet Chou Tzuyu is years ago. She’s dramatically, devastatingly, problematically, young.

It was all happening before you could really clock it, and it was morally reprehensible, and it was, in fact, probably all your own doing.

And it’s even more obvious in retrospect: how she would react to the way you reach back and ruffle your hair when you laugh, the casual appeal of your smile, the depths of your tone, how you cut it as close as you can get it. A girl will trip all over herself to let you look after her; that’s the basic blueprint, that's the default. See, you're in your twenties, an adult - not having figured out much, but having certainly figured out this - and it's very much not lost on you that the girl should not be flirting with you - but she does, and the very worst of it is: you let her.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jihyo had said at the time, and, in fairness, yeah. That more or less sums it up.

So you end up making a point of never getting to know her, to always keep the conversation nonexistent. Or in the worst case scenario, brief - on surface level topics. The weather. Your job. Food. If you like her sunglasses. (They look protective, you’d told her, very practical. Very safe.) It's the essentials, a light, professional rapport - never once crossing the border from casual conversation to candid disclosure.

She's infatuated, of course. You're not mincing words here. It's actually rather unfortunate, how gone she is for you. You could’ve probably stood to dial it back; you, and your charm. Your smiles.

Because Chou Tzuyu was however many years young, very much off-limits - and like a lot of people it seems, totally hooked on your whole deal.

(Theoretically, that's how it all starts. Which is why, pragmatically, you will never, ever lay a finger on her.)

So, the plan to get through this was simple and to the point and as follows:

* Avoid unnecessary physical contact

* Maintain social distance, in fact - something covid-esque sounds great, about six feet

* Do not offer opinions/advice unless specifically asked

* Minimize speaking, just to be safe

* Do not exchange gifts, especially personal ones

* Be wary of the temptation to take a voluntarily-tipsy Tzuyu to bed, because you'll want to - and god knows Tzuyu will make it extremely clear that you could; this is exactly how shit turns south-

* Adjust and reframe

* Reinforce

* Remind yourself

* To just fucking think about literally anything else

It was working fine, so far - really fine, especially if you consider how early into the stay you're sitting there, telling yourself off in the bathroom mirror, get it together, you dumbass. What is wrong with you, don’t you know better by now - before an unapologetic knock on the door snaps you out of it, and the click of the door opening a moment later forces a heavy inhale from your chest: you just need a fucking second, thanks - not a half-decent excuse or a rearrangement, not a careful restructure, just a split second in your own head; that's not even the sort of thing you're prone to needing, because it's you, but with Chou fucking Tzuyu-

A soft breathy laugh, "are you okay in here?"

Tzuyu pokes her head into the room, her hair a wavy curtain that tumbles down past the middle of her back. You have this vague, fleeting impulse to run your fingers through it.

"Well," and there goes all the shit you'd managed not to think about, or contemplate, or dwell upon for that one glorious, naive, misinformed second. "Sort of," you say, offering her a quick glance.

"Really?" Tzuyu says, not catching onto the whole existential crisis thing. "Is there anything else you need? I mean," and then your eyes fall upon her; she's put a sweater on, pants, which all things considered, is a huge victory, a total rout - her baggy sweater drapes on her, practically brushing her thigh where the material stops, the hem. "I guess not, just. Um," her teeth catch her bottom lip for a quick moment, and this time she glances back towards the hall, the granite-finish tiles. "Wanna make s'mores?"

"What," you ask, because honestly, what the actual fuck-

"I went into town to get fresh groceries earlier this week. Everything just kinda landed in my cart," she says, the beginning of an explanation - the backstory, if you will. "And there's a fireplace. Momo always says the calories don't count if it's social eating, so." She makes a small shrug.

"Oh,” you say, like you understand. Your throat feels tight. “She’s totally right.”

She offers you a small nod. Tucks her hair behind her ear. You wonder if she knows how suggestive even the smallest of gestures she makes are; and more so, if she does it knowingly, or simply without thought - if it's a facet of her own effortlessness.

"Um," you say, for no particular reason other than that Tzuyu is fucking distracting. "Okay."

The edges of her mouth tick upwards at that. "We could put something on the tv,” she suggests. “For the vibe."

"Oh yeah, for the ambience."

"For the ambience," she nods.

(And fuck her, seriously. You might be a goner already.)

"A winter weather advisory," Tzuyu reads, squinting slightly at the tv. A minute later: "Just stay home," followed by another pause, and a frown: "hail and ice too. Yeah, no kidding."

She's reading the weather report. You're pretending you have any idea how to work the fireplace while she sets her eyes on the news, hands running over the blankets she has huddled around herself - legs folded, tucked into the edge of her chest. She'd gotten as far as logging into her Netflix account before the suggestion of cuddling was so obviously implied, her hands patting the cushioned space beside her that you were required by moral law to flip through the cable options until you found the least sexy, least rom-com-y option you could find: a newscaster reporting on the ongoing inclement weather, a forecaster saying 'near zero chance of improving, so travel is heavily discouraged, we strongly advise against-'

"Wonder if Sana's even going to make it," Tzuyu breaks the relative silence, and you are acutely aware of how casual she has been referring to Sana, the complete and utter lack of jealousy or any emotion related - or you guess, inspired. She's not even the slightest bit irked. “If the airport opens, maybe," she adds, and, after a beat, "let's hope."

It gets colder. You can barely see three feet past the front door. The forecast only gets worse, the storm intensifies and swells, it snows and snows - and this isn't a cottage somewhere on the lake, you're a couple miles down a single-track, woodsy road, far, far away from society.

If only these walls could talk, honestly. You're like, caught in a moment. With Tzuyu and marshmallows and these tiny, sticky wooden skewers. This is a story you will tell nobody, ever.

"I don’t mean to say I told you so," she says, but it comes out with a mouthful of chocolate and graham cracker, and marshmallow, which sort of takes the bite out of it. "But the movie is a little more entertaining."

You pretend like you weren't staring at her mouth a beat prior. "Right, a cinematic masterpiece."

Tzuyu tugs a marshmallow off the stick, and looks over at you again. Smiles around the impromptu pastry. She's just such a bright, wholesome thing - soft-hearted, selfless, so innocuous and so pleasant. It's absolutely sick. You have a fucking pavlovian response to Tzuyu simply existing.

And you’re pretending like the white, tacky remains on her mouth haven't permanently solidified that look into memory: the melted chocolate, the whipped sugar, the dimple. You could really do without this specific feeling - for however much longer it'll last, should the storm linger.

"You don’t ever have stuff like this, just for a quiet, carefree time?" Tzuyu licks it off her skin, and the question kind of drags your attention elsewhere.

You breathe in, slow.

Maybe she can feel it too, you think. Because Tzuyu drags the pad of her thumb against her bottom lip, and a question she doesn't ask flickers to life in her gaze: if you'll break or not, if there is an absolute limit.

But it’s impossible to read her. Tzuyu takes up this real easy-going disposition, all quiet and stoic, sort of, and maybe that's the dangerous part of her - the stillness. Other moments, she has this uncanny knack for conversation. She's charming in that way, you have always thought, a bright face. She has a keen understanding of things too - maybe sometimes too much; maybe a little bit beyond her years, really, a little too knowledgeable.

"When the gang does," you answer, diplomatically. “Sure, I suppose.”

There's another smile at that, which is how you know that the back and forth, this coolly cool, somewhat-stiff exchange is sort of becoming a game. A bet on who cracks, who turns. She won't tell you it's you, and you'll never in your right mind acknowledge her. It's some version of honesty. A bit like Russian roulette.

"I used to think we were friends, you know," she muses, like it's some great mystery - all very deliberately cryptic. Like it's funny.

"Hey, you were like, a teenager," you're grasping at straws. You’re spinning the bullet round the conversational chamber. “And I have this thing-”

"You have a thing?" Her eyebrow is raised again - sweetly challenging.

"-like, a principle, a standard - if there's nothing there, and let's face it: there's really not something here-"

"Aw," Tzuyu fakes pouting, which is simultaneously very mean and also like, painfully hot, and she makes this pitiful coo, "you really have nothing to say at all, do you."

Which. Fuck, she’s right. The 'thing' here is the no touching, the no messing, the no making anything resembling a move. She's sitting over there with her mouth covered in sugar, batting her goddamn eyelashes. Which you ignore, thank god for impulse control, or the instinct of it, and Tzuyu pushes a graham cracker past her lips to placate her own expression.

And so it goes. She keeps looking at you and looking and looking and you stare, transfixed, back at her. The edges of her jaw, the rise of her nose, the jutting curve of her collarbone; you say something dumb or clever and you're making her laugh, and every time she does, her teeth catch on her bottom lip and you could really do with a distraction right now, but it's impossible not to flirt.

It's just the way the universe has constructed you - this starvation, a twisted desire. There’s cruelty in the design.

(Things take a turn for the worse, of course. You don’t know how, but she gets to you agree that you two should've gotten closer in all that time-

"Well, I’m sure you were just so busy," you'd shrugged, indifferent, and she'd pressed the sleeve of her sweater to her mouth, just to hide how bright the smile was.

-which, honestly, fuck you - given all the context. Because now she's right here in the cabin; she's an arm's length away, and all this time, you've meant to stay the fuck out of reach.)

Tzuyu does the worst thing. She returns from the kitchen, hands full, with two squat tumblers and a bottle of dark brandy. She sets one down next to you and asks if you want some.

You look. You mean, what are you even supposed to do? It's a catch twenty-two, it's a joke - what can a girl be thinking, standing there. Bending the right way, hair framing a face like hers.

Yeah, sure - it’s the voice of someone who's slipping, who’s gonna say the same thing three more times. "Hm, why not."

The ice clinks against the glass. Then, the pour. Toast to good health, a clean conscience, safe passage; you’ll take whatever you can get.

You watch Tzuyu knock back an impressive amount and make an impressive face. There’s maturity there, you cope. Because you want to touch her jaw, thumb over her cheekbone, breathe baby, it's too strong, slow down on her lips, watch her mouth open slightly-

The fire pops.

She leans toward you. “Are you going to keep stealing stories from me, or are you going to supply anything good to the discussion?"

"About me, personally?" you say, purposefully pedantic.

Tzuyu’s smirk is half-present, half-playful. She sets down her tumbler on a coaster - Mina would be appreciative - and hums at you. “What do you think I mean?”

"I was really hoping the inflection would help clarify."

She levels a gaze with you. You fight back for a hot second - this slow-burning heat under the skin, your resolve threatening to buckle, shatter, spill itself everywhere - and in the end, she is the one that looks away, softly laughing, a pfft under her breath. You’re left the opportunity to just - look. See where the glow from the wood-burning fire has cast this gorgeous gold over her face, all her defined curves, her delicate features.

"I don't care, it could be anything," she poses, settling back into the pillows. Smiling. "Please. Entertain me."

Her cheeks are rosy. You realize, quite suddenly, you are not totally sober either. This is exactly how Sana talked you into something however many moons ago, then however many moons later, surgically unattached all the strings. Sana’s good at talking. At convincing. And you don't do shots like her, or apparently like Tzuyu does - but hell, it's that maddening, pretty little dimple of hers - the one that's always there when she does her mischievous smirk - a deeply devastating look, a devil-may-care demeanor, and you're dead-drunk on it, honestly.

"Want me to talk about Sana?" you offer, "seems like an obvious choice."

"I think you’re projecting," Tzuyu teases. “You just miss her, I'm sure.”

"Mhm. Sure."

Tzuyu makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and a snort, and draws the blankets more tightly around her. "What," she says, nonplussed, "who doesn't want to hear some gossip about their friends?"

You're fucking up, right? Fucking up the same way you did years ago when you caught the wrong kind of feeling for an entirely, altogether inappropriate woman. But you'll blame the drinks. And the mood. And the ambience, the fucking fire that's almost suffocating, the closeness of her body next to you-

"Hey," you say, and it's such a mistake. You're pointing to a spot on your chin. You're making it worse. "You got a little, uh-"

You watch as she lifts her hand, glides it through the air - brushes her own cheek with her fingertips, smoothing out an imagined blemish.

"Did I get it?"

"Uh, well, sorta-" and she knows you’re lying.

Tzuyu tries again. Comes up short, and when her hair falls in front of her face, she’s looking at you like maybe you’ll help take care of that too. She’s a total fucking coquette - though maybe she hasn’t even done it on purpose, maybe she's just that unaware, innocent. Not the second one, you figure. You're leaning, tilting closer and closer to her - in any other scenario, there'd be the shortest possible time between her touching herself and you, cupping her jaw with one of your hands.

But your mouth feels like it's moving of its own accord. "No, wait, let me help you," you continue, before you know it.

Isn’t it disastrous; all ice and hazard, this is the advisory in effect; a napoleon-goes-to-russia caliber calamity, a colossal write off, a write in. You could have, should have stopped, except you didn't and now you're reaching, gently, until your palm cups the side of her face - until you press, until you hold her steady. Her head tilts. She lets you, blinking up. Her eyes are this hazy, intoxicated coffee-brown, honeyed and burnt and fucking beautiful.

You swipe your thumb along her bottom lip. The gesture is slow, languid, intentional; you think, through some cosmic error, that might just be the end of it.

"There," you say, smiling, naive.

"Yeah," Tzuyu breathes out, and she winds her fist into the fabric of your shirt. "Thanks."

You lean, or she does; you go down, or she pulls you; there's no difference, really.

She is kissing you, this soft little press. A tug in every direction. You hadn’t kissed her, at the very start, but when her fingers thread through your hair, gripping hard, bringing you closer until you groan, parting your lips slightly, and - and her tongue flits past yours - your brain does this wild mental leap that you ought to be questioning later.

But everything starts to sink.

One of your hands lands on her waist, thumb slipping under the hem of her sweater and pressing against bare skin, and her knee nudges between both of your legs - until Tzuyu hums this low, pretty sound in her throat. There is something fervent here, all-consuming, devouring; her mouth moves like it's frantic for air, for oxygen and fuel, and her whole body melts under yours like she's completely falling apart.

Fuck, you think. There is a deep, smouldering heat in the pit of your stomach.

Because she’s perfect. You always knew that, didn’t you. She is firelight and perfume and muted gold; everything else falls into shadow, fades into the background. Her lips are velvet-soft, and they open again and again with these heavy exhales of hot air - so much so that you have to shift the hand you'd set on her waist lower, a little, her hip bone under your palm, a touch ghosting towards the dip and the swell.

Somehow you have this knowledge: at the end of everything, it'll be her name falling helplessly off your tongue.

"You were wrong by the way,” she stops to say.

"About-" You press another kiss into her jaw, and her mouth parts around the same slow sigh. "Wait." You lean back enough to look at her again.

“Whatever you said earlier." Tzuyu’s eyes go half-lidded as she starts petting your hair back into place, thumb stroking your jawline. "I'd have made time."

Oh, christ-

"Because to tell you the truth," her tongue wets her lip, shiny, wet, "I've never really forgotten. Like I just thought, that whole thing was so… fleeting, you know, like the last time, when you let me text you - god, I was crushing so hard."

You breathe, shaking your head.

"Don’t," is what comes out of your mouth after, quick, sharpened.

“Don’t what?” Tzuyu taunts, pushing another inch further. That small grin on her face, her long, nimble fingers combing through your hair.

You are trying to think, and there was an apology, right? You'd had this one in you. The one that began as a guilty soliloquy, a rueful acknowledgement; something that should have been directed toward Tzuyu, told her, at one point, or another: look. Sorry it's like this.

But there is a hand tracing the collar of your shirt - a sensation that follows all the way to the base of your throat; you lean further into her touch, almost involuntarily - a simple motion, and yet. "You shouldn't. You shouldn't say things like that to me," and you mean: these things you already know. "It's not good."

"Doesn't feel that bad," she tells you, a breezy sort of whisper, warm. "I think I'm getting the opposite impression."

"Maybe for the wrong reasons," you remind her. And to remind yourself, actually. "Probably for the wrong reasons - trust me, it is.”

"Trust you," and it’s the slightest bit ridiculing, a tease - Tzuyu drops her smile, pulls you in by the hair, whispers low. "Sure," the syllable soft, pressed against your throat, "I trust you not to hurt me," and the 'not' gets hung on for an impossibly long moment, stretched out thin.

She's sinister; she has to be, or some amalgamation of the most potent version of every word she’s ever said. A dream girl, the definition and essence of a temptress, this shameless attraction - an insistent siren begging for your attention; the incepting mind-game; the entity that stalks the halls in the deepest trenches of the night, whispering your worst fears right into your ear. You fall further into Tzuyu, the prettiest of nightmares.

(Oh, it's the dimple that does you in, really: if there's any possible way that Chou Tzuyu has unintentionally ruined your life, she's done it with that innocent little smile.)

"You can kiss me again," Tzuyu says, permissive.

And you do. You kiss her, and kiss her like you’ve no choice - like you've decided, at least in this very moment, if Tzuyu can own a piece of your soul, you can take something too.

(The thing about a cautionary tale: sometimes it is really just a story. Sometimes it happens and the world is left unscathed. There were a lot of warning signs, yes. But this could be a coda, a moralistic adage, a story to turn the page on and laugh and be embarrassed by and say, oh, no, I'd definitely do better; a blip. We’d never do anything like that. It's all history, honestly.)

It's not romantic, and it's less gentle than you’d have expected: Tzuyu bites your lip at one point, and you grab her hip so hard she yelps. The pause in the after is filled with a provocation, a stare, a tilt of your head, and her saying, “hey, easy now.” You cup her face in your hands, and run your thumb over lips. The calm is pretty short-lived. She gets her hands working frantically to tear your shirt off over your head. Then it's a haphazard stumble into the doorframe of the bedroom, with her pulling you in too-hard by the waist, bumping your nose against hers in this rough meeting - until your lips fit together.

“Mm,” Tzuyu’s mouth pushes insistently into yours and your tongue immediately laves at its underside, coaxes it to slide against yours and soon she’s sliding forward on purpose - on her own initiative, pressing the steady line of your cock against the seam of your pants, the pressure sudden.

"Watch it," you murmur, breaking away a little to glare at her, which just makes her smile, like she likes pissing you off or something, likes watching you get mad at her, or whatever - if she says it's true, then it is, probably - she's honest.

Her small hand darts up, gripping the sides of your jaw tightly and moving in, kissing like it's easy; like she knows what the fuck she's doing. Her head tilts and she does it again, except it's a few times in a row, making out in the doorway.

"And if I say no?" She grins, hand at your dick again, just palming through the fabric and getting off on your soundless reactions to it all. "Like, is that really enough? I feel like you'd have to like - tie me up. Something - you know?"

"That sounds like a you problem."

A mischievous smile steals across her lips and you feel yourself doing the same. "Yeah, you're right," she responds, dragging her thumb and forefinger from the zipper of your jeans to the hard line of your cock, pinching gently along the shape. "It is my problem."

She feels pliant, more than willing, but it's a calculated type of softness. Still, you get a hint, a vague message and you figure, the way this girl's smirking in her lips: she likes being held down, held fast and steady, so you pin her wrists above her head - her eyes stay on you, don't drop; you pin her, and her expression becomes that shade more dark, more teasing. Oh, you'll go slowly, you think, until Tzuyu gives. You'll climb a hand further under her sweater, let it skim over her ribs. You'll kiss her again, open-mouthed, and slow, until she can't breathe.

Her head knocks into the wall, she bites and smiles like a promise, and all her muscle flexes under your grip. "Oh, seriously," Tzuyu whispers into your mouth. "Y'know, this is like a fantasy of mine.”

And that's kind of it: she has that look. In the morning, you can see yourself chasing her down into sheets - just pinning her with the weight of your whole body, feeling each tensed curve of her against you. She pulls you closer, into her; she seems the type.

"I’d really rather not hear that, Tzu.”

"And I want to hear you say please, more than anything," Tzuyu laughs at herself, something hard in it, "but I think you want to fuck me so bad, it'll come naturally. Like, the second you have your fingers inside me. And that's what you want, right? Tell me."

"I'm thinking about your legs,” you tell her, running your palm around the curve of her thigh. Fuck, she’s perfect. “Think they'd fit around my waist."

"And hook my ankles? I’d love that." Her eyes crinkle. "Is that it, though?"

"Maybe I'd keep my hand on your throat and fuck you like that, too. That's on the table."

Tzuyu laughs: a real, actual sound, but not at you. "It is. You're smart."

"To be completely transparent," you mutter. "I don't plan on asking you very nicely at all."

The lines in Tzuyu's face go a little blissful, contented, like she's so, so pleased with this, like she approves, and she kisses you again, the length of your bodies pressed together, except where her hips cant up and meet the space between your thighs. You drag a hand roughly along her waist, kneading muscle there, down to the rise of her jeans - which, fuck, you need to help her shimmy out of and find the pull of the sweater, whatever - and she grinds out some noise, something caught between her throat and her teeth, but mostly in the place where your hand's dragged under the material, tugging gently at the wire of a bra, and you'd actually kind of forgotten it was a thing.

It's when you hear her own rasp, when she slips the side of your zipper open with a few quick strokes, shoving her fingers inside to hold the base of your cock, that you finally decide:

She's yours and you'll prove it. You'll make sure she knows: the evidence, the fingerprints, the bruises blooming the size of your thumbs and she'll be the one showing them off with pride. She'll let you do whatever you like, which'll be a lot. She'll appeal to all the worst parts of you; she'll say thank you; she'll whimper while you're pulling her bra off and simply letting it flutter to the ground; she'll be crying within the first half an hour of you touching her. You can read it right off her gorgeous face. She'll be so damn breathtakingly-pretty, bouncing on your cock, folded under your weight - it'll be incredible. She'll be yours.

"Come on," Tzuyu breathes. "Yes. Please," she adds, as though it's an afterthought, her free hand tangling in your hair, pulling. "Hurry, or something - I fucking love this but we need to- I’m literally going to, like, die if you don’t touch me right now."

"Yeah," is what you get out. Her jeans finally fall to her ankles and she kicks, to get them to puddle onto the floor. "Yeah. Alright, maybe."

You won't even need to hear her begging, you already know how she sounds: a little annoyed and very turned on, rolling her eyes at herself. This part - she's playing at resistance, but she's giving in. A kiss back, hotter than you were expecting, as you slip a hand up the back of her bare thigh and the edge of her underwear, a thin strip, like it's done on purpose.

When you tuck a finger inside the waistband, feeling a little guilty about the way her whole body reacts - the flex, the pull, the weight of all her muscle straining against how her legs fall open - Tzuyu manages, her face in the hollow of your cheek: "you've waited long enough, right?"

God, she knows where the wounds are still fresh. Which bruises will hurt most when she puts a finger right into one - a reminder you couldn't possibly ignore. She's playing this whole thing a little bit sadistically; she wants this to be your fault, you can tell.

And your mind isn't unbending. You push a finger into her cunt and the girl absolutely shakes apart, body jerking like you've severed a lifeline. She's so wet, and so pretty, so sensitive. Maybe you really have.

"Tzu," you tell her. The hand in your hair tightens, a warning, as you let two, then three, fingers shove inside her. She's breathless; the slow, rough motions, her entire body riding the heel of your palm. "Do you want me to tell you how good you are for me, right now? Is that it?"

"Yeah - do. Please, fuck - please say it."

"I was right," is what you manage, biting your tongue.

"Right?" She asks, her fingers locked, urging your thrusting to turn punishing. "Please."

"Do you want me to make this a nice, pretty little memory? Suck the bitterness out and - have something sweet to go back to, the next time someone hurts you."

"I can take it." She snaps, not even responding to your comment. "Tell me you need me and you're leaving me no choice."

You smile into her hair, because she's a dream. Your thumb pushes into her clit and you can feel her seize up with a pathetic whine.

"Pretty," you mutter, as she slumps her chest to yours. You kiss it right into her hair. “I need you, Tzu.”

And the idea's seductive: keep her pinned and fuck her right into the wall. See her wrecked by the end; the swell of her thumb bloody from how she was biting into it, how she's wrenching at your wrist. Your lips land over her collarbone - no, hers do, to the side of your head - she'd be bent in half if it wasn't for the wood at her back. Her leg crossed in the small of your back. A proper, all-consuming kind of wrecking, with your name on it.

"Yes." Tzuyu nods into your temple, “just- that.”

You're kissing the crook of her neck; your fingertips sliding right against the end of her, your fingers pressing into her and stretching the girl to her limits, making her tremble in her own skin, making her insides melt for the next round, and the next round, and the next; the best, and worst, and longest-lasting kind of high. Your fingertips push together, flutter apart, and Tzuyu's eyes open all of a sudden, locking onto yours.

"Please," she gasps, this one thing. She has tears in her eyes: her face falls into your hands like water, a long drip, and she's all but unraveling.

"I'm going to make you cum, okay?" you tell her, and it sounds so sincere that she simply nods. She trusts you. Implicitly. You see how something in her relaxes, muscles unwinding as though for one last moment. Then you lean down, to her ear, to murmur: "say you're mine."

Her teeth are gritting. You can feel every last point.

"Just yours," she mutters, and it's barely even audible, but she'll say it: over and over, as her orgasm builds, before her mouth goes slack. "Always been. From the very beginning, please-"

“Fuck,” you bite down, and she looks like she’s won.

“So long, y’know?” she manages, in her halting voice, as if you haven't got two fingers up her sweet, perfect cunt, which is, currently, gripping the shit out of your hand, the hungry slutty muscle spasms, a slippery fist; it's not too hard getting Tzuyu to talk dirty and vulgar like a total degenerate - all it takes is the circle of your thumb and she’s perfect and pliant and absolutely out of her mind. “Since like, forever-”

You need her to stop. Need her to be quiet. Your palm lands over the shape of her mouth. She's murmuring something else, but it's muffled - and that's perfect, really. You’re not going to hell; all the devils are already here, getting off on the impropriety-

On the fucking drag of your fingertips. If it isn’t mean, it’s definitely cynical. Each curl of a knuckle unwinding her, a little more, a little further. The gush of her slick that’s collected on the webbing between your fingers is getting unruly, and you’re pressing her mouth flat against your hand, muffling the sheer appreciation.

“Shh,” you tell her, and she seems to calm - insofar you find a spot inside her that makes her eyes roll back and her chest shudder. “Don’t. Hold still for me, I want to watch you cum, Tzu.”

The only thing you can hear beyond the stilted breathing against your hand is her wet cunt getting stretched and fucked on your fingers. It’s so simple. So straightforward. The front of her orgasm makes her jolt against your hips and you pin her again, just to see those gorgeous eyes opening and shutting in sync.

It's this beautiful thing, watching her cum; her flushed cheeks, her pupils blown.

"Good girl," is the only thing you manage in response. "Such a good - such a good little-"

She moans into your hand and finally the muscles of her core tighten, tipping over the precipice as she tips back from the edge. "Ah, you - oh, it feels so-”

You tell her not to talk, and thumb her sensitive clit until the girl's screaming.

Her cries cut through the hallway: the friction, your movements - she's grinding desperate to ride her own orgasm. The absolute highs wracking her silent. She doesn't seem capable of getting off her tiptoes, or opening her eyes properly. Her mouth's still gaping beneath your palm with a whimper, her lungs heaving, and her cunt practically burning-hot - or, she just is, she's overheating, and everything else is burning around her.

"I'm going to fuck your pretty little cunt, Tzu," you tell her as her hips jump and her eyes open. You drop her leg, which buckles instantly. "You're going to be good for me, won’t you?"

"Yes, sir," Tzuyu promises you - it makes you wince - like she'd say anything else, with her hips pushing into your hand like she can't remember how not to.

Even with her brain turning to mush, Tzuyu finds it within her to tease, to pull, to coax - as her slick slides down the seam between your fingers, like she's gushing, a wet ribbon coating the backs of your knuckles. There's a fantasy in it, you think - and it's always the unapologetic type, like, they never admit it: they want the dirt, the debasing. There's always a blueprint to it; they want to hear how terrible it is and then have some fun playing into it, playing a part.

Only Tzuyu’s lip is wobbling; she’s looking at you like you’re going to fuck her apart and she’ll thank you for it. There's no play. Tzuyu wants your cum and she's so open-legged about it you can't pretend it's not exactly that simple.

She’s going to fall apart if you don’t shove your cock in her tight cunt. You need to pin her there - fuck her until she’s shaking. You can already see the face she’ll make when you shock yourself inside her-

"What is it, baby?" you ask her, and a beat later, you draw your zipper down with a steady hand, the other working in her mouth, pressing down the tip of her tongue - not exactly holding, not exactly pulling out of her.

Tzuyu sighs, heavy on her eyelids and slow. Very pretty.

"I want-" Her head is lolling. She's in a daze, now, you can tell: her mouth wet and trembling, her legs kicking weakly, a full-bodied tremor overcoming her. Everything wraps around you as your cock slides inside her: the pale-soft underside of her legs, her slender arms. All those lovely, endless tensed lines, her strong abs. She can hold you like this, with only her abdomen tightening, the rest of her almost liquid. Her head knocks into yours. "Fu-fuck my cunt, fill it, please.”

You use the angle, the approach. Her pussy's practically spasming on the thick tip, milking the hardness there - but the deeper, more confident strokes, you feel it in every one of her shaky breaths. The only thing you can see is Tzuyu's dumb little doe eyes, the one-to-two second interval, fluttering in between slow, heavy blinks. The walls of her pussy are all at once so gentle and smooth, her cunt a plush, warm vice on your cock; she's clinging, and hot, and you're so buried inside you could probably pick her apart with a few words alone:

"Please," she's muttering to herself, and every single cry gets stuck in her mouth and vibrates between the both of you.

Your fingertips hook into the curve of her waist, until your nails are sinking into the flesh, pinching gently, and watching her expression twist, you grip her hips with all the bruising-strength in your hands, yank her back onto your cock. Her spine goes rigid as a line of curses fall like rain from her mouth. A shuddering gasp - you have to steady her against you, where her knees lock tight around your waist as though she's worried you're leaving, like she's scared you won't stay-

"Baby," you grit out, like you'd beg too, "Oh- fuck, my baby, you're - you're all mine, okay."

You bury yourself balls-deep - and there's no pretense, it's just you and her, the pace making Tzuyu's little repeating "ah" go choppy with your thrusting, her eyes clamping shut, her limbs locking around you.

"Too deep," she groans. "Jesus, it's-"

"Uh uh," you mutter against the bend of her chin, and press in, still, maybe just to spite her. "Fight me. If it's too deep."

There’s tears in her lashes, she’s sobbing; you’re fucking her so properly you think she wants to kill you. It might even be written into that glossy expression: death, your demise. But her pretty eyes glint with mischief and her lips split into a grin.

"Try me," and this laugh, coming up from your chest - low, amused. "Go ahead. Put my neck in your hand, if you want-"

There's only ever a couple of moves. Like in chess, the combinations repeat, patterns emerge. Tzuyu pulls into your kiss; her wrist pinned to the wall behind her with one of your hands, the other knocking her thighs apart. Her ankles hook into your hips, just as you knew they would. There are so few options for a person; the only solution's the natural one - the urge to match each other's needs; to lose yourself in the easy push and the easy pull.

It doesn't take long before she opens up beneath you: until there's nothing between the hard pound of your hips and her tender, creaming cunt. Then there's that final gasp, this violent pulse as she takes her hands back from you to cup around your ears and press her lips to the line of your cheekbones and nose and mouth, with her tear-slick skin and saliva and, god - she's a whimperer, you now know, but Tzuyu holds her body still enough to not sway. The picture-perfect example of a good little girl -

That's how you push your mouth to hers: the steady-languid thrust of your cock between the hot clamp of her legs. "Oh, god, you’re gonna make me cum again, christ," her cries go, all muffled, right into your lips. She’s a little lost. Fucked-out. Blissful.

It's not right, though; just pinning the girl against a wall - no, she deserves better. You don't let her fall as you drag her into the bedroom. Not until a tumble into the sheets. She doesn’t try to control the fall, you land on top of her, and Tzuyu laughs a little, but it dies into the hard breaths you can feel bouncing back against your mouth. Her soft thighs pressed beneath your weight, quivering still.

"Fuck your cum into me," She huffs out, softly, more air than noise. You’re practically crushing her. And then the tilt of her head, almost inviting, like a question. "Please. I want it."

In hindsight, the real memory of this moment will be a soft and lovely thing - fabricated mostly: her tiny frame shaking, trembling in its effort to take you in, her voice giving out around a cry as she cums again - there's something sacred there, surely, a holiness that isn't altogether safe, considering what this girl is.

You’ll try not to remember how you fucked her and buried your face between her tits, though she did look up at you through her tears and made it sound sweet, said your name just so, or even the fact that she watched her whole body get filled and only smiled with contentment. That part won’t survive - nor the fact you’ll hold the girl down later and cum inside her three times. Until she’s leaking. Details to be confined to Mina’s cabin-secrecy - or at least, to whatever depth of oblivion, past your will to suppress it, her mind reaches when you bury your hand in her hair and pull her head back to really make sure you've hit every corner of her and left your cum there, marking her insides, turning her warm.

And look, Tzuyu doesn't balk. Instead she lets you pull her in close, her nails raking into the nape of your neck, the muscles under your skin. She drags scratches down your back as you sink into her cunt, hot, willing - she’s so fucking wet you’re bottoming out in each sloppy thrust.

"Tzu," you can't stop yourself from muttering, almost reverent. You were right, on all accounts. The girl is a problem.

One that is currently collapsing under you. You push her knees up to her elbows, and all her weight melts under your hands, limp and helpless.

"Fuck, your pussy is unbelievable.” You shouldn’t be fucking her this hard, but, well, you are - “Tzuyu, baby,” and when your hand comes up to her jaw, she palms it. Takes your thumb into her mouth and sucks. Fuck, it’s all slipping, consuming, you need to cum in her, need to bury your cock deep in her cunt and cum right into that wet sopping mess. Fill her up where she’s molten hot and her walls are gripping you so hard they’re practically begging-

"Yeah," she repeats around the digit, flitting her tongue against your fingertip. “Yeah. Cum for me.”

That's how she likes it. She'll scream, if you let her. If you give her the deepest fill. She’ll apologize and she won’t know for what. You already know how her expression will shift as soon as it hits. Head falling back. Her hands fisting in your hair, the bedding - her knees nearly get drawn up, and you push them apart by your fingertips. She whimpers, and whimpers, and you can't stop from fucking the pretty noises right out of her lungs until she's dripping - soaking you, all over the sheets. You want her to feel it when you leave. Your presence. It’s only fair - she should remember some part of you, in exchange for what she’s traded and stolen away - ideally forever.

You thumb at the tear tracks and lift her by a fistful of that pretty dark hair. And for her, you can be kind, you let your lips graze hers. As tenderly as you can manage, which isn't much, but then the angle settles lower, your cock hits deeper, all the right spots - and god, Tzuyu is so easy to fuck. She slips a little, and you’re catching her, pushing deeper, harder - she’s easy to pound too, to hold down and smother and grind deep, to have under you, all boneless, insensible-

"So pretty for me, Tzu," you growl into the shell of her ear, because you can, and another stroke, another velvety drag has you cumming in her hot, little cunt.

Each throb brings more, pumping her full of your cum, and she likes it. Keeps muttering baby, baby please in your ear, and fuck, you almost slip a hand down and make her fall apart too - but - her fingers wrap around your wrist before they get there, so tight.

"Can feel it. So deep," she whispers, when your eyelids screw shut and the mess floods out of her - gets fucked right back in: your hot cum and her thick slick, the creamy mess leaking from her cunt. You pull your cock out halfway, and she does sob - that sounds just like you'd imagine, too. "Please. Oh, my god- sir. That's it. That's it, let it out, sir. Sir, all your cum feels so good in me - please. Please- just give it to me, sir, yes-"

She’s not even taunting or mocking on that ‘sir,’ you think, not the way she sounds now, the halfway-slur. It's all torn up and tired. It makes you press closer, making the head of your cock swell between the thin walls of her pussy. It hurts - the squeeze. And then the soft, pleading sound she makes.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," you groan, a last attempt at a condescending tone. But she's so raw, so broken down by now that nothing is quite right.

"Fuck," she mutters against your mouth, "fuck, thank you," and your palm drags down the length of her sternum, following the angle of her jaw, slipping your palm onto her tits, thumbing at the indent. It's soft, pliant skin, and you pinch: not anywhere sharp or cruel, not especially sensitive, just in a line below the ridge of her rib cage, and it's too pretty a picture not to smile at her, when her entire chest jolts at the contact, the intake of breath. "Sir. Fuck."

"I'm still fucking you later," you assure her, as if her breathing could've convinced you otherwise. "But I wanna hear your voice some more. Hum a little. Give me a yes, sweetheart. Can you do that?"

The noise is barely audible, almost nonexistent, except it is: she hums her assent as you dip two fingertips back into her swollen, well-fucked cunt, scooping out some of the mess. Your fingers hook into her cheek and her mouth opens, because she's so obedient, because that's why it has to be like this.

You rub her bottom lip. Her eyes open into yours; a wet mouth. It's impossible not to see what's right there. It's easy, really, to press through and in, and give her that taste, that warm, velvety brush, like she's been sucking your cock, and maybe - oh, yeah, you'll remind her about it tomorrow, how she's a needy little slut for it, can't get enough - how you could've fucked her face until she was drooling and out-of-her mind - but the way her eyelashes flutter against your touch; the look-

You’ll take your time. You know what she wants: more than anything. It's the thing you can read. Maybe the hot, sticky mess, the flush in her cheeks. A touch to her face. Your thumb in her mouth, too, stretching, prying, holding. More cum falling beneath her tongue, dripping in those gaping, half-open red lips.

She’s licking your load from your knuckles, your Tzuyu. You can’t believe it.

"Swallow," you tell her.

"Mmm," and it’s there: this gorgeous expression on her features, her eyelids dropping, the shimmer, the shine. You'd do anything to keep it there.

You let your thumb leave the corner of her mouth and it stays open, just the tip of her tongue darting out to taste what little she can. The rest of her lulls back with a satisfied murmur, eyes half-closed, clearly the type of content-afterglow of wanting the man who'd just ruined her. A gratitude, or a simple, silly thing, if he would just pick her up in his arms: "thank you, sir."

Her panties end up back around her hips, and a new shirt's thrown haphazardly on, a soft, gray cotton which rides down, slipping past one pale shoulder. And then she turns over, to the side, her back curling into the heat of your chest. There's no attempt at leaving or any plans either. The arm you've loosely wrapped around her waist simply tugs. It's not subtle or even nice: your hand rucks up the fabric and snaps the waistband, and the soft cotton doesn't stop it from being painful.

"Fuck me again." Tzuyu shakes off with a shrug. She's wiggling her ass, practically. She's not wrong, you suppose - your cock hardens easily, more of a reaction. "Are you just going to - keep teasing?"

“Such a brat,” you say, and that makes her whole body tense; she makes the most beautiful sounds for you, but words, praise, humiliation - those always hit harder. You know your girl.

"Your brat," says Tzuyu, easily. "You can do whatever you want."

Your grip on her hip is brutal. Of course you know. That doesn't mean you can't look for loopholes, anyway, right? You don't move, but the threat's there.

The look she shoots over her shoulder is smug. "I like it rough, or something. Doesn't it make you mad that someone could've had me before?"

"Should I be?" You're swiping your cockhead through her folds before you have a chance to say, "Should I care that some guy's had my little cocksleeve before? Should I be angry that someone used my pretty toy before I got to?" You thumb at the tightness, and Tzuyu gives up the front immediately and jerks her hips backward. "If I wasn't the first?"

"Not exactly," comes Tzuyu's mild answer, "not if I was always thinking of you. Plus, they didn't make me feel like that." She tips her head up, to nip at your jaw. She's smiling so fucking coy when she adds: "please, don't hurt me too bad."

You wrap your hands around her. Press a kiss into her shoulder.

“Or do, maybe. Whatever feels natural, you know," she bites down.

"The hickeys are going to be difficult," you agree. "People are gonna see them and they'll picture themselves, probably, with you spread out, huffing, gasping - fucking you out of a brain."

"As they should," she says, and then hums this low, heartfelt note into the mattress. "So how hard can you do this, hm?" She's moaning into the pillow as you slip back into her cunt, but it's a challenge, the tilt in her voice. "Like, if I ask, real nicely."

Who’d have ever guessed she was so filthy. All hidden behind the pristine, the perfection. The prim girls are always the worst: all that beauty means more to them wrecked than revered - it means they've won, again.

Well, that works just fine. She's won you over.

You lean into her shoulder, murmuring, “you’re pushing your luck here, Tzu.”

“Am I?” Her head tilts back until it finds the curve of your jaw. Those deep brown eyes flashing. She knows what’s coming, her pussy tightening prettily. "I'm sorry, sir. I’ll clean up my act."

And the little smile. The fucking dimple, proudly stitched into her cheek - right as you pull her back onto you again, your length working its way slowly into her cunt. The way her ass fits in your hips lets you know you're no match for this girl: how unbelievably good it feels to be inside her. Hot, tight, wanting. Pressed tight between her gorgeous thighs.

“Guess I never noticed,” she says, before falling quiet with the soft punch of breath as you drag her backwards, against your body and the rocking press of your hips. Her eyelashes tremble while your cock nudges its way fully inside her pussy. The rest, as it seems, is silent: only the crash of skin, the sound of your breathing.

You’re already gathering her hair into your fist when you tug her back to your waist, mouth hovering right at the shell of her ear: "fuck, you take my dick like you're made for it. Do you even know how good your pussy feels? I'll ruin you if you let me. We can find out together," you tell her, pulling her back onto your cock. A wordless, pained, perfect whimper.

Tzuyu lets herself go slack against your chest.

She's taking you like a dream and that's it, that's enough, all you've got to say, and Tzuyu, jesus-fucking-christ, she does it with a laugh: this awful, melodic, bright, sweet, airy fucking thing: "don't fucking test me, Tzuyu -" you repeat, a warning.

Tzuyu bats those long lashes, like it'll mean anything, like this isn't all the proof you need.

"Okay. Don't tease, then.” Her hand reaches up to the nape of your neck, finds your body close and hot. She sighs. “I want to feel it, sir. So much that I can't walk after. That I'll still have you in me. I want it all to hurt. Is that too much?"

All she does is try to hide her smiles, and she's terrible at it. There's a gasp buried underneath her giggling, one that Tzuyu loses every time she moves her body with yours. There are only two conclusions now: either she's that perfect of a fuck or she's as full of shit as you are. Either way, the dimple's giving her away - her smile, her lips, the full, syrupy brown of her gaze.

Tzuyu wraps that leg up and back around you and the angle is devastating.

"Baby, I want you- I want your cock deeper - yes, baby. Deeper - as deep as it'll go. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think, until there's nothing I can do. Seriously. Fuck me."

Her hand dives over the shirt; there's no question when your gaze follows the trail she takes over her tensing body, over the curve of her breasts and down to where she's dragging at her pussy, where she's exposed herself. She finds the space and lets the fingertips flutter down, onto her needy, swollen clit; the place where your bodies join and separate; the throbbing pulse of her pussy.

"And then fuck me some more,” she adds, like that'll help. Her pussy fits you like a glove - it’s not fair. It’s not right.

But she's so beautiful up close, eyes fluttering in pure, concentrated rapture as she loses the tension in her face - one more thing that the facets, angles, and shades of Tzuyu become, something you tuck away in a vault somewhere safe; a secret just between the two of you.

Her hand runs up your thigh, fastens back on your hip. “You owe it to me, to use my body a little bit, don’t you think?”

There's no sense fighting it, not anymore - maybe there never was - and when you grip Tzuyu's upper thigh, tilt her leg upwards, she gives you an anticipatory hum. This light sound. An ankle lands over your hip, and what follows is a tight, enveloping slide, your cock buried in her wet pussy. So close together that she can't move much at all except to take it - the hard thrust, the one that forces its way up to the hilt. She's impossibly, overwhelmingly soft, a pleasure unlike any other. The absolute worst kind.

She knows exactly the danger of getting involved with you, and when she cums, once, again, and once more - her eyes water, her voice flooded - you think, so do you.

It’s in the hours of the morning that’re not quite today, nor quite tomorrow when Tzuyu leans on the end of the bed as she stretches. A loose t-shirt is draped over her petite body - you glance over at her as the bottom of the fabric lifts, exposing more skin across her legs. No matter the circumstances, the space she inhabits will always feel charged. She could wear a potato sack and have the same effect, you suppose, because that's just how she is: Tzuyu is magnetizing.

"That is definitely not yours," you say, finally.

The girl has a lovely arch to her back, a golden glow of perfection that you can't find elsewhere. That's when Tzuyu laughs and spins around. "Is that a question?"

You only have yourself to blame. Of course it's not hers. The shirt's oversized and could fit all five feet, eight inches of her like a tent. It doesn't belong to her, but her heart-shaped lips make you feel stupid, so you're giving her a second chance. You really need that shirt back. You packed light, it's your favorite tee, it’s a family heirloom, or something - whatever makes her get it off, you guess. You sit up against the bed, and watch her fingers hook into the hem as it slowly peels off from her frame.

And that is - a vision.

You already knew - but it's worth repeating, or forgetting your name and every last bit of your existence for; the sharp collarbone, the striking red lines beneath them, the palest, sweetest chest. Her breasts, a bit smaller, a bit rounder than normal (not that you would know), sit heavy in her hands, soft and full - oh, the hickeys, the perfect peaks and the bruised nipples - she's an aphrodisiac.

"I want one later," she tells you, and runs a hand over her breast, pressing against the angry red marks that color the pale skin.

"A shirt?"

She turns back toward the mirror, an image reflected tenfold - a beautiful flush on her high cheekbones. It's only a small win to think that those rosy cheeks are there because of you. Only a little one, if at all. "One of yours, sure."

You laugh, but she looks taken aback. "What, you mean like a keepsake?"

"Hey, if it smells good." Tzuyu brings up the neckline to her nose, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second before they snap closed. "Yes. Like a keepsake, is that so unnatural?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you are, like, really forward." You thought you knew, but there's this part of you that wonders. Why the sudden revelation. "Not that it isn't obvious. I meant...with the rest. Just to clarify."

"With sex, you mean?" Her smile turns a little sheepish. "I can tone it down a little. I don't even notice sometimes, I just talk."

You walk forward and wrap your arms around her waist. You fit easily around her. "Don't," you say, quietly, against the back of her neck. "It's nice, in a way."

She cranes her head to trade the reflection of your eyes for the real thing. Her body is soft, warm. "You like to talk too."

"Right."

"Your favorite past-time."

"Point taken." Your thumb runs down the middle of her breast and traces her nipple. It's tender, you note. You can’t really keep your hands off her waist, or stop touching her tits - because who would ever let something so delightful pass them by? Not you. No way. "Want to hear a story?"

"If it's coming from you," she whispers, a little smile, a lot of entendre, "I’ll listen to anything."

"Do you see the wall over there?" You nod to the window. She follows it with her gaze, her chin jutting towards your shoulder, her long neck arching. It's hard not to kiss it. There's a clear stretch of drywall beside her desk. She nods. "When I came here with Sana and Mina last," and your nose presses into her hair, inhaling her, the way she smells like something tropical: vanilla and citrus. Something far from here. "I put up a few paintings. I'm handy sometimes, a hammer seeking a nail sorta thing."

Tzuyu almost snorts, and sways a bit in your grasp. You tighten your hold, not wanting to drop her. "Oh?” she teases out, suggestive. “Show me."

(You shouldn’t. You can’t stop, frankly. Fucking Tzuyu is in its own category: the luxury, the treasure, the extravagance; feeling between your fingers the finest silk, the richest cashmere.

Her palms slide higher up the wall, fingers splayed. The curve of her back, the pull of her hair. Tzuyu kissing you like the world will end and the moon will be the first to know, her fists curling into your back, a furious, frantic urgency - Tzuyu fucking you. Well. Tzuyu always, always kissing you; it's the universe resetting, it's a timeline rewritten, it's trading everything sweet for salt, giving you teeth and tongue, the insides of her lip rubbed raw - she tastes like 80 Proof, a sticky, melting liquor, and it goes down too easy. "Why are you making this hard for me." It's not a question, her face in your neck - then she says, like there's a hundred other things, a hundred thousand ways you can ask:

"What makes you think I want to make this easy?")

The power goes out early in the morning.

Which means you're in the dark. But, it's alright. You consider for a moment the omen-like timing, if such an idea is ludicrous in the first place. This could be a metaphor. After all, what is Tzuyu if not a classic trope? It isn't fair to judge anyone based off their flaws. For starters, you have more than you can count. You consider a moment longer, that the timing isn't metaphor-worthy. After all, if this was a punitive force, you're certain that it would've been more apparent, more explicit, if the electric panel had burst into flames or the cable box was shot-out; something bigger, flashier, less like something that you'd play up for theatrics. And it probably would've been when you had the girl on all on fours, your handprints seared into the round of her ass-

Or, when she got on her knees. The snap of darkness setting in as you slipped your cock out of her lips and spilled a rope of hot cum on her face, in her hair. The way she just relaxed into it, a reverence to her being baptized, kneeling. “Oh, Tzu,” you said, with a fist around a cock, and jerked the rest right out on her tongue. You probably would have heard her sniffle after, still recovering from her choking a bit.

Or, when you had half a mind to kneel down between her legs in the shower, suck her clit until she was dripping, fucking her open with your tongue; you could taste her sweat, her slick, and imagine how hard it must be to put up that front: biting into a washcloth, trying not to fall apart.

(Karma arrives late, or it doesn't arrive at all. Or, something. Who knows. It doesn't matter. The outcome would have remained the same.)

Tzuyu opens the sliding glass door to the balcony.

You watch her from behind - there's a small pile of snow at the edge. The whole mountain has gone into complete darkness. No moon, no lights, no light poles, or blinking bulbs or strobe signs or house lights - just night. How eerily romantic, that. And if there was an excess amount of snow before, it only got heavier, thicker, now weighing on the steel bars of the railing.

Tzuyu rests her hands there, leaning her hips a bit forward, so far that her knees lock. Her back bends. "It's so weird," she breathes out, and you can see your exhales, both of yours. "I feel like you and I are the only ones here right now. Everyone else is probably taking shelter. Maybe the power went out for everybody."

"Maybe."

"It's all a bit spooky. Or creepy. But, exciting too, yeah?" She turns, just enough. Her fingertips run along the side of her face. "In the mountains, yes." She doesn't even need to say the rest, doesn't need to ask: does that appeal to you? All this isolation? I could scream and scream and nobody would ever hear it. I'm yours to fuck, to have, to own, to do anything to-

"It'll probably be fixed in the morning," you tell her. "Who would turn it back on tonight. To this place. They'll start at the closest areas to town and go out from there."

"Mina has a generator," Tzuyu supplies helpfully. "No living clue where."

"Want to look for it?"

She lets her head tilt, as if to follow the expanse of trees leading up into the rocky ground. "Would it kill us to wait for tomorrow?" Her bare toes curl into the floorboards. The blanket stays wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and a single line of her wrist can be seen when she tilts her arm a certain way. "We won't die or anything."

You wouldn't die, not before being smitten with a different death, falling headfirst and in love; and that's what you've felt since the start, since the beginning: you've always wanted more. It was always inevitable, her letting her weight fall backwards, in the living room - all your filthy secrets falling out. It felt like the sky had dropped. All over the bedroom floor.

"Then let's get some sleep," you say, but still step closer, as you do with anyone, to brush aside the strand of hair over her ear.

It feels like the temperature must have dropped dramatically. Not that it bothers either of you very much, you note, when you move under the blankets together. Some might feel embarrassed by the necessity, but then, most aren't half the people that you both are.

Tzuyu presses her fingers under her thigh to keep her legs shut. To avoid the cold, she claims, but you can hear the slippery noises that her cunt makes as her body shakes with each thrust of her fingers. You almost suggest that you heat her up in an entirely different fashion, but the smile, her smile, gets the best of you. Instead, you let yourself touch and trace, and feel her wherever it may land. There's no sense in pretending either, so you tangle yourself into her: a finger between her legs. Another in her palm, resting against her hip. When you press your thumb against her cunt, she begins to smile, too, as if to show you exactly what kind of person she is. That is to say, completely insatiable.

You let your free hand slip under her chin. Tilting her head up, exposing the faint pulse-points. You wonder if she's imagining the things you'd do if the snow never cleared: toying with her hair, petting the top of her head, speaking pretty and dirty and pressing kisses against her bare back, in a rhythm, as you fuck her without care - something close and tight like the little noises she makes and how they die off, finally, when you push your cock deeper, still.

There are no words between you anymore, maybe - but she's not laughing, and you're not angry, and it's only one second before your mouth is on her neck, kissing the column of her throat. It's easy to sleep with her - so, so simple, if not anything else.

"I don't have anything in the morning," you murmur to the top of her shoulder, barely moving as not to break the moment. To tell her it's fine to leave her body or keep it forever. Either way. Both, if it's an option.

She smiles. Her eyes are still closed. "It'd be weird if you did."

She can be a tease - a complete brat - sometimes. Like now. But then again, who would you be if not the person who falls for exactly that.

And that is a weakness: you have a very specific kind of hunger, that won't fade, that can only be sated. She knows it, and yet her coy grin remains. It's a habit, not a mistake. "Yeah, well," you lean up onto your forearm, pressing the knuckles of your right hand against her soft cheek. "This is the most inconvenient of all places, but- don't worry about it."

"Meaning?"

"I don't think they sell birth control or morning after pills or anything up here," you explain, lightly. Your gaze passes from her eyes to the pink of her bottom lip and back, again.

"Do I look like I'd care?" Tzuyu sighs and takes your wrist, pulling your arm over her body. "I know what I'm doing," she adds, which might actually be a lie. "Obviously. You don’t need to pretend you’re like, responsible, or whatever."

Yes, obviously. As if it was all as easy as pulling strings, deciding exactly which points to tease, to stress. You should know. You just kissed and held down and fucked and fucked your cum into this one: you know how to move her strings better than any.

You flip the switch in the kitchen. Up, down, up, down: except, nothing. The electricity is still decidedly off by mid-morning, and you and Tzuyu end up having actual, quality, conversation.

You sit her on the kitchen counter - though it’s not fated to last long, because her legs loop around your waist, and she tugs your sweats down as you try to fix the two of you lunch - Tzuyu gets what Tzuyu wants, of course - so you're standing there fucking her while her head leans back on the cool marble, her silky dark hair tumbling off the end of the counter.

She ends up propped up on one elbow. Eyes hazy and half-lidded, fixed on the glide of you into her creamy folds, spreading her wider, wider.

Tzuyu asks questions - all innocuous, at least to the ear. About your past. Who you were before all this. Whether you want kids, when, whether you were religious, once. She gets personal before you have her cumming and incoherent: how you sleep, in what positions. How often you jerk yourself off. What you're thinking of when you do. How you'd use her - not the lewd version, the spitting, filthy iteration, just the you and her and her being yours part. And she gets specific about that. She'll slide up to you and bury her nose in your throat, wrap her arms around your shoulders, mumble about wanting you closer - you feel her, maybe more than you should - but every few seconds you're sliding home into that pussy and her chest heaves out a deep breath-

"I want what's in here," she finally says, her delicate palm cupping your balls. She's pulling you into her on each stroke like the fucking sun's gone out and this is her last chance - she's magnetism, gravity, a blackhole you'd give up the rest of the universe to. She's got one fist on your shirt, and the other hand on your sack, and her pussy's fluttering around you, and she's watching you watching her, and it's infinity:

"The idea of you." Tzuyu smiles at the way your eyes narrow, the way the word turns itself over and over on your mind, her. She tilts her face to look at your expression. "Like, in here. All your cum. There's so much. Can I please have it-"

You swear.

"Pretty please, baby," Tzuyu's asking if you'll fill her up, if you'll make her your cumdump, keep fucking her even with all your cum inside her, asking what the worst of your fantasies are - you fuck harder, deeper, and she nods eagerly, tightens that fist in your shirt. "Can you give it to me? Please, it's the only thing I need, and we both know I always need something, please."

"Jesus fucking christ," you tell her, helpless, and it's never felt better: her cockwarming on your lap, her teasing and teasing until your self-control's paper thin - won't you? won't you? fucking breed this slutty little cunt? won't you cum until I'm so full it's spilling out-

The snap. Like falling, it’s something you notice right away, but only ever understand a long ways down.

"Yours," moans Tzuyu, half in an accusatory fashion - fuck - she's almost gasping: "fuck - just use me, use your cumdump, 'cause you'll never have a tighter cunt than this."

God. Damn. Her. You cum so hard it aches, and there's no hesitation:

"My cocksleeve, my good girl, shit-"

"You could leave a baby in me, even, just like that. Couldn't you. Isn't that hot. And nobody could do a fucking thing." Tzuyu’s tits are spilling out the sides of her camisole and she looks like pure porn, in person. Your cum is dripping out of her and you watch as it spills on the marble.

"Is that what my girl wants?

She smiles, again, so prettily.

“You wanna be full of cum, is that it?" You grab Tzuyu's hair; pull just enough to get the point across. "Is that it? You're a perfect cumslut who needs all that fucking cum, huh? Wants it pumped deep? You like being full of it, right Tzu? This needy little cunt loves the thought of getting bred? Knocked up? Goddamn, Tzu."

"That's me," agrees Tzuyu, in the afterglow. Dimple dug deep. "Yeah. Your personal cumslut, sir."

She just grins when you reach between her thighs, pressing your fingers into the cum you've fucked into her, before you decide that the wet warmth is yours and you’re going to fuck her even further into delirium.

Her hips come up off the granite, desperately.

"Uh-huh," she mumbles, already drifting - you put her off her balance, for real. "God, yes, please," she's whispers, as if all the ways you'd ruin her were prayers, like she wants to start a new religion all her own: you're a god, and it's all about Tzuyu - just you, and her, asking, again, the questions piling on top of other ones, the sweet drawl, the sinful want, the curiosity-

Fuck. She wants everything about you, your dirty secrets and your nice manners - the stories behind your scars, your funny little quirk of raising just one eyebrow at a time-

You turn her around. She's made for this, intelligently designed: her tiptoes just touching the floor, the delicious curve of her lower back, your cock sliding effortlessly into her and hitting a spot she arches into like it's divine intervention and that pussy making its first church of your name. The cum you'd already left in her cunt is making everything wetter, making those obscene sounds echo in the space around the two of you. It's rapturous; you let her feel it slow, and deep, and it’s bliss.

“Tighter,” you growl into her ear, and her cunt clenches like you own it.

The girl's figure is pristine, an ass that belongs under spotlights, on camera; those thick lips, the curtain of her hair when she tips her chin down. It's all been in magazines, billboards, it's been idolized - she is the icon and you're the follower, but, this weekend, here and now-

"So. Fucking. Good-" she gasping, falling apart. She’s collapsing and it’s not even noon.

"Oh, the world knows." You pull her up, hold her body in yours and snap into her cunt. Her skin's hot, feverish, the light that filters through the blinds and the snow slows outside.

It all happens without a moment’s notice - Tzuyu reaches behind and clutches your thigh, as if she could ever pull you deeper, like it wouldn't tear her in half. But you find yourself in a position to grab the edge of the counter; your phone buzzes. It's Sana, probably asking what's up. You want to ignore it and keep fucking Tzuyu from behind. You want to hold her hips, be mindful of the marks, the bruises, sink your fingers into her hair, her tits - you end up murmuring things like please and fucking perfect and if we were a little more religious then you'd be a sin to remember-

Fuck, you're cumming again. The writing’s on the wall as soon as your cock makes her breath draw short and her eyelids snap shut. She’s exquisite, a masterwork - you’re painting in broad strokes, all over the beautiful curves of her ass - not only because you’ve needed to see it cast in hot streaks of white, all debased with your cum, but simply to prove a point; to say that you can. You cum on her cheeks, her cunt, you pump your fist around your shaft and cum in the crotch of her panties too.

"That's it, Tzu," you croon, "look at that," your spent cock twitching against her plush thighs, her dripping pussy lips, and she's sagged forward, onto the counter, your thumb running through a particularly thick rivulet. Her face dips down, pressed to the cold surface, and the words coming out aren't coherent, are just filthy and true; but they're there: she's taken you and kept you, all for herself.

(Thank you, she says, for making me into your little cockwarmer, your toy, for breaking my fucking cunt, baby - thank you, please, thank you-

You could end your career tomorrow, it wouldn't matter. Just saying, man. This girl, fuck.)

There’s a beat, the strained breathing, the panting, the disbelief. She ends up kissing your chin after sliding back to her feet, a saccharine imitation of chaste. Pulls up her shorts without a second's consideration. Her panties, still sticky with your spend - well. She puts those back, too, grinning dreamily.

Oh, how is a woman like Tzuyu even real, huh? You really do need to find out, somehow.

"Your imagination is…" you say, your tone flat. “I swear.” But you don't deny that the sex isn't. You don't think of her that way. She doesn't ask you for your hopes or your dreams or the full gambit of life, as some people might. She asks about what you think about at three am when she's got one hand on her tits and one on her clit and one finger in her mouth:

"Anything we can think of," she corrects, her long limbs squeezing her tighter to your front. Her grin bright, so perfect she's beyond believable, and how can such a dissonance exist in something, someone, you're holding on to? "I mean, we can if you want."

"Maybe we'll talk about that - how you can handle me," is what Tzuyu rasps, softly, tying her hair up afterwards: and you realize this is her post-coital. For her, sex makes her nice. Sweet.

You've already fixed her lunch; Tzuyu comes to sit down at the table with you. "Like, for future reference." You're raising an eyebrow. She grins at that, kicks her feet. Her hips don't do the same, though - no doubt still a little sore, like her lips. She's worn out, finally. She won't try to slice off and claim any more of your aching soul.

“You have no business thinking about babies.”

“Tell that to my ovaries.”

"You have a breeding kink, is what it is, really. I’m being completely serious."

"Well, am I pregnant yet?" Tzuyu flutters those lashes, puts those big pretty eyes on full display. "No? Then I'm getting off on something else, clearly, isn't it obvious, like maybe there's something about being on the other end of someone so big. Have you considered how wet you make me when you-"

"Tzuyu, cut it out," you chide her. The little brat's giggling. You aren’t going to let her know how pretty the noise is.

"Fine." She reaches across the table, puts her small hand on your larger one. "Like I said - how to handle me." Her tone is placating, the sharp edge to her personality blunted. It's different with Tzuyu - after sex, she gets like this: playful, easy, fond. The mess you've just made, the cunt you've stuffed full, that's another Tzuyu altogether. "For your... benefit."

"My benefit, really?"

"Aside from getting my brains fucked out," she explains, "is what I meant."

"Not making this easier, babe."

Her mouth curves a slow smile. She likes when you call her names, cute shit like that.

"I need to call Sana back," you explain, finally.

Tzuyu nods.

"In a bit," you add. "Also," you're saying, leaning forward. Her head tilts toward yours.

She's receptive, her whole body pliant and lazy, after that, well, marathon - she'll roll with whatever you're suggesting. This has always been a dream to her, she's mentioned. (Who has dreams like that? Someone so young, that innocent - well, yeah.)

But you kiss her temple, lightly. "Gimme a minute."

Tzuyu blinks, in that catlike way she has of staring, intent. Her mouth slightly pouty.

"Then you get your turn," you offer.

"Deal," she nods.

And that makes her beam - your beautiful, very good, very perfect, little toy.

"You're going to have to slow down," you tell Sana over the phone. "I have zero reception up here, sorry."

"The highway is shut down, I literally can't get to the other side of town," she yells over the sound of tires rolling on snow. Sana does not sound in the best spirits. If anything, she sounds slightly desperate. "Part of the mountain collapsed on a cliff somewhere. Fuck's sake. The weather is still terrible and they're shutting everything down. Literally shuttering every road off the base of the mountain."

"You sound good," you deadpan, and when Sana grumbles, say, "try the next exit, head around and take a back road-"

"Yeah, except it's snowing like nobody's fucking business right now - I'm not going to risk exposure to try to get there on my own."

"What should I do?" you try, a bit helpless. "Stay here?"

"Why are you even asking," Sana scoffs, "yes, stay there, stupid. Tell Tzuyu you can't drive in snow, that she can't possibly expect me to deal with any of you leaving a safe situation." There's another brief pause. "Ah, seriously, there is not a single living human being near here that can be helpful - and they're supposed to bring us new tires? Here? No, fuck's sake."

"Oh," is all you say.

"Don't worry about me." Sana's voice goes up a notch. "Just be there, alright? Stay warm, okay?" A crackle, more radio waves or distance.

"Text me," you urge. "Tell me you're getting in safe."

"Of course, of course," and that's when you get the click, the abrupt disconnection. You stare at the device in your hand and consider the possibilities, and the outcomes, and how to stay sane while alone with temptation incarnate for a couple nights.

Maybe this really is hell. Or it's a trial. There’s the storm, and there’s your angel, contextually out of place. You're incapable of controlling yourself, clearly.

You sigh, let your gaze slide. The lights are still out, and in their absence, Tzuyu has dragged every available blanket or bed sheet within her reach into the living space, spread a dozen pillows across the sofa and is now occupying one of the corners: there's a book, opened onto her lap, as her nails run circles down the blanket draped over her lower back.

"Tzu, what exactly did Mina mention to you about the generator," is the first thing you blurt, upon entry, and Tzuyu smiles, holding up the page against the fading daylight - which is currently hardly much. "Better question: how are you able to read in the dark?"

"Takes a lot to shake me off, honestly,” she says, which you already know to be true. “Also my eyes aren't old like yours, so."

"Wow."

"What?" Tzuyu grins, tilts her chin. "Do you want me to say that you're ageless? Thirty, flirty and thriving. So impressive, your youthful vigor, that sort of deal? How attracted I am to your experience," the insinuation, this sudden intimacy. She laughs. "Seriously. Let me read."

"Apparently we're going to be stranded for a few days."

"That's cute." She pauses. "Sucks for Sana."

"You don't know what sucks for Sana."

She peeks over the corner of the page, then, grinning, the teeth of a joke. "What's on the menu, then? Hm? So far, the best part was waking up beside you," and you almost grin, at how honest she manages to be without seeming conceited. How shameless Tzuyu has become in the ways of liking you, and maybe a bit of who she thinks you are. And why that's dangerous, really, and it makes the guilt burrow down beneath your ribs a bit: "my ass hurts," she's complaining now, which is only going to encourage the teasing-

"As it should," you comment, then watch her eyes sharpen, glint with mischief. "Oh," you realize, with a shrug, "do we get to cuddle again."

(Let's hope, for a moment, this isn't really karma. Because really, it'd just be an uncalled-for injustice: Chou Tzuyu delivered down on all fours, head tucked into your thighs as a fist grabs a handful of her hair, a slow push and pull - your cock sinking into the velvet warmth between her lips, again, again, and again until she's ruined and crying and still swallowing you whole - as she, not the universe, forces a massive dose of her own medicine down your throat. You see how that might not be quite fair.)

"But I'll have to leave again," you're protesting - no heat, no vitriol. "There's, like. Stuff I gotta grab."

"Then grab me," she sighs, pats her lap, "read over my shoulder. Make out with me. Just keep me warm. That'd be very helpful, and I would be so grateful."

Well, fuck. You're not one for inflating egos - at least not anybody else's - especially when, unchecked, that tends to do the exact opposite of keeping them grounded.

"Fine," you're muttering, and you clearly have a habit for capitulation wherever Tzuyu is concerned, the quirk in her lips, the quiet pride in her dimple, the cadence in her speech - which she's already smug about.

"Wonderful." She taps the back of her fingernail against a book page, waits, just a few more seconds, her grin spreading as you begin to fumble around. "Please," she says, flicks her gaze back down, a tease, "take all the time you need."

The thing about mountain air is it has a way of clearing your head, cooling down the frenetic thoughts of indecision and uncertainty and moral conflict.

Well, maybe that's a slight overreach, the mountains also have a way of getting you killed, but the intention was to look upon the white caps and ponder. It didn't work.

You eventually find the generator. You hear the clicks of metal and electrical wiring, the roar of the motor kicking on, a steady hum. Then, Tzuyu pokes her head out from behind the shed, her cheeks tinted a warm pink; her eyebrows rise up a beat.

"Yes?" you prompt.

"Is it working?"

"Does it look like it's working, miss?"

"Looks a-okay to me," and she presses the heel of her mitten into her teeth, tries to bite it back down her wrist; she stumbles, a moment, slightly clumsy in the snow. You instinctively reach out. Your hands brush the outer seam of her pajamas, the heavy fabric of her coat - "oh," you can feel the instant the shivers start, "fuck, I'm cold.”

“We’re both probably pretty due for a hot shower,” you say.

"Yeah, you came in my hair. Er, sorry, I meant, we both need a hot shower."

"It was really adorable when you were rutting back on my dick like some horny animal," you snort. "Admit it."

"No comment."

"So shy."

Her smile cracks open, and her breath is a white plume. "Fuck you."

"Sure, babe," you're agreeing, the tone almost saccharine. "If you insist."

She blinks back in mild surprise, the blatant answer - and god, her fucking eyes: soft, dark, her eyelids barely lift up. Even when they should've narrowed. That was another thing to learn. (Maybe, god - who knows, maybe she's still learning how not to care.)

She runs a hand through her hair. The scarf around her neck is fluffing up. There's white clumps settling on the fibers, slowly dissolving into a damp mess.

"Listen," Tzuyu murmurs, wraps an arm around yours to help herself up.

Your palm settles on the round of her thigh. She shifts, her hand dropping lower - tugs at your arm until she has an elbow in hers. The backs of her knuckles settle against your hip bone, her fingertips sliding across the waistband: you walk backwards through your snowprints, gently - the side door to the cabin is unlocked - Tzuyu's stumbling toward it.

"Going to the shower, we're turning the water on," she explains. You grin, feel your own arm, a slow drag around her lower waist; she tilts into it, steps closer. Presses a finger to your chest: "dinner's gonna be in half an hour," she announces, "and before you ask, I've been craving those boxes of instant mac & cheese in Mina's pantry."

"I haven't had one of those in ages."

"Me neither," and with her heel, she kicks the side door shut; Tzuyu yanks on a cord, pulls the blinds closed. It's pitch black. You're chuckling low, turning around - one of Tzuyu's hands smacks over a nearby light switch, illuminating the room just a shade lighter than it was prior. She presses a hand to your chest, a single-minded goal to your front.

You put your hands on her hips.

"It's the kinda thing that makes me feel like a kid again," you hear her say, just slightly; that, and how the white fabric of her sweater twists, pulled to a single point.

"Happens," is the best explanation you can give. She slaps the lightswitch again. Kisses you. You shove a leg forward. She whines. "Be good," you're chiding, though you both stumble until her back is pressed against the wall. "You were just complaining that you're still sore."

"Maybe I can't help it, maybe that's all on you," the end of the sentence fades. Her nails slide up the sleeve of your arm. There's the soft hitch of a moan. "It's just you. So unfair." She rubs up. Swallows like it's instinct, at the slightest hint of friction. You curl your hand, your thumb grazes the waistband of her underwear; her fingertips tighten, her blunt nails sink deeper - press like she means something else, wants something more.

It'll be a few days, at least, more likely a week; and by then, this girl will have you right where she needs you. She's proven, time after time - you can never just say no.

The days bleed together after the snow.

You fuck her, but slower; sometimes softer, a little less raw, the hurt. Not that you'd ever try to take too much: the thought is unthinkable, un-imagined. Infinitely impossible. You'll pull out and empty everything you have, paint her skin, make her ache, fuck until you know exactly where the bruises are and how to touch them, how to breathe the hurt down from her ribs.

But some mornings: she rolls over onto her side, opens her eyes and smiles. Brilliant like the sun, something that would warm your heart even without trying. Some afternoons, you put the fire on; read something aloud from Mina's bookshelves, and watch the red-orange flames turn Tzuyu's cheeks and neck pink and honey. Evenings, especially the colder ones, you're wrapping her up, blankets, sweatshirts, pulling her close: into bed with the lights turned off. She wants the touch, she craves it, she'll almost whimper when you get near her - and it's you, whispering words against her ear; tracing fingertips lightly against her temple, down the nape of her neck, her lower lip-

"How come you don't kiss me, hm?" She sounds sleepy. "Baby. Don't pretend you're a stone. Like, an unfeeling brute."

"I have my limits, princess."

"Like not kissing someone you're fucking." Her face drops from your sight, and Tzuyu turns over: she curls into her comforter, and her legs nudge the back of yours. "That's so fucking cruel," her voice a little whiny. "But okay, okay - tell me the reasons. Just so we can keep going."

"Keep going, huh. Even though I'm mean."

"Well, yeah, I've done much, much worse," the worst, if you think about it; and it's almost true. Maybe her morality was on the rocks long before yours. "Obviously."

You drop a kiss into her hair. "We both know what that mouth of yours is capable of."

She grins into your skin. Presses her lips, like a sign, and stays.

A girl like her inspires the worst in a man, and that's just about it: you think a man would burn the world down for her, with her, and maybe that would be how all things end, someway, somehow - not because of him or her, the full spectrum of his intentions, all the intricacies and subtleties, and hers too. You're both complicated creatures, sure; both very capable and wanting. Of big feelings, deep attachments: the overflow of your good hearts, perhaps; or, rather: the deficits.

She appeals to your worst impulses, in the plainest terms.

"Jesus Christ," you hiss, hands firm on her lower back; your voice breaking; Tzuyu has shed the bedsheets and climbed into your lap, one leg bent at the knee, digging the other into your ribs - her shirt hitches up and over the curve of her spine and then pools at her neck.

"Tell me that's good," she murmurs, hips gyrating, rocking her pussy along your cock. "Like that - right?"

"Fuck- yes," your cock slides into her, your entire length, the rest of the world fogged out: even the fire is quiet. "God, tzu. Feels amazing."

Tzuyu rolls her body forward, rides you with ease, and puts one small hand against your mouth. Her shirt hitches up and over the curve of her spine and then pools at her neck.

"I want to make you cum," she says, all quiet determination and wily confidence, "only you." She rolls her hips in your lap and then finds it: the steady, rhythmic grind down, down. Her ass crashes into your balls; the first telltale sign of that wonderful orgasm to come. "Is it wrong to want this? Like, you and I? Fuck. It feels like your cock was made for me."

"Yeah,” you grit, “fucking you feels - like it's meant to be, huh?"

"Sir," she says with an unhealthy smirk. She’s loving this more than you are, and you can’t really blame her for it: there’s no other sound quite like the slick, wet noise that her pussy makes as her body drops to yours, your cock filling her completely. It's music to your ears.

You grab at her ass, her hip, and pull her closer. She smiles, tilts her face down to you.

"Me too, you know, me too," she murmurs, kissing you softly; when you cup her breasts her breath hitches. "God- fuck- just-"

When she does cum, it's with the faintest little groan; a small, intense quiver in her thighs. You kiss her to swallow down the sound; and feel yourself tip over, and when she fucks you through your orgasm - her smile is dark, wicked, totally satisfied.

And everything else follows, because you're weak: because she makes you want to say no, even while simultaneously being your very favorite yes. You warm your cock inside her with some slow, gentle rhythm, her nipples hard against your shirt, her cries as sweet and earnest as all the best promises; a slow grind down, her fingers scrabbling for the headboard, you lean and lick her breasts, roll her nipples on your tongue - she gasps, tenses, digs her nails hard into your nape.

You'll have her again in the morning, she's adamant.

Her hands find your back, her legs circle your hips. The taste of her sweat. The taste of her nipples; her chest flushed, hair disheveled, pupils blown.

"Not letting me go." She whispers. Her cheeks are a lovely pink. "Even after this?"

You kiss the corner of her mouth, inhaling, wondering what to say.

"Good," Tzuyu tells you, tilting her jaw: "that's really-" She catches her lips with her teeth. "That's so fucking good."

(Her pussy grips your cock like it's the home she's always missed, her lifeline, her safe harbor. And it's dizzying, it's heaven, hell; and, in the morning - when everything is sepia-warm and sleepy - you fuck her again.

A promise, a hope, a plea. It's what makes a girl fall for a guy, in theory.

It's what makes her heart beat. )

"My phone's charging," Tzuyu sniffs the next morning: you're brushing out her hair. The sheets are warm.

You continue combing.

"Sana told me she would be texting, or trying to call."

"Well, that's nice," is all you can manage.

"Babe-" she leans back a bit: turns her gaze to the ceiling, exhaling sharply, "what if she got caught in a whole different avalanche, or fell from the top of a mountain, or something-"

You let go, letting her rest her weight against your thigh. "Honestly? Would serve her right. A little cold, a little damp-"

"If you don't take that back-"

"Alright. Alright. I'll send an apology prayer when I get around to it."

"No you won't." She curls in further, and you stroke her neck, shoulder blade; down the ridges of her spine, across the width of her back.

Tzuyu shudders slightly under your touch.

"Haven't I earned enough good faith, or a clean conscience?"

"Sir, don't pretend."

"Let's pray for Sana, then," you mutter. "Wherever the fuck she is."

"With respect," Tzuyu pipes up, eager: "bitch ain't found."

"Jesus.” You laugh out loud. “At least your brain isn't fully turned to mush, yeah?"

"Give yourself some credit. I can hardly fucking walk. You really pounded the feeling in my legs away."

"Too bad."

"Sorry." And she noses at your collarbone, tugging the waistband of your boxers; "feel free," the drawl of an old, forgotten song, "to make me repent. Baby. Do your thing."

"Right, I forgot that I could convince you to do anything by sliding my dick in your throat. Yikes."

"Baby, just, uh- do whatever." Tzuyu grabs hold of your cock through the thin fabric: one light tap of a finger, "my lips are numb," the suggestion. You really could be her everything: and maybe if you said, stop, please, you won't. She'd pause; look at you like you're insane and maybe spit out what the actual fuck is wrong with you. Like the reality:

This doesn't have to end, no?

"Sorry about your phone battery," you tell her, brushing out the knot at the base of her skull. She exhales, goes soft; lets you tug lightly. "We’ll figure things out when Sana can actually text you, okay?"

"Dumbass. When it's warmer and you drive down to meet her."

"You're not jealous," you tell her. You’ve decided for her.

Tzuyu rolls, leans down on her back, smiling prettily-

"Nope," she agrees, pulling your cock out: already hard, ready to cum down her throat. Her fingers pump soft, slow, the anticipation- "just not done."

"Crazy."

She shrugs and lets the silence calm the world around the two of you; at least for a little while. "Takes a certain kind," she agrees.

"Permissiveness. Like what I'm seeing. Your brand or whatever."

"It’s straight from the heart." She shoots up, making a face you want to kiss. "Honestly."

"Absolutely sincere," you deadpan, and she ignores the jab.

"Tie a bow with my hair," she chuckles, the laughter light, and your fingers graze her temple. "Come on. I'll make you so proud. So pleased. Sir. Let me, let me-"

"Only if I can finish down your throat," you retort - half-joking, but, her eyes grow warm, molten, the lust is immediate - you tip her head, lower it gently - she bites down onto her lip, nods a bit.

You don't take her right away. Not at first. You’re trying to show some restraint, trying not to think about how Tzuyu wears clothes like a vice. She's that kind of girl. Like an accident waiting to happen. She's moving around the kitchen later, poking about the cabinets. She's slid into some jeans that fit her a little too well, and one of those obscenely thin t-shirts.

You watch her back muscles work, how the cotton bunches as she leans, arms extending. Her chest's flat against the counter to grab whatever item's out of her reach. You catch the ribbon in her hair bob slightly back into place when she stands back up. The hairline on the nape of her neck catches a long highlight of a morning, the thin strands a brilliant brown, a spark of warmth in the midst of a muted winter morning - and it's honestly amazing to look at.

(Her ass hangs out in the open like an invitation. Your eyes are running down every curve of denim like they can't help but search.)

"Tzu," is the warning, and she flashes a grin; turns, the expression shifting, wide. "I can literally see everything you have."

"Hm." The front of her shirt lowers, too - her black bralette, barely a scrap of lace and string, visible through the thin fabric. "If I'd known you'd like that so much, you could've told me earlier."

"It's not your job to figure me out."

"Well, I'm not sorry." The words are sugar sweet, with an almost fake concern: her feet pivot, her ass filling your vision- Tzuyu spreads her hands down her outer thighs.

"Be nice," you reiterate. "C'mere."

Her legs snap to you quick.

You are careful, tentative and slow. You leave the ribbon in place and everything; just your mouth, like you have a right to lick down her breasts, her stomach, her clit - like you deserve the faint marks where your hands pressed down onto her waist.

The slow licks, the soft kisses; you could eat her out until the sun sets and Tzuyu was left sobbing through the overstimulation. Her fingers rake your hair like it’s exactly what she’s hoping you’ll do.

When Tzuyu does let go: she doesn't drop. There is no shame, nor shameful whimpers. Instead, she fucking screams, so high and clear it doesn't seem possible: a singer's wail.

"Sir!" she's crying, you can feel it through every tremble. "Oh my god, please-"

You get her to climax twice before the tears fall, your fingers tracing her spine, pressing deeper, a knuckle, then two-

She looks at you in abject reverence, "God, you don't know," is the gasp, "how perfect you are," and you're sure. You'll never get it right again: at least, not without her.

She cums a third time, shivering, collapsing: her eyes wide, glossy, breath shallow, limbs giving in. The sweat clings to her like a lover, a life she doesn't know how to leave.

So, you ask:

"What now, doll?"

Her tongue sweeps the corner of her mouth, a tiny wrinkle.

"Whatever," Tzuyu exhales. "Fuck, whatever, seriously, that was like- amazing- but my throat is actually going to murder me."

"Was the screaming really that necessary."

"Not sure- about anything," is the groggy admission, "like, honestly. Too horny to care, but." She pauses for a second. "You," she finally decides.

"I," is the immediate reply.

"I’ll let you do - anything, but I- can I, like, get a breather? For a minute. Can you wait, like, just."

Her arms open: you settle against her side, and a shaky hand starts combing through your hair. Her other palm lifts to rest against your cheek, cupping it. The nails tap gently along your hairline.

"Been waiting so long, Tzu, honey," and it doesn't sound as cruel or glib as the slip up should be construed - doesn't even bother to count on forgiveness, either. Maybe you're beyond all of that, honestly, and more or less in love, as a result. It’s kind of fucked. What’s a minute more?

She laughs softly, a cough catching up and sounding pained. She's lost her voice, the poor thing, she’s cummed herself hoarse and ragged and you’re proud of your handiwork.

"Honey," you hear her say, and she shakes, pulls herself closer, kisses you back: like the old, gentle motion can ever fully cure the fever of desire that grips the two of you. It's a pipedream, and you're kissing her. It's a pipedream, and you know it.

The calls start coming in after the sun sets and the cabin grows cool with the dark: you feel, faintly, that it's inevitable. That the snow would clear and time would start marching on, a predetermined cycle. (That, maybe, something in the universe - at this stage, almost a hundred years of weather, tectonic plates, astronomical phenomena, interconnected - knew the two of you needed that bit of seclusion.)

"I dunno, just some bog-standard hotel, holiday suites or something. The point is: the roads don’t open until tomorrow and I've been holed up for a while." Sana sighs into the phone. The static pops. "Oh my god, I'm bored out of my mind. I've had like, three full bags of crisps in one sitting, which is just plain wrong."

"You're basically living off carbs." You say this from in front of the fireplace. Tzuyu is sitting on the opposite side of the couch paging through a stack of magazines, wearing a big jumper and sweats and socks pulled up to her knees. Her hair is falling around her shoulders in soft waves, and it makes her look small and domestic and a bit docile - she’d re-tied the ribbon in her hair after you’d fucked it off her, and that more or less completes the look.

"Yes, I have gone off the deep end. A tragic, awful spiral. Because you're not here. Fuck, you have no idea."

"Ah- Sana." You stop. Take a deep breath.

"Do you have any idea? The state of me right now? seriously. I packed so many fucking condoms and the idea of bringing them back home is more defeating than anything else." She lowers her tone a little, then adds, "because, not to be weird, I was kinda sorta hoping we might use them when I got up there."

You blink. Tzuyu isn't even pretending to look anywhere else. Her whole face is shifting into a satisfied expression, and when she catches you looking, she winks.

"Right. Now this might sound like a surprise," Sana is continuing, her voice full of amusement, "but when I get stuck somewhere, alone and thinking about the weather- I'm often in need of a fuck. Please be prepared to service, because god damn, I've got nothing and it's gonna have to be the battery."

"Is that Sana?" Tzuyu interrupts, the tone hushed, but lofty.

You make a face, like: who the fuck else - but that makes her smirk; Sana sighs, then laughs.

"So if you like, you know. If you feel like the vibe is there. I'd appreciate the hand out."

Tzuyu walks over: sets herself down between your feet and kisses your knee. Just to fuck with you. Because she wants to. She holds the kiss, the bow in her hair, done up tight and shiny, visible. You want to tug the stupid thing until it unravels; all your fingertips, her lips, and she sighs-

"Oi," Sana's saying on the line. You can hear her crash onto her bed. "You still there?"

"I'm sorry," you say, "are you uh, asking for phone sex - or did I totally read that all wrong."

"Nope. Pretty direct." Sana laughs, and the sound should make it easy to close your eyes, picturing it: a silver smile, the low slung skirt and a stretch of stockinged leg, the twinkle of a drink as the ice hits her mouth. It’d be easy, y'know, if your gaze wasn't pinned on the girl who's settled at your feet.

"Oh, jesus, okay," you manage to breathe. Tzuyu hums a little: reaches for your fly. "Is there anything, anything that you want me to do?"

Sana's laughter drops to a murmur: the air goes heady as Tzuyu parts the zipper and rolls down the waist of your pants- "ask me what I'm wearing, duh."

"Boring," Tzuyu breathes into the air. Because apparently Sana's defining trait is being loud. The kiss to your clothed cock is hot, teasing - her eyes never lift away, "always, always start with, 'darling, sweetheart,' or something stupid, sweet." Her tone is pure syrup: you can feel the warm, the wet; a fucking tease, all the way to her core.

"What are you wearing, darling?" you ask, dryly. Tzuyu rolls her eyes.

Sana's grin widens and you swear it's audible, "oh, just these boring pajamas." She draws it out slow and sexy and completely aware. "It's all loose cotton, and it doesn't hang off me, just folds."

"Is it the type that comes down to the mid-thigh? The white kind, where you can see through to the skin?"

"That's a little presumptive, don't you think? A bit on the nose? Yeah, fine, I'm wearing the kind, if you absolutely insist. These legs, bare. Maybe you'd want to bite. Y'know. Mark 'em'. Whatever."

Tzuyu is kissing the outline of your shaft. Pulling your hard-on out from its confines - all gentle and tentative. Her pretty brown eyes dart upward, gauging: okay, just do your thing - you shrug - but it'd be so helpful if you could scoot to the end of the cushion for me, can you-

"Yeah," you're agreeing into the phone, somewhat vague - to no one in particular. You don't give Tzuyu just an inch; instead, you lift your thighs toward her. Sliding, Tzuyu pulls your pants down: enough. There's a delicate pressure applied at the bottom of your cock, right at the base, right where Tzuyu drags her nails. "Let's have that show off a little," your breath comes shallow, "then. Strip, real slow. We can try for something sexy I guess."

"You," Tzuyu kisses the base and shuffles up the rest of your shaft, "just love bossing people around," then her lips part: the slightest graze, then warmth, the faint suction. “Don’t you?”

"Uh-huh," says Sana, and then the rustle of cloth: and you could imagine her, really, lifting the shirt up, off, sliding it along the inside of her ribs, over the tips of her breasts - she'd cup them, lean into the contact. Sana's hands are always on her tits, or the spread of her hips - she likes the shape of her body more than anyone else. "Sometimes, that's the best way," she tells you. Her breath is hot, full of sex. "Being told what to do. Isn't that true, hm?"

Tzuyu tilts forward, lets your cock drop over her bottom lip. It leaves a smear of spit in its wake, the sensation electric. Her head falls, swallows the whole of the tip: her tongue immediately swirls. A hot little pulse. Her cheeks hollow.

"Yeah. Some could probably argue," your breath catches, the weight of the sensation, the fullness, your hips arch, your spine straightens. The electricity goes through your stomach and down your spine; you can feel the wave rolling along. Tzuyu giggling into the stiff line of your cock-

"Telling us both?" Tzuyu smiles again, running her lips slowly up and down the sides, teasing with her breath and her fingers running down the ridges. "What you want." She hums low, into the hot air.

You press your phone to your neck. "Can you, like-

Tzuyu pulls her mouth off your cock. Just sits there blinking. “Hm?” she asks, tugging a strand of her hair from the corner of her mouth.

“Just please stay quiet, or something- this is already harder than I thought it would be," the joke is as unsubtle as they come, "jesus, okay-" and put the phone back to your ear, "shit, Sana- can you, like-"

Her fucking mouth. The seal, the press - the tongue swirling around your head. Fuck.

“Yeah, babe? What do you want to know?”

The words aren't coming and a very obvious swallow is, Tzuyu leaning closer, and her fingers tangle with yours - guiding you closer, guiding your hand to the ends of her hair.

"Explain," is somehow where you land, shaky. You stick the landing just enough that Sana might buy it. "What are you doing now?"

"Slow circles. On my nipples, pinching," her voice strains, then settles,"yeah, the tip's so sensitive. Jihyo was laughing that guys always obsess over her tits. Always wanna suck, or nibble and I'm like, girl, what the hell are you complaining for?" - Tzuyu inhales a huge breath, and then another: her lips, those eyes - open and glossy, every movement steady like she knows just how to make the wait worth it - "or, or maybe I'm just weird, because the first time I felt someone's teeth and their tongue. Fuck, like, I almost screamed. Or, cried. Literally."

"Hah," and Tzuyu brings her lips lower. Moves her hair gently out of the way to take the rest of you into her mouth: bobbing up, her lips puckering in some rhythm, and her tongue darts, swirls the edge of the cock. Tongue at the slit. The pressure. Fuck, your head falls back. Every breath sounds heavy, loud. "Fingers,” you huff, “are good too I'm sure. I’d be paying close attention. Making you feel good."

"Mhm." Sana agrees. "The little pinches, ugh, I could die happy if you did just that, it's that fucking amazing."

"Baby," you half-moan. You’re struggling. The mouth stops, then sinks: down, all the way. Fucking amazing. Fucking hell.

"Oh?" Sana laughs airly, "are you touching yourself, hm? No fair, are you going to leave me all lonely here-"

You can see that smirk. The fuckery that would come: Sana's version.

"Sir," Tzuyu mumbles, sounding muffled. Her mouth is a tight vise of warmth, and your hand threads through her hair again. You hold, tighten the ribbon a bit, and Tzuyu stares at you through half-lidded eyes: you don't think she'll blink until you make her cry, and by then-

“Fuck,” Sana says, totally flat, "I'm actually pretty wet," the emphasis, "so I'd like some real advice, y'know-"

You see her legs. The tops. The bottom, all the way down- and you inhale sharply, too much and too hard.

Tzuyu has her fist at the base of your cock and her palm is sliding down the slick flesh and, a moment later, up, meeting her mouth at the top of its stroke - and, without a goddamn care, she hollows her cheeks - puckers her lips along the surface.

You were right. "This is hell."

Sana hums a laugh. "Need me that bad, huh? We're missing each other by just a couple days."

You stroke the top of Tzuyu's hair, her bow bobbing in a nice little bounce. Sana would know better than to wear her hair up. To even go near this, her throat - you hold her jaw steady, maybe a second, the moment of recovery to make Tzuyu slow and careful: her tongue does a pass at the sensitive, rigid underside of the crown, the sudden movement - before she speeds up.

"Picturing your hand." She tells you in a languid tone.

"God," you half-say, half-moan, and Tzuyu is good. So fucking good, and the mouth is too damn eager and it's difficult to think.

You barely get your hand free to switch to speaker, then let it clatter to the side. Tzuyu grinning, her lips flushed red and wet and dragging over your cock, sliding down, her tongue doing another pass, swirling at the center, the flare-

"Thinking about you, actually, fuck," Sana has a hitch to her breath that wasn't quite there before. "Doing those things, that mouth all over, Jesus Christ - ah- my legs, my breasts, fuck- are you jerking off right now? You sound, well, pretty uh, yeah."

"Just saying," you breathe, as the shock and the sensations rise and fall; Tzuyu's edging you in her mouth, her own head starting to shake, her chin bobbing up and down the full, long line of your dick - she's never done anything by halves. "It's getting- I'm thinking about you, Sana, of course, and your- pretty cunt, god, of course, so- ah, close- you said you were wet?"

"Huh? Of course, dripping. Imagining you - your thick, your cock," Sana sorta giggles, out of it then-

Tzuyu moans. Her body is pliant and her shoulders roll; she sucks, her cheeks dip, her back arches, and all of the noises hit the air thick, all while Sana's voice sharpens - both girls, two. You're slipping off the cushion, and probably out of your mind. The ache builds and burns and yearns for some sort of release-

"-how wet and tight I would feel, after so fucking long. Please, fuck, fuck-" you hear Sana, "would you, fuck, c'mon, how I would look, on top of you? Could feel- the stretch, your cock deep inside. The, fuck- friction."

There’s this beat, where it’s just Sana’s stiff breathing; you can picture her wrist between her thighs, the pump, the twist as her fingers run over and over again through the sound of her slick. You’re left wondering if she can hear too, the mouth trailing kisses along your balls, tongue gliding back up and swallowing your length whole.

“Mnph.” Tzu chokes down a little.

And you look down, you have to eventually - to see the steady stare. Tzuyu's brows pinched and her eyelashes fanning out over the hollowed curve of her cheekbones. Pretty, fuck. Beautiful. So sexy: she looks up, swallows you back, like a fucking slut. Her mouth, wet, messy, hot, and her body-

"Third finger, by the way," Sana strains, "'cause- fuck, my pussy - my tight little hole would be swallowing your cock so damn good."

"Mmm, fuck." You're reduced to your base instincts, pulling Tzuyu's hair, dragging her wet, velvety mouth onto your shaft - she follows willingly, no question of her pace slowing, but - more, and more, and you could probably cum in her mouth if her hands weren't clasped firmly over your thighs and you weren't brushing away the tears pricking the ends of Tzuyu's lashes- you won't tell. Not with your fingers. Fuck. Her nails bite at the skin of your bare legs. She looks angry, insistent. Choking.

Sana sounds just as out of sorts, out of breath, "you would feel so fucking good. Look so good. Let me have it- whatever I need, yeah?" And you think she's close: it's that keen edge, a faint, broken whine. She's never going to finish any way except- "would you, inside me? Y'know- make me cum, real full. God- are you close? Would you make a mess out of me? Of my pretty pussy?"

“Okay, holy fuck-" and the question barely even hits you.

Tzuyu is glaring now, shaking: she wants you to lose it, and she looks furious, holding her fingertips, her thumb on the base of your cock: a new pressure, a new feeling, a new pulse, a new high- she wants you to forget about Sana, maybe. What she sounds like, how she looks. Her legs wide, her bare, slicked skin on display. For you, yes. Fucking her until she- "uh, baby," and this time, your voice makes her smile, and her teeth drag. You wince. Her pupils are blown out, and there's a flush building in her chest. "Where are you?"

"Laying down. Flat- god. Where I'm always-" and you imagine a plane of soft, tanned, toned legs, her wide hips, "I'd, yeah, in a second. Pressure at my back- it would feel so fucking good, y’know, if you were here."

You have no doubt in your mind: Sana would be gorgeous. Even from the back, she'll be hotter, fuck, she always is, especially like that - and the movement of Tzuyu's fingers tightens against the straining, needy ache, and-

"Please, fuck, fuck- need to-"

"Would cum- a lot, that's it- over my back. Oh, yes, all over my back. My ass. Messy. fuck that's actually so good, jesus christ-" and then Sana lets out another soft keen and a shout - and it's so sweet and high-pitched and familiar, almost musical; she's cumming, hard. You're only a second, a third behind and-

Your balls draw tight and a coil in your stomach unfurls-

Tzuyu sees you, grins, your eyes trained on the pink of her mouth and her perfect, wet lips and the deep brown eyes - her dimpled cheek is the softest fucking thing - but the rest, her mouth, her wet heat: it's pure sensation. The tight vise of a throat swallowing, the taste on the flat of her tongue. You've got your cock shoved deep in her mouth, and you're not easy to take. Fucking Tzuyu's face, thrusting and the throbs of your cock pumping out a hot, heavy spill. More and more: sticky, filling, spreading out from the corners of her lips. Tzuyu gurgles, struggling - fuck, finally letting go with a weak pop, falling back, and the white mess runs hot over her mouth. Your release smeared across her lips, dripping off her jaw - fucking christ - her tongue, her eyelashes - a wild mess of fluid. It splatters against her pale skin - runs down the hollow of her throat to the edges of her chest. She has her fingers working fast still, a squelching tight fist: you cum all over the stupid, cutesy bow too. It's all you see, the only thing-

“Fuck,” Sana says, oblivious. “That’s good.”

-before your eyelids shutter close, a ringing in your ears and your heart racing; and, not far, another sigh, followed by the slide of your phone down the couch.

"Aw, you done already?" Sana says. Lazily. You can see the look on her face, probably rubbing her pussy and thinking about more - if there’s any two ways the girls compare, it’s this allergic reaction to anything like temperance or moderation. You need new friends, new lovers; this can’t last.

"Uh-huh." The back of your head digs into the couch cushions. Fuck. Sana. Phone. On speaker. Oh. Right. Shit. "But I was- mnph. Uhh." Your brain has lost a lot of blood. It's doing nothing. Nothing but losing blood. You wish it’d stop. “I’m here, Sana, talk to me.”

Sana giggles at that, delighted, "don't tell me you're in such bad shape I need to save you-"

"The uh," your voice slurs. Then you're pulling the phone to you, closer. Fuck. Yeah. You're an idiot. Your breath is heavy: "I could go for more, yeah, how’re you feeling?"

"So fucking tired." Her breathing sounds less ragged. A full breath. A pout: a poor me.

"Hmm." Tzuyu crawls onto you. Slides the fabric of your shirt between her palms, up and down your ribs. She pushes the sweater and tee away. Bares your stomach- then kisses there. Lower, and then rises, looking through her lashes. It's clear: a demand. She'll be insisting, pressing down on you, kissing, running her teeth along the edges of your shoulders, your neck. She’ll kiss you right now if you let her - until she sinks into a promise at the center of your body. Your back is arching off the leather from the sensitivity, and Tzuyu has her lips all over you - smiling when your hands tangle with the long strands of her hair.

She pauses. You drop a hand to Tzuyu's waist. Pinch.

"Ow-" she says, coming across slightly betrayed.

And, satisfied with the expression her face, the phone cradled between your chin, her lips warm over your ribs, her head tickling the edges of your jaw, you keep laughing, or you want to, but Tzuyu takes you between her thighs, lifts a little on your cock - her eyes widen: she's testing your flexibility. Trying to drag this out, trying for teasing. She’s good at that (a verifiable truth), but you’re you - you see right through it: she likes how it feels, the thickness and size of you. Tzuyu keeps sliding slowly down the full length, letting you fill her inch by inch - her slick heat feels unbearable.

“God,” she mutters, and she’s making the dreamiest expression - the blush in her cheeks, the eyelids hung low, the mouth slightly agape - she lifts up, then slams all the way to the base, flush. You grab anything you can to hold onto. Her legs. Her ass. Her thighs. Her jaw. That perfect little fucking waist.

She’s sublime. Your cock is bathing in her slick, the wet heat, the throbbing pulses - she's gasping in your lap, like she can’t believe how good you feel filling her cunt.

"Sana," you grit, "there's- nothing else in the world I'd rather do right now than shove my cock-”

“Ugh,” Sana sighs in agreement, in imaginary bliss. “In my little fucking pussy- you’re making me miss you, or something, jesus-”

You squeeze her thigh and her lips quirk, just barely, a challenge.

"Want put a nice thick load" - the hand on Tzuyu's hip brings her down in your lap, fucking up hard as her chest racks with breath - "in your slutty little cunt" - you fuck her faster, the sounds of flesh against flesh obscene - "fill up your pussy, princess. Would cum in it until" - and the last inch of your cock, filling Tzuyu’s cunt, you've no control - "you're a mess, you're dripping in it-"

Tzuyu's movements still. A pause. Her hips. Your own, and all the rest, every nerve in your body is on fire.

She moves with the most graceful slide, her wet lips gliding - gripping - up your cock. Then, down. The quiet. The lull. The pause before she does it again. She has cum all over her face, and she’ll kill you. You’ll let her.

"God. We'll have to get around to it," Sana finally tells you, dryly, "when this fucking snow clears. Say hi to Tzuyu for me won’t you?"

You're not a bad person.

(The reassurance that you aren’t - or don’t want to be? - is probably still not super convincing. There's some line drawn there, blurred, crossed, and thoroughly annihilated by your actions, you think, vaguely, but maybe it's better if no one sees, hears, finds out. The finer details matter a lot less at that point.)

You're like anybody else: you get desperate to hold onto something, somebody, even for just a moment. Sometimes you don’t even need a reason at all.

Tzuyu is stepping out of the shower, her head bobbing: it takes everything in you not to drag her back in there. She’d let you. She wouldn’t even complain.

You can hear the catch and the slide of a bath towel, the wisp of water hitting the bottoms of her feet and trailing, an exaggerated moan - a gesture, meant to entice, a suggestion: fuck her right back in the shower until her hair is plastered to her cheeks, and she's panting. Or the steam lifts her breasts in a gentle, humid press. That mouth on the tiles - sobbing.

“Tzu,” you call out, and she just continues humming some indifferent tune.

You pull a thick sweater over your head: it's gray wool, and it's all clean and good and new. When she wraps her arms around you, a deep inhale: a grin, then a shiver. She's naked and dripping everywhere, wet hair leaving a trail in its wake. She burrows her face in the folds of fabric at your spine - and if you turned, the slightest movement, the smooth line of her torso would be exposed, and your fingers could trace down her belly button, the tips dipping between her legs-

The window is fogging at the bottom, the steam slipping out in tendrils - but the heat can't compete against the girl all wet and dripping, and it does nothing but give way to the cold, seeping in.

"I still think it's funny," she says, all matter of fact. "It's weird that this isn't awkward."

“What’s that?”

She's at the doorway.

“Us. Being here.”

You turn, and Tzuyu pulls at your sweater: looking for attention, always seeking out the easy praise. Her hand automatically slides beneath the cloth of your collar, drawing your jaw up for a short, hard kiss.

"Okay," and there's a small nod, the line of her throat pulsing as she breathes, "yeah," her chest rising and falling.

"Look at you,” you tell her. “All dry and tidy. Cute. "

A dumb comment earns you the tiniest smile, then she's leaning back, taking her hands to her hair and wringing out the water, pulling and tugging at the tangles - the towel wraps around her waist again and again, and she looks good, clean: it makes you think of what comes later. Not having to give a fuck - at least not for a little while.

"Jeez," she's shivering, still, and rubbing the tops of her arms, "and Sana is gonna be, like, all over you once she gets the chance. Wants a nice lay too, from the sound of it. Was being honest about that. Seems pretty pent up."

“Maybe you can help,” you offer, a bit flippant. She smiles - but in all seriousness, it’s a resounding: no.

There's something else, too, as she runs her fingertips, absently, through her hair - it falls flat on her neck and around her bare shoulders, dark against the lightness of her skin, but somehow you get the impression that she's not entirely preoccupied. "Y'know, I had a really good time and all, but I'm not the homewrecker type, yeah - it's not worth the stress," a slight shrug, like she isn't certain, her mind a little more tangled than usual, and for good reason, too, "probably won't hook up ever again."

"Gloomy," you tease.

"Don’t act like you're not going to miss it," she says, conspiratorial - and Tzuyu plants herself where you can feel her in your space - but she doesn't press. "Even when you're keeping busy, you'll have the smallest reminder, like - aha, Tzuyu would've really liked this, or that - when, y'know - you're stuck somewhere, thinking about the weather," and her cheeks are heating with color as her tongue forms the syllables - and the meaning is clear now as it always was.

“Even if you’re like, totally smitten, or whatever with her,” she adds, smirking.

"Sana will be back to her usual antics in no time. Being annoying and forward and whatever," you reply. "Won't miss much."

The girl's expression flickers a little - a slight twitch - but otherwise, a flat look.

She fixes the lay of her towel across her wide hips. You reach for her arm: pull at it, pulling her toward.

"I mean- Sana and I have a few things in common, anyway. Something in common. Can both be a spoilsport. Dull. Can be a bit, uh, territorial, if you you know-"

The rest is cut off, the words running into a kiss, deep and desperate; there's no place like her mouth: soft, eager, hot.

"And our usual antics?" she asks.

She leans into you, the chill starting to set, a fire burning nearby: something clandestine that maybe shouldn't last as long as it does. A log settling against the others, another plume of heat, and you say, a touch solemn,

"Dunno if we've ever been in common about anything, babe."

"Jeez. You don't have to spell it out like that, do you?" Tzuyu laughs lightly, holding the bath towel at her hips - her breasts are bare. They fall without support, her nipples, the slope of her ribs, everything. "I mean, how cruel."

(It isn't really. Because, here's the thing. In the grand scheme of things, Chou Tzuyu was never really supposed to happen at all.)

The snow clears, like all things you suppose, slowly and with a sigh: with the change in winds and a promise for a gradual spring. Tzuyu steals a shirt. Doesn't seem inclined to return it, says she's good at letting her imagination do half the work in lieu of the actual sex. (The nip is like a sting: it'll last longer, apparently. The bruising at the edges of her waist is more abstract.)

You’re in the driveway. Tzuyu’s leaning back on her luggage.

She kisses you like she wants to make you lose something: her lipstick, her mind, her heart or soul. And when her arms slide, her mouth parting - her tongue darting and sweeping, taking - Tzuyu knows a good many things about herself. She knows you, too. What makes her wet, what gets her off. What part of you will always come back to her. But her hair falls heavy: so much silk. She's laughing - a grin and she's licking the pink right off her teeth and she's beautiful and you think you'll want this always:

A girl like her, kissing so eager for you-

"You can totally say it first," she tells you, that mouth at the edge of your ear.

"Um," you say, and she settles down a little further, her wrists locked behind your neck. "You are so: clingy."

The look she gives you is adorable. All dimple, no worry. “Yeah, so?”

“How is that fair?”

"I don't really care if it is or isn’t. We’d be good together - and that’s a fact. So say something good, or I'm getting in that cab right now."

So you do. You do. The first word, the syllable, the way you ask her, the sound that is something like: mine, and the way it dries the edge of your throat; you kiss it away and she giggles because maybe this means, after a while, you really are as terrible as she always hoped.

She'll give you everything. She says, yours, and it would always be you; she halts a bit, and says it like she’s thawing a revelation, one that’s been there since the start - says she loves you and she always has. You laugh and she says it again: always.

Sana ends up standing in the cabin a day later. The same place you stood, watching Tzuyu lick yogurt off her spoon. Her coat looks expensive. There's her purse. The boots. That red-painted mouth. Her eyes are fixed, and she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Which is probably, you think, ideal.

"That's funny," her face betrays nothing.

The cabin smells a little like burning wood, vaguely: peppermint tea. An electric kind of heat and the warmth of the sun. It had smelled like evidence prior, the way a girl gets with her underwear missing, hair a tangled mess, body sore and aching, a wet bed. You'd looked like a pair of kids caught in a terrible storm, a lovers' quarrel in a small space - or, just: well-fucked.

"What's funny?" is how you finally manage.

"I just mean," she starts again, "she used to have like. The craziest crush on you. It would’ve been cute if it wasn't sorta sad. Did you know? You couldn't, I guess." She shrugs: a heavy lift of her shoulders, a release. The tension is leaking everywhere. "Must've been torture for her to get stuck here with you."

"Huh," you say, like you were missing something, which is exactly the wrong tone and definitely the wrong sentiment. “Oh, the crush. That. Sure.” You’re suppressing a smile. “Torture, yeah. Hey. Don't worry about it. I’m sure we’ll be fine."

(You can’t stop running it back through your head, her long dark hair disappearing into the cab. She loves you and you love her, and it’s got this beautiful caveat of being something simple-complex. Like, who would ever believe any of this? Like, who else even matters?

You say, you belong to me, and she agrees without even thinking.

“You always knew, though. From the start, you always did. I was never going to be anyone else's," and then she pouts. "Wouldn’t hurt telling me, from time to time."

And the mountains have a way of feeling like the end, sounding like the closing score, the credits - you look out at the white caps and reflect: maybe you shouldn’t have let her go. Maybe you should chase after her. Maybe you could still make it work. Maybe you should consider that a promise.

You look up at the sky, the pale blue - and maybe you can afford to let her go.

You know you’ll only find your way back.)

#tzuyu smut #twice smut #tzuyu #twice tzuyu smut #kpop smut #male reader smut

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sleeplessdreamer14 · 3 months ago

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𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 (𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝐼𝐼)

fandom: gravity falls

relationship: stanford pines x reader

summary: the moment Ford realized he loved you.

contains: fluff, pining, a few little references, no dialogue

some folks who loved part I: @thistrashisreadytobash @allies-diary @gravity-falls-fanatic89 @nelson-and-murdock

It had been a few months since Ford realized he liked you, and he was handling it… relatively well.

Upon fully registering the fact that he had a thing for you, Stanford decided to give it some time just to see if the crush would fade and things would go back to normal. But as weeks passed, it gradually became clear that these feelings weren’t going anywhere. Especially since a lot of cheesy love songs were starting to make a lot of sense to him all of a sudden.

That being said, he had found a way to make the best of the situation. Ford still spent time with you, fortunately still feeling comfortable in your company.

Though he had to admit, even the littlest things you did, like looking in his direction with those soulful eyes and saying his name, had a habit of getting his train of thought lost for a good second, resulting in him having to catch himself before he could say something stupid.

Now, strolling along the boardwalk, he found himself lost in thought. Whenever the two of you would part ways at the end of the day, even if you had just spent hours together, it always felt like he was leaving your side too soon. Like he always wanted just a few more minutes with you.

If Ford were to be completely honest, it was a bit frustrating, liking you. He had only had a select few crushes in the past- all of which seemed to go awry in some way or another- and none of them measured up to what he felt for you. Whereas he would feel little bouts of giddy excitement at the thought of his previous objects of infatuation, his crush on you was a whole other ball park. The joy was still there, of course, but it was evenly accompanied by a tightness in his chest that would have him distracted during the day and restless at night.

And as if on cue, the sound of your voice pulled Ford out of his thoughts, prompting him to lift his gaze from the old wooden planks of the boardwalk so he could see you walking in his direction and the distant clouds suddenly make way for the afternoon sun. He walked with you across the dock, sharing how your days have been and other such whatever.

Despite its difficulties, Ford liked this part of spending time with you. Ultimately, conversation with you has always been as easy as breathing. You understood each other's idiosyncrasies, and even liked each other all the more for them, and you just passed the time together so well.

For most of his life, Stanford had been brought up to meet certain expectations set up by those around him, thanks to his higher-than-average academic smarts.

But standing at the edge of the pier, leaning against the railing, staring out at the plum tinted sea with you, all of those things were put on the back-burner, and he wasn’t the six-fingered freak or the de facto smartest kid in the room. He could just indulge in simple whimsy, like when you two would watch scary movies and judge the quality of the acting and the special effects, or get drinks together after school and hang out until it got dark.

It was rare for him to meet anyone who made him feel so comfortably… human.

As the sun got lower, the skies grew darker, and the carnival lights came on, the full weight of the situation gradually dawned on Ford as he took a couple of small side steps to be closer to you, fumbling curtly with his hands. He loved to see you, to talk to you, hear you laugh, to be next to you. He just… loved you.

#stanford pines x reader #ford pines x reader #ford x reader #gravity falls x reader #part 2 #gravity falls #stanford pines #ford pines #teen ford #young ford pines #young stanford pines #young ford #my stuff #my writing #fluff #pining #when you know you know

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idkyetxoxo · 14 days ago

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Jacaerys Velaryon - Jealousy

Summary - In the icy halls of Winterfell, they harbour a secret love. When a moment of jealousy surfaces, it pushes them together, igniting a passionate encounter that deepens their bond and reveals the intensity of their feelings for one another.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x Stark reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2451

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

The prince of the realm had taken residence within the cold, ancient walls of Winterfell.

My brother, Cregan Stark, had spared no effort in making sure the prince felt not just welcomed, but bonded as a brother.

They had drank together under the vast northern skies, hunted through the wild woods side by side, sparred with blades that gleamed in the pale northern sun, and ultimately swore an oath of brotherhood, sealing it with blood—an oath that spoke of loyalty beyond titles and crowns.

By day, Cregan, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, saw to all the prince's needs, guiding him through the customs of our lands and offering the famed hospitality of our house.

But at night, those needs were met by another. The Lady of Winterfell, sister to the Warden of the North, saw to them.

And met them, too, with a fiery passion that words could scarcely convey.

I took a slow sip from my chalice, my fingers absently curling a lock of my hair as I half-listened to the idle conversation around the hearth.

My thoughts drifted like the northern winds, in and out of the present moment, while the fire crackled and the scent of pinewood filled the hall.

"And then we came upon a boar the size of a bloody horse," Cregan's voice boomed, drawing attention. "Prince Jacaerys managed to put an arrow between its eyes before it could charge!"

His words were met with cheers and raised cups from the men gathered around.

I lifted my eyes to Jace—Prince Jacaerys Velaryon—who was already watching me.

His gaze was steady, and a subtle, almost shy smirk curled his lips. I arched my brows ever so slightly, a silent gesture of congratulations, one that passed between us unnoticed by the others.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," a voice whispered in my ear, warm and teasing. I turned to find Robb, one of Cregan's closest friends, leaning in with a curious smile.

"Hunting doesn't exactly stir my passions," I replied, lowering my voice as though we shared some scandalous secret.

"One might think you've nothing of value to add, then," he quipped, taking a swig of his drink. I gasped and pinched his arm, drawing a groan from him.

"Hunting beasts isn't for me," I whispered back with a mischievous smile. "But hunting men... now that, perhaps, would catch my interest."

Robb chuckled, his finger playfully poking my cheek as I giggled along with him, the sound light and fleeting like a winter breeze.

"Sister. Robb," Cregan's voice cut through the laughter. I glanced over to see him watching us with a raised brow, his gaze expectant and slightly teasing.

"Care to share whatever riveting conversation you're keeping to yourselves?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, amusement clear on his face.

Before I could answer, Robb chimed in with a mischievous grin, "The Lady of Winterfell was just confessing her longing for my company."

I gasped in outrage, turning to slap him on the chest as laughter erupted around us.

"I was not!" I protested, watching Cregan's smile fade into something more serious—disapproval flickering in his eyes.

"There's no need to deny it, my lady," Robb continued with a grin. "We're all friends here. Your... improper desires are perfectly safe with me." His voice was filled with teasing.

"You're dead meat," I muttered, shoving him off his seat as he fell to the floor, laughing uncontrollably.

The hall filled with laughter—some of the men joining in to further tease Cregan about his sister's supposed affection. But as my gaze flitted to Jace, I noticed his expression had shifted.

His earlier amusement was gone, replaced by something hard, cold even.

His eyes bore into mine, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver through me. His knuckles were white, fingers clenched tightly around the stem of his goblet.

The lighthearted atmosphere seemed to vanish in an instant as I met his stare.

"What?" I mouthed silently, my brows knitting in confusion. But Jace looked away, his eyes now fixed on the fire as if it held all the answers to his thoughts, ignoring me entirely.

Without a word, Jace abruptly stood, the legs of his chair scraping against the stone floor.

The lively atmosphere faltered for a moment as the men glanced at him, but the prince merely excused himself with a stiff nod, his face a mask of cold composure. He moved towards the exit, his movements quick and deliberate, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.

I felt the shift immediately—something unspoken but potent hanging in the air between us.

My chest tightened as I watched him disappear through the archway, my mind racing.

I didn't miss the concerned look Cregan gave me, nor the raised eyebrows from a few others, but I forced a smile, trying to keep my features neutral.

"I think I shall retire as well," I announced softly, pushing back my chair as I stood. "It's been a long day, and I find myself in need of rest."

Cregan gave me a curious glance but said nothing, only nodding his approval. Robb smirked, clearly about to say something cheeky, but a look from me stopped him short.

As I made my way out of the hall, my heart pounded with every step. I knew where Jace was headed—his chambers. I could still feel the burn of his jealousy from across the room, and now I needed to find him, to calm whatever storm was brewing within him.

The halls of Winterfell felt unusually long tonight, the echo of my footsteps unnervingly loud as I hurried after him.

By the time I reached his chambers, the heavy wooden door was already closed.

I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering over the iron handle, before taking a deep breath and pushing it open.

Inside, the fire was low, casting a dim, flickering glow over the room. Jace stood with his back to me, facing the window that overlooked the snow-covered courtyard below. His posture was tense, his hands braced on the window ledge as he stared out into the night.

I closed the door softly behind me and stepped forward, my voice gentle. "Jace..."

He didn't turn, but I could see his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. His silence was louder than any words could have been.

"Jace," I repeated, more softly this time, moving closer until I stood just behind him. "Why did you leave like that?"

For a moment, he didn't answer, his jaw working as if he was wrestling with something unsaid.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "I couldn't sit there any longer... listening to them laugh, watching him touch you. That—Robb—he..." His voice trailed off, but I could hear the frustration, the hurt, in every syllable.

I sighed softly, stepping forward to gently rest my hand on his arm. "It was simply a jest. Robb is like a brother to me, nothing more. You know that."

His muscles tensed under my touch, but he still didn't turn to face me. "I don't like seeing you with him. The way he looked at you, the way everyone laughed... It felt like they were mocking me."

"They weren't mocking you," I reassured him, moving to stand in front of him now, placing a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

His eyes met mine then, dark and stormy, filled with doubt.

"Jace," I said softly, my thumb brushing against the fabric of his tunic. "You have nothing to worry about. I don't want Robb. I don't want anyone else. I only have eyes for you."

His expression softened, but the tension in his jaw remained. "But you laughed with him. And the way he... spoke to you, as if he had some claim—"

I cut him off, my voice firm but tender. "He has no claim over me. No one does. You are the only one I care for. The only one I think of."

I cupped Jace's face in my hands, pulling him closer, forcing him to meet my eyes. His gaze was turbulent, clouded with doubt and jealousy.

My voice was firm yet soft, as I willed him to see the truth I held in my heart.

"You have my heart, Jacaerys Velaryon," I whispered, my words carrying the weight of a vow. "Nothing anyone says or does will ever change that."

For a long moment, he just stared at me, his eyes searching mine.

Slowly, the rigid tension in his body began to unravel, the hard lines of his face softening. His shoulders, once taut with anger and insecurity, eased as if my words had melted the fear that gripped him.

He exhaled a slow, heavy breath, and leaned down to press his lips to mine.

The kiss was gentle, hesitant at first, as though he needed to be sure this wasn't some fleeting comfort. But I immediately reciprocated, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

His kiss deepened, more certain now, his hands slipping around my waist.

Without effort, he lifted me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as though this was where I belonged, where I had always belonged.

His steps were steady as he carried me toward his bed, laying me down gently as if I were something fragile, precious.

His hands, warm and eager, moved with purpose, unfastening the layers of heavy Northern clothing that separated us. His eyes never left mine, his gaze darkened with both love and desire.

"Lift your hips for me, love," he murmured his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver through me.

I obeyed, and he slid the last layers of fabric away, leaving me bare beneath him. The cold air of the room kissed my skin, but I felt only heat—his heat, his gaze, as he admired me.

He paused for a moment, his knuckles brushing softly against my cheek as if to reassure me, to remind me of the tenderness between us.

With his other hand, he began to pull off his own clothes, discarding them with far less care.

His body was soon exposed, every inch of him familiar yet breathtaking, and my breath caught in my throat as I watched him.

"Spread your legs for me," he whispered, his lips brushing the side of my neck, leaving a trail of burning kisses along my skin.

My pulse quickened, and though a blush warmed my cheeks, I obeyed, parting my thighs shyly under his gaze.

His hands slid down my body, parting my legs further as he positioned himself between them.

The anticipation was electric, every part of me yearning for him, but he took his time, teasing me with his touch, drawing out the moment. His fingers traced my slick folds before his body aligned with mine.

"I'm certain Robb could only wish he was in this position," Jace murmured, his lips curving into a playful, possessive smile as he dragged the head of his cock slowly along my entrance, teasing me.

A breathless laugh escaped my lips, mingled with soft gasps of pleasure as he pressed himself against me.

"He can only dream," I whispered back, my words breaking as he pushed into me, filling me with a slow, deliberate thrust.

My back arched, and I gripped the sheets beneath me, fisting the silken fabric as waves of pleasure rippled through me.

Jace paused for a moment, buried deep inside me, his breath heavy against my neck. His hand slid down to my thigh, gripping it possessively as he pulled me even closer.

The warmth of his body, the weight of him above me—it was everything I wanted, everything I craved.

And then he began to move.

His first thrust was slow, measured, as though he wanted to savor every second, but the heat between us grew too quickly to maintain restraint.

Each thrust after was deeper, more intense, and I could feel the growing hunger in every movement of his hips. He wasn't just making love to me—he was claiming me, showing me with every motion that I belonged to him and no one else.

Our bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through me.

My hands slid up his back, my nails digging into his skin as he found that perfect pace, his cock hitting deep inside me with every thrust.

Soft moans escaped my lips, mingling with the sound of our bodies moving together, the firelight casting flickering shadows on the walls around us.

"Jace..." I whispered his name, breathless, needing him to know just how much I wanted him, how much I needed this.

His hand slid from my thigh to the back of my neck, pulling me into a hungry kiss, his lips claiming mine with the same intensity he claimed my body.

The kiss was rough, desperate, as if he couldn't get enough of me.

His pace quickened, the measured thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding.

My body responded to his every move, my legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

Every inch of him inside me felt like fire, like I was burning with desire, every nerve alive with the sensation of him.

I broke the kiss, my head falling back against the pillows as my breath came in quick gasps, pleasure building inside me like a wave ready to crash.

Jace groaned against my skin, his lips pressing fevered kisses along my neck, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.

The tension in my body coiled tighter, my moans growing louder, my hands clutching at him as though I might fall apart if I let go.

His name left my lips again, a soft plea, and his hand slid between us, his fingers finding that sensitive spot that sent a jolt of pleasure straight through me.

My body arched beneath him, my nails dragging down his back as I came undone, the pleasure washing over me in waves, my release so powerful it left me trembling beneath him.

Jace followed soon after, his movements growing erratic as he lost himself in the pleasure, his grip on me tightening as he thrust into me one last time, spilling himself inside me with a low groan.

For a moment, we just lay there, our bodies tangled together, the only sound in the room our ragged breathing.

His forehead rested against mine, his eyes closed, and I felt the last remnants of jealousy and doubt melt away, leaving only the deep connection we shared.

"I told you," I whispered, my lips brushing against his as I smiled softly. "You have nothing to worry about."

Jace finally opened his eyes, his expression softened, his earlier jealousy replaced with something far deeper—love, trust, and the quiet promise that whatever happened, we would always have each other.

A/n - LYHFML page 317, chapter 55 (if ykyk x) we need to thank Aaron Warner for inspiring this one-shot 💋

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #team black #prince jacaerys #jace x reader #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys strong

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 10 months ago

Text

I DREAM, NOW, OF A NORMAL LIFE WITH YOU ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; suguru isn’t a lightweight. this is your first time actually seeing him drunk — though maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’d be the sappy kind.

word count; 9.4k (..... i got carried away ok)

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader (shoko calls u "girl" but in a "girl help" way not a gendered way), written w a no curses au in mind, sugu is a sappy emotional drunk i said what i said, sickening amounts of fluff, depictions of intoxication, reader is averse to alcohol, sugu wants to marry u so bad it makes him look silly, lots of emotions & lots of love <33

a/n; this fic has been ROTTING in my drafts for the longest time but its super precious to me and now i finally get to post it!! @softgirlgonehaywire & @hayakawalove ily ty for being interested in sappy!sugu this is a treat for u <33

the bar isn’t all that far off from your apartment.

it’s a short distance, really. walk straight ahead, until you reach the record store that suguru likes to frequent, and then take a right; a minute or two uphill, and then you’ll be able to see the blue of the sea. once you’re there, all that’s left is to look for mellow golden lighting and descend a set of stairs.

which is what you’re currently doing, popsicle in hand, loose clothes and comfortable shoes on as you wallow in the mellow summer evening. everything is blue — the dark shade of the sky, and your ice pop, pastel and sweet, tasting of pure youth. the hoodie you threw on is a rich cobalt, suguru’s in name but yours in spirit. he only wears it when you complain that it doesn’t smell like him anymore.

humming a jolly tune, you take a sharp turn, allowing the summer sensations to curl around your subconscious. blissed out and content.

you were so, so bored — stuck at home with no one to keep you company, no one to mumble snarky commentary about the show playing on tv, no one to run their fingers through your hair while your head rests in their lap. pure torture, really, being faced with the consequences of your own actions. after you stupidly told suguru you’d be okay on your own.

he even asked you twice, just to be sure, even told you that he’d prefer you to join him on his night out. and again, you declined; because it’s been so long since he had some time alone with shoko and satoru, and you were feeling a little tired anyways.

so he gave in. heading out, with a promise to bring back a tub of your favorite ice cream, leaving you with the apartment to yourself. did you come to regret your little white lie? maybe. possibly.

but everything worked out in the end.

a pleasant breeze caresses your skin, brushing against the apple of your cheek, and you watch as peach blossoms dance in a faraway park. cicadas cling to every tree in sight, buzzing a pleasant tune, mingling with the giddy giggles of high school students enjoying their summer vacation. it’s been raining for a couple of days; you can still smell it in the air, feel it in the low tinge of humidity clinging to your skin, still hear suguru’s insistence that you bring an umbrella with you to work — just in case.

but today, the skies were clear, and it’s late, not too humid but not too chilly. and the stars are out, glimmering in that fuzzy sea of mellow cerulean, leaking out like little marbles cast into space. falling down, down, down, close enough for you to see. from here, it looks as if they’re waving. you resist the urge to wave back.

peace. bliss. a nostalgia so vibrant you could drown in it, feel it lick at your ankles like soft sea foam.

eager to scratch a certain itch in your brain, attention span zipping from one street vendor to the pop music blasting from a couple streets away, you take your phone out from your pocket. absently scrolling through your messages, until you get to the ones shoko sent you just ten minutes ago. the ones that brought you out here, into a summer evening soon to slip into nightfall, ones that have you walking to the bar you chose not to join them at.

messages that still have you pushing back a bout of giggles, chewing lazily on your ramune ice pop with a giddy smile.

sho 🚬: come get ur man sho 🚬: he’s drunk. sho 🚬: like DRUNK drunk

you: …… um. you: what happened to hi? hello?? good evening???

sho 🚬: no time for that. look sho 🚬: [ image ] sho 🚬: he looks so goofy lol

unable to resist the temptation, you press the pad of your finger against the screen — opening the image attachment, just to drink in the sight once again. what you see is a certain man, slumped over in his seat, cheek smooshed against the wooden table in front of him. messy hair, no longer tied into a bun, cascading down his shoulders and back. from the little you can see of his face, his skin is flushed a light pink, and his eyes are closed, fingers still curled around an empty beer jug.

like a sleepy puppy.

a coo tiptoes on your tongue, but you bite down on your lip in an effort to stop it, just grinning at your screen with pure adoration in your lovesick eyes.

he’s drunk, alright. an unfamiliar sight, but not at all unwelcome. because he’s cute, terribly so, so cute that it hurts, even when he’s obviously wasted. it’s almost funny — you know their drinking habits. shoko holds her liquor so well that it’s a little horrifying, and satoru can get wasted if he has more than a sip of it. and suguru?

suguru never gets drunk. he barely even drinks. out of consideration for satoru, maybe, or you. probably both. that’s just how he is; you thought he hated fish for years, because he was always so eager to give you the best bites of the sushi rolls you ordered. turns out he was just indulging you.

so, to be frank — the idea of him suddenly being drunk is a little bit of a shocker. but it’s also kind of exciting, in a ridiculous way. new, fun, just what you need when you’re bored out of your mind.

(or maybe you’re just happy to have an excuse to go see him.)

you: NOOOO you: MY BABY 😭😭😭 you: what did u guys DO to him???

sho 🚬: satoru and him made a bet 😐 you know how they are sho 🚬: he drank like a divorced mother of four ive never seen something so beautiful

you: …. you: have i told you that you’re both terrible

sho 🚬: u love us <33 sho 🚬: anyway he’s been asking me where u are for the past ten minutes pls come i can’t stand him sho 🚬: he’s crying.

you: HUH???????? you: WHY????????????????

sho 🚬: dude i dont know sho 🚬: please come get him he’s being so sappy that satoru’s abt to throw up

you: ???? okok 😭 you: im omw ig??

sho 🚬: girl hurry he just told me he genuinely appreciates my presence in his life 😐

an exhale — laced with deep amusement — drops from your lips and spills into the summer air. it tastes like a memory from long ago.

slipping your phone back into your pocket, you raise your gaze, searching for a glimmer of goldish light. soaking up the scent of the ocean, sparkling on the border of your peripheral. salty and sweet.

no matter how hard you try, all you can think of is that certain someone, waiting for you to pick him up. your mind keeps drifting back to the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his hair falls over his face when he leans down, the sound he makes when he stretches in the morning.

you want to see him. badly. you want him near, want to feel the familiar warmth of his presence, want to see him smile and laugh and sigh and raise his eyebrow at your antics.

so there isn’t any time to waste. you’re walking towards that familiar set of stairs before you know it, shoes hitting the asphalt with a mantra of satisfying thuds.

and when you step in through the opened door, you’re immediately engulfed by a sense of overflowing comfort. mellow, warm lights, the soft buzzing of static from an old radio, low citypop beats trailing through the air. the bartender by the counter gives you a curt nod in greeting, before motioning towards a certain table. it’s over in the corner, covered in beer jugs and fancy glasses, with three beauties seated around it.

satoru notices you first.

a bright grin finds its way onto his face, and he waves you over giddily, happily. barely contained excitement in the motion. shoko’s gaze follows his, flitting over to meet yours — and you think she mouths an oh, thank god, before taking another sip from her glass. she brings a hand up in greeting when you come closer, and you can’t see her smile, but there’s a crinkle to her eyes; a warmth in them that you’d never miss.

”hey, guys.”

”yo!” satoru chirps, beaming in a way that’s so distinctly him it makes you soften. he looks so comfortable in his seat, with a cocktail you know is non-alcoholic and probably too sweet for anyone but him to stomach. giggling to himself, leaning over to poke suguru’s cheek, with a teasing declaration of your chaperone is here!

and there he is.

the man you came here for, still slumped over in his seat, unresponsive. not for long. as the lilt of your voice reaches his ears, his eyes flutter open, in a bout of recognition — even in the drunken state he’s in. an immediate sensation of familiarity creeps into his veins, rousing him from his cozy, half-asleep stupor.

he doesn’t even grumble over the way satoru keeps poking at his cheek, interest and attention focused solely on a certain someone. you, your presence.

and when your eyes meet his, he lights up.

it’s precious, you think, how his eyes widen, blooming with genuine affection, so endearing you could kiss him right then and there. his face is flushed, and his hair is tousled, and the warm lighting of the bar paints him in a golden hue. so perfect for him, your star in the sky.

a smile spreads across his lips, big and happy and warm, and you can’t help but mirror it.

(gosh, he’s cute.)

with a dizzy kind of eagerness, suguru sits up, palms flush against the table to support his weight. he stumbles out of his seat, paying no heed to satoru’s amused huff of careful! or the rattling of fragile glass.

it only takes a few uncoordinated steps for him to reach you, where you haphazardly lean against the wall, watching him amusedly. that delighted smile never leaves his lips, as his arms go to curl around your waist, big and heavy, his jaw finding its rightful place on the curve of your shoulder.

”baby,” he drawls, fond and affectionate. breathing you in. ”sweetheart. my angel.”

a flustered puff of laughter slips from your lips, stumbling a little under his weight. his voice is syrupy sweet, overflowing with love and adoration, soft in a way that has your knees buckling. a little raspy. murmured right into your ear, sending pleasant shivers down your spine.

he’s too sweet for you to handle, really, even sweeter than satoru’s overpriced cocktail. and he smells the same as always; a blend between coffee grounds, cigarette smoke and rain, one that never fails to soothe you. even when it’s tangled up with a vague but vivid stench of alcohol, courtesy of the drinking he’s been doing until now.

you crinkle your nose, but don’t let go of him, nuzzling your cheek against the side of his head. words buzzing with warmth. ”hey, sugu.”

suguru only squeezes you tighter, content to have you in his arms. finally, his world makes sense again. all he can do is bask in your voice, warmth, scent — he’s just so enamored by it all. almost in a trance, heartstrings dancing along to the beat of your presence, your very existence, that appears to him as something almost angelic. soft and familiar, something that feels right at home when it’s tucked into his embrace. where he can keep it safe.

”missed you…” he murmurs, sleepy, smearing an open mouthed kiss against the crook of your neck. ”i love you s’much…”

a chuckle. ”i love you too,” you echo, running a steady hand over his back. your voice is laced with something teasing, but awfully fond. ”you really are drunk, aren’t you?”

”mm…” he only hums, cheek pressed flush against your soft skin. ”’m sorry…” he mumbles, stifling a yawn. he sounds a little guilty, and it makes you want to coo. pull his cheek a little.

instead, you laugh. amusement vowen into the bubbly noise. ”it’s fine, sugu. c’mon — let’s go home, alright?”

at that, satoru visibly reacts, placing his glass on the table with a soft clink before getting up to stretch. he grabs suguru’s discarded jacket, letting it hang off his arm as he walks over to the two of you.

”i’ll help you carry him,” he smiles, always so dependable. so ready to be of service. maybe a little too eager to carry suguru around like a sack of potatoes.

a smile blooms on your face, and satoru gives you a playful wink. shoko just leans back in her seat, stretching idly. it feels like home with them there.

”i’ll stay here,” she hums, a faint grin tugging at her lips. ”he’s your problem now.”

”got it.” you meet her lidded eyes, sharing an amused look as satoru tries to coax suguru away from you, pulling at his cheek while he whines and clings to the fabric of your clothing.

finally, he relents, and you look back at the table with a grin. ”see you later, sho’.”

a smile is the only response you get, but it’s enough. it’s her, the same as always, still sipping from a glass of expensive whiskey and raising her hand in a silent see you. relaxed and cool, and so very lovely.

with one arm over satoru’s shoulder and the other clinging to your hoodie, suguru stirs.

”shoko…” he groans, craning his head to look back at her, even as satoru makes a move to leave. ”don’t drink too much. and watch out for strangers…”

he trails off, blinking drowsily, a protective tone to his voice. worried. awfully like him. neither you nor satoru can resist the chuckle you indulge in, but shoko just rolls her hazel eyes.

”i don’t need to hear that from you,” she scoffs, tinged with amusement and what you’re almost certain is embarrassment. there’s a fondness to her snark, one you’d never miss.

(shoko will always be shoko. you know that she appreciates suguru’s concern, even if she doesn’t want to show it.)

”alright, c’mon,” satoru quips, slapping suguru’s back with a grin. ”there, there, big guy. let’s get you home, hm?”

just as you suspected, he doesn’t let you help, doing all the heavy lifting on his own. not breaking a single sweat, flaunting his strength as he hoists suguru up the steps — while you do nothing but follow, a light jacket hanging off your arm.

cold midnight air embraces you, slathering your cheeks with the essence of summer as your shoes meet the asphalt. satoru smiles, a low exhale escaping him, dusting off his hands. ”there we go.”

suguru stumbles towards you, no longer caged in, slumping against your shoulder with a satisfied sigh. blinking slowly, as you link arms, his muddled senses adjusting to the outside world. a pleasantly blue sky, a sun long set, and a string of lamp posts to light up the street ahead of you. artificial fireflies, watching over the town you love so dearly.

you part your lips, and a soft exhale slips out, dripping with fondness. ”thanks, satoru,” you smile, meeting his gaze.

”don’t mention it,” he waves you off, but you know he appreciates it; always eager to be praised. ”can you bring him back by yourself?”

”yeah, we’ll be fine. it’s close, anyway. don’t worry.”

a hum buzzes in his throat, and his cobalt gaze drifts upwards, to bask in the starry sky. a moment passes, and then he’s looking back at you and suguru; a soft and earnest smile playing at his lips. so sincere you want to reach out, cup his cheek, make sure he knows how loved he is.

”i’ll go back to shoko, then,” he chirps. bubbly and graceful, giddy and playful. always so lovely. ”gotta make sure she stays out of trouble.”

a chuckle. you mirror his smile. ”of course.”

and with that, your precious best friend makes a move to return to the bar, taking a decisive step away from you. before he can get too far, though, a certain hand reaches out to hold onto his sleeve — keeping him still.

satoru turns around. blinking once, then twice, in confusion; faced with none other than suguru, still slumped against you. a little out of it, sleepy and disoriented, yawning quietly, but his eyes are as clear as ever. caring and sentimental.

his gaze cuts to the bone of things. it’s something you’ve grown used to.

”thanks, satoru,” he murmurs, letting go of said man’s shirt. the words that spill from his lips are straightforward, a little tactless, but overflowing with earnest appreciation. ”you’re my best friend.”

a moment passes. the stars burn in silence.

satoru blinks.

then he sighs, with what you know is nothing more than feigned annoyance. masking his embarrassment, the same way shoko did, the same way suguru always does. your repressed, beloved little losers.

”yeah, yeah. i got it,” he pats suguru’s shoulder, once, twice. not looking at him. ”you’re such a sap, you know that? geez.”

a grin crawls up to rest on your lips, fresh mischief blooming in your eyes. ”not gonna call him your best friend back?” you tease, a soft tilt of your head.

satoru gives you a glare, playful, one you can’t physically see from behind his shades but still somehow sense. ”don’t add fuel to the fire,” he grins, with a halfhearted flick to your forehead.

before you can bicker further, suguru yawns, loudly, closing his eyes and nuzzling into you. you share an amused look with satoru, until he shakes his head fondly.

”take care of him, alright?”

”i will. you guys have fun!”

and at last, satoru turns on his heel, coupled with a smile and a lazy wave. but suguru calls out to him once more, unwilling to part ways without saying his piece. so sentimental, so loving it comes to him like breathing.

”bye-bye, satoru,” he slurs, voice loud enough for the entire street to hear, tired and honest. raising his arm in a lazy wave. ”i love you!”

”go home already!” satoru shouts, descending down the steps with a flush to his cheeks that you’ll tease him for later. his soft laughter is carried away by the breeze, sweet and saccharine.

(satoru will always be satoru. you know that he loves suguru back, even if he doesn’t want to say it out loud.)

with a faint chuckle, melting into the summer air, you tug on suguru’s arm. ”alright,” you chirp, looking up at him. ”let’s go!”

he seems a little more awake now, at least, trying to match your steps. meanwhile, you do what you can to support his weight; he’s stumbling a bit, but you don’t mind. if anything, his weight is a comfort, your arms linked together like a lucky charm. a safe harbour.

suguru is acting kind of like a big puppy, gazing at you with hearts in his eyes. a little meek, clinging to you, trailing after you pliantly. he’s a little dizzy, still, and he needs you to get back home in one piece. it makes you puff out your chest, stand up straighter. makes you feel protective of your 6’2 boyfriend, all toned muscle and broad shoulders, the personification of scary dog privilege. but he needs you right now.

a soft bout of laughter spills into the air, as you try to ignore his heavy stare. it’s impossible, though — so you turn your gaze to meet his own, and he practically glows under the sound of your giggles, that cheeky smile you’re wearing. ”you okay, suguru?”

his eyes soften. silently, he runs a thumb over the knots of your knuckle, smoothing down your skin, thick fingers intertwined with yours.

he looks deep into your eyes, and a soft hum of affirmation buzzes in his throat.

”i’m just so happy,” he grins, with a sincerity that has your heart doing flips inside your ribcage. it flutters, flutters, flutters, in the wake of his unbridled joy. it buzzes like it wants to break out.

suguru has this dreamy look on his face, one you can do nothing but admire, painted over with fluorescent moonlight and pure summer bliss. one that reminds you a little of high school rooftops, midnight road trips, what it means to be in love.

you nudge him, softly, with the arm that’s tangled up in his own. tilting your head, teasing words on the tip of your tongue. ”you know, i never took you for a sappy drunk.”

suguru's only response is a cute little mmrn, steps heavy as he leans on you for support. trying his best to carry himself, not wanting to inconvenience you, but it’s just a little tough. especially when he feels this soft, this grateful — this blessed.

a giddy, dreamy smile tugs at his lips. his amber gaze travels up, towards the little pale dots of star clusters all across the night sky, gleaming like milk poured over rich coffee. then he exhales; a soft, blissful little sound. ”i’m so lucky.”

a moment passes, silently. in the distance, cicadas buzz. with a patient smile, you admire him, the reflection of starlight in his eyes. suguru has this forlorn look, etched into his expression, like he’s seeing something that isn’t quite there.

”i have satoru and shoko…” he mumbles, just loud enough for you to hear. as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue, as if he can’t quite believe them himself. that’s how lucky he feels, sometimes.

a nod. ”they love you a bunch, you know?”

(they do. they’re both horrible at saying it out loud, but you know they do. you know that they love suguru, just as much as he loves them, even if none of them are good at putting it into words. perhaps they don’t really even need to, in the first place.)

suguru mirrors the soft nod of your head, bangs falling over his eyes as he does. ”and i love them, too.” his smile grows. ”they’re my best friends.”

absently, you reach a hand out, brushing away the strands of hair obscuring his vision. and suguru stirs, his gaze shifting until it falls on you. like a moth to a flame. there’s something indescribable in his eyes, soft and heavy and tender and true.

”— and i have you.”

a stutter of your heartbeat, a jolt throughout your chest. his stare almost burns, but you can’t avert your gaze — suguru looks positively lovesick. admiring you with a dreamy gaze, as if he can’t believe you’re real.

he reaches a hand out; cradling your face with one big palm, the rough pads of his fingers smoothing down your skin so very gently. smearing his fondness from your jaw to your cheekbone, so loving your breath hitches in the back of your throat.

a soft, content sigh spills into the air, like a prayer that doesn’t need any words. his smile is serene.

”my angel.”

as the words fall, that peaceful smile of his changes shape, shifting into a big, giddy grin. it lights up his whole face. a chuckle leaves his lips, content and delighted. ”i’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

and for a moment, you fear that your heart will stop beating entirely. frozen, listening to the lullaby of your heartbeat resounding in your ears.

suguru has always been frighteningly good at flustering you — but isn’t this a little unfair? you clear your throat, hoping to regain some composure. it’s tough, though. your words could never measure up to his, could never flow as freely, but they’re honest. wholly and thoroughly. and maybe that’s enough.

”we’re the luckiest in the world, too, then,” you echo, smiling, words barely above a whisper. willing yourself to meet his gaze. ”since we have you.”

suguru looks into your eyes. there’s starlight inside them, he thinks, shining brightly, gleaming in the dark. with the hazy filter of intoxication clouding his mind, it’s all he can think. you’re his northern star, his lighthouse. his one and only saving grace.

(you’re so, so pretty.)

a pause. after a silent moment, spent etching your features into his retinas, suguru tilts his head. his expression is unreadable.

— he boops your nose.

you blink. once, twice, caught entirely off guard; and suguru giggles. soft, giddy little breaths falling from his lips like marbles, strewn over the sand of a warm beach. his eyes are crinkled at the edges, and his smile is sweet, meeting your surprised gaze with a honeyed coo. ”you’re so cute, baby.”

silence. you look up at him.

then you sigh, exasperated, more flustered than you’d like to admit. god. okay, he’s really out of it. for some reason, you still thought you could get a good one-liner in, but of course he had to ruin that by being a little tease.

you grab onto his bicep. gaze fixed straight ahead, giving it a tug. your steps are more decisive now, and suguru follows you happily. ”alright, alright. c’mon,” you beckon, slightly gruff. ”we’re almost there.”

when you finally reach the familiar front door of your apartment, you exhale a deep sigh, laced with pure relief. limbs tired from dragging suguru up the stairs, mind muddled and sleepy and senses practically engulfed by a man still clinging to you like his life depends on it.

after fumbling with your keys and hearing the click of the lock, you take a victorious step over the threshold, and a familiar scent greets you. soothing, comforting, a blend between fresh laundry and leftover curry and blooming hydrangeas. filling your senses with a fervent kind of bliss. of course, suguru’s does the same; intimately intertwined with the scent of home. that everlasting, never-changing blend.

with him clinging to you like this, it’s almost suffocating — but you truly don’t mind. suguru’s warm, and sweet, and being close to him like this makes you feel at peace. his hands rest on your hips, his jaw on your shoulder, and he adamantly refuses to let go of you for even a second. it’d be annoying if he wasn’t so cute, if he wasn’t suguru geto, if you weren’t so horrendously weak for him.

what you don’t know is that suguru has an agenda. one that isn’t just i want to hug the love of my life, although partially that as well. suguru has a plan, one he’s been absentmindedly dreaming of for the past five minutes; he’s a man on a mission.

but he’s patient. always has been, always for you. so he waits, and waits, for you to hang his jacket up, for you to kick your shoes off your feet. and when you’re finally, finally finished, suguru leans in to kiss you.

— you block his mouth with the palm of your hand.

a moment passes. silent, almost tense. in his stupor, suguru’s mind can’t quite seem to comprehend the situation before him; he doesn’t understand why he isn’t pressing a kiss to your lips, right now, why he’s kissing the skin of your palm. he doesn’t understand why you look so troubled, a faint guilt simmering in your eyes. he just doesn’t understand.

all he can do is blink, dumbly, surprised. a question written on his features clear as day.

”well, it’s just…” you sputter, sheepishly. avoiding his gaze, a little guilty. ”you know. since you’ve been drinking, and all…”

and it hurts, you think. it hurts a lot more than it should. it hurts to reject him, hurts to see the way he deflates at your clarification. like a big kicked puppy. like you just threatened to throw him out into the street.

suguru removes your hand, gently, holding it in his own as he speaks. those amber eyes are downcast, and a soft pout rests on his lips. the sight alone feels like a dagger to your chest.

”but…” he frowns, voice awfully meek. he looks so sad. ”i wanna kiss you…”

a soft sigh leaves your lips, before you can think to hold it in. oh, he’s being so unfair. guilt clings to your mind, an itch you yearn to scratch, and all you want is to kiss his pout away. but you really, really don’t want to kiss his alcohol-soaked lips.

so you settle for the second best option.

”’m sorry, sugu,” you coo, reaching a hand out to cradle his cheek. he leans into your touch, still pouting, and you tug a little at his bottom lip. wasting no time in closing the narrow distance between you.

the kisses you press against his skin are soft. peppering kisses all across his face; ghosting your lips along his jaw, trailing towards his cheekbones, and settling on his forehead. tiny little pecks, wherever you can reach. your voice is soft, muffled into his skin between butterfly kisses. ”tomorrow, okay?”

and suguru seems to brighten up a little, melting under the contact, exhaling in pure bliss. he fervently returns the treatment, planting open mouthed kisses all over your face, respecting your wishes and avoiding your lips. they’re a little sloppy, but you don’t mind.

it does make you a little flustered, though. with his palms cradling your face, engulfing you, there’s nothing you can do except drown in his affection, the love he showers you with. it tickles — and suguru’s smile only grows, at the sound of your soft giggles. his cheeks are starting to hurt.

the state he’s in is just a little bit hazy. despite his initial dejection, he no longer minds that he can’t feel your lips against his, disappointment warded off by your smile and laughter alone. he thinks you’re so, so cute, and all he wants is to kiss you forever.

but you have other plans.

and before you know it, you’re both curled up in bed, limbs all tangled up beneath the blankets, bodies pressed together as suguru cages you in. he squeezes you tightly, hugging you close, practically melting into you. usually, it’d be so easy to fall asleep like this. with suguru cradling you, covering your body with his own, warm and safe. he’s like a furnace.

but right now, it’s a little tough. you’re kept awake by open mouthed, ticklish kisses pressed against your skin, supplied by the love of your life. it’s sweet, but he’s being far too distracting — as soon as your consciousness begins to fade into the fuzzy realm of sleep, he leaves a sloppy kiss against your collarbone, and you’re jolted awake once more.

”suguuu,” you whine, dragging his name out with childish inclination. ”we need to sleep…”

”sorry,” he only murmurs, muffled into your skin. he doesn’t stop, though, planting a wet smooch on your cheek, and then another. you squirm a little in his hold, and he emits a shaky breath. ”jus’ love you so much…”

suguru knows that he needs to stop. he knows that both of you need to sleep, that you need to rest up. that he needs to recover from the intoxicated state he’s fully aware that he’s in — but he just can’t seem to follow through with it. every cell in his body burns with a certain desire, a need to shower you in love, and it’s unendurable. with every kiss, every giggle he manages to pull from your lips, suguru’s heart fills up just a little more.

your presence surrounds him, like a weighted blanket, and he clings to it with a desperation he never knew before you.

in the midst of his feverish consciousness, you’re all his muddled mind can think about. the way you fit together with him like a puzzle piece, like he was formed in the shape of someone meant to hold you. like you were formed in the shape of his embrace. with you pressed up against him, limbs tangled with his, everything feels so right.

but it’s so overwhelming.

you’re so, so close, so close he’s practically engulfed by your scent, your touch, everything that makes his heart burn with devotion. it’s beating so viscerally in his ribcage, stirring the protective instinct inside him; he just wants you to stay close, by his side, wants to keep you safe and happy. wants to make you feel loved.

suguru’s heart feels wet and raw and bare, fully exposed for you to see. beating just for you.

with the alcohol inside his veins, and the nostalgia of the summer evening on his mind, everything weighs on him just a little too heavily. everything feels just a little too much. every sensation, every emotion, every sappy thought. all of it together is almost too much for him to handle.

all he can think of is you. how lucky he is, to have met you, to have gotten to know you. how much you’ve changed him, changed him for the better, how much of him is directly tied to your existence.

suguru never truly appreciated his name until you came into his life. it was always no more than a simple fact, a gift from his parents that he hadn’t asked for. something natural, that he didn’t question, didn’t think about.

but you say his name with such warmth.

he wants to hear you say it, over and over again, forever. suguru — in that sweet, lovely voice of yours. better yet, just sugu, a cutesy, silly nickname he could never bring himself to actually hate. he just wants to hear you call out to him, with that warmth of yours, the one that never fails to soothe him. no matter how tired he is, how stressed. how much everything else weighs down on him.

at the end of the day, he’s simply your sugu. and that’s all he ever really wants to be.

with a hazy filter clouding his senses, coaxing him into closing his eyes, suguru should give in. he should fall asleep, let you fall asleep. but he can’t bring himself to stop thinking about it; he just loves you so wholly. who you are, what you do. as an equal, an individual, a little galaxy tucked into a body made of flesh and blood. no matter what you’re doing, no matter where you are.

and right now, you’re here, with him. curled up in bed, in your shared apartment, inhaling the same air, exhaling at the same time. by his side, when you could be anywhere else in the world.

his heart is yours. that’s all suguru can bring himself to think, the only coherent thought he can cling to and echo in his head. his heart is yours. forever and ever.

he makes no attempt to stop the tears from pooling in his eyes, even as he feels them cling to his lashes, even as his breathing clogs up in the back of his throat. they’re proof of his devotion, his carefully nurtured love. growing over the years, into something almost sacred, a kind of faith. something so fervent he wouldn’t dare deny himself of feeling it.

he can’t hold in a faint sniffle, either, just barely audible. one that breaks your heart in two. it aches, aches, aches. suguru is gazing at you with glassy eyes, a sight you aren’t used to seeing — but he also looks so genuinely glad. his tears aren’t ones of sadness. you know, because you know him.

”aw, honey…” you coo, the pads of your fingers reaching out to cradle his cheek. despite your efforts, your voice wavers when you speak, little more than a whisper. ”don’t cry... you’ll make me cry, too.”

suguru places his larger palm over yours, choking on another sniffle. the sight renders you completely helpless — you want so desperately to stop his tears from falling, but a part of you is too touched to speak. too mesmerized by how beautiful he is, translucent tears illuminated by softly flickering moonrays, lashes glimmering like shooting stars.

all you can do is smooth a thumb right under his eye, wiping away a stray tear with enough tenderness to stitch his heart back together. suguru emits a shaky breath.

”’m sorry,” he sniffles, closing his eyes. nuzzling into the crook of your neck. ”i’m just so happy… love you so much… you mean so, so much to me, i…”

an exhale, a little breathless, tears soaking through the material of the shirt you’re wearing. his shirt. that realization makes him cry even more, a shuddering breath that shatters like glass when it drops from his tongue.

and then, in a voice so quiet you barely hear it, a soft whisper worth a million words:

”i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

and it hurts. your heart aches so sincerely, thorns curling around your ribcage, because suguru is crying, and he’s telling you all this. with such an honest intonation that you don’t dare doubt him, even for a second. heavy thumps of blood rush through your veins; he’s still clinging to you, sniffling into your neck, and you’re so in love with him that you almost can’t comprehend it.

all you can do is press a kiss to his shoulder, chaste and tender, and hug him just a little tighter. echoing his words, in earnest, desperately trying to keep your voice from breaking apart. ”i love you, too. more than anything.” a sigh, full of wonder. little butterfly kisses scattered across the expanse of his neck. ”you mean the world to me. honestly.”

with a smile against his skin, you hope so tenderly that the soft kisses will comfort him, will stop the tears from falling.

”my sweet boy,” you murmur, lovingly, because he is. the sweetest boy you’ll ever know. suguru shudders when you press your lips against his jaw. ”i’m so, so lucky.”

with the combined efforts of your kisses, the alcohol slumbering inside his veins, and the tears running down his cheeks, suguru begins to feel awfully tired. sinking into sleep’s embrace, like a sailor lost at sea. comforted by the glimmer of a lighthouse, just out of reach.

everything feels right. he’s safe, and happy, and in love. so hopelessly, blissfully in love.

the exhaustion creeps up on him, tidal waves embracing a shore, beckoning him into closing his weary eyes. a yawn leaves his lips, and he shifts a little in your hold. you’re smoothing down the back of his head, almost protectively, and sleep is only a flicker away for the both of you. with the last of his strength, suguru snuggles just a little further into you, nose pressed up against your neck, close enough that he feels the flutter of your heartbeat.

”wanna be with you forever,” he murmurs, sleepily, stifling another bout of yawns. his smile is sweet and dreamy. ”gonna marry you one day…”

a moment passes.

for a second, you think your heart does actually cease beating entirely.

swallowing a gulp, you allow yourself the luxury of an inhale — and fresh air fills your lungs. grounding. all you can hear is the rapid beating of your own heart, heavy thumps reverberating in your ears. warmth flows through your entire body.

marry.

the word is spoken so casually, so sincerely, as if he’s said it countless times before. as if he’s repeated it, over and over again in his mind, just to get used to the idea. as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. marriage. something so foreign, so scary, enough to send shivers down every narrow of your skeleton. such a large step to take.

(but suguru says it with such tenderness.)

”… okay,” you whisper, at last. breathless. ”i’ll be waiting, then.”

there’s nothing else to say. you don’t know if suguru is even conscious enough to hear you, let alone understand the full weight of your words, of his own words. but you don’t mind.

a soft smile lingers on your lips, as you stroke his hair, mind hazy and limbs heavy. nuzzling your cheek against the side of his head, full of affection. dripping from your hands down to the column on his throat, through his windpipe, down to his heart.

”goodnight, sugu.” you press a kiss to his messy hair, tender and chaste. ”i love you.”

an incoherent mutter leaves his lips, in response, one you can’t quite make out — but you don’t need to. because you already know what it means, in the same way you know that the sky is blue.

(an echo buried deep within his subconscious, voiced without effort, as easy as breathing.

i love you, too.)

the sizzling of a pan and the whirring of a coffee machine form a beautiful morning symphony, bouncing off the walls of your kitchen. to your ears, and your still sleepy brain, it’s a soothing sound — coaxing soft little melodic hums from the depths of your throat.

with such a tantalizing aroma in the air, a blend between espresso and pancake batter, you can’t help but buzz with a mellow, groggy kind of joy.

honestly, you're beginning to understand suguru’s fondness for the morning hours. waking up to his soft snores and content expression was more than enough to give you the energy you needed to get out of bed; all sleepy and relaxed and pretty, with hazy morning sunrays kissing up his bare skin, caressing his messy bedhead.

a rare sight, awfully precious. a part of you wanted to stay in bed and admire him all morning, but the thought of taking care of him coaxed you into leaving. it’s the least you could do, really — after seeing him so sincere, so open and vulnerable.

hopefully, his headache won’t be too brutal when he wakes up. you left some hangover pills on the nightstand, courtesy of shoko’s advice: just get him ibuprofen and coffee. works like a charm. are you a little worried about her nonchalance? maybe. but you trust her judgement. they’re a handful, but you love them — even when they’re drunk or hungover.

which is why you’re standing in the kitchen, engulfed by the morning sunlight, in front of a sizzling pan. trying your very best not to burn the pancakes you’re making, patiently waiting for the coffee to be done.

in your blissful stupor, caught up with thoughts of suguru and breakfast and forevers, you don’t notice another presence coming up behind you.

two arms wrap around your waist, and a jaw attaches itself to the curve of your shoulder. you startle, a little, jolting at the contact — but then you recognize that telltale scent, the familiar weight of his arms, and immediately melt into the embrace.

suguru breathes out a raspy chuckle, amused at your surprise.

a sigh slips from your lips, content. ”good morning,” you hum, placing the palm of your hand on his forearm. suguru shifts a little, getting more comfortable as he leans against you. tenderly, not too much weight. he’s delicate like that.

”g’morning,” he rasps, leftover sleep clinging to the syllables. the usual smoothness of his voice is coupled with a deep, rough kind of tilt, one that always accompanies it in the morning. your heartbeat picks up, silently.

suguru smiles. dreamy, giddy, because you just looked so pretty, in the morning light, hair still a tad messy. humming happily, swaying slightly side to side. so irresistible. he’s beginning to understand why you love sleeping in so much; getting to wrap his arms around you like this, instead of the other way around, doesn’t feel bad at all.

he squeezes you just a little tighter, hoping it’ll convey his gratitude. there are holes in his memory, last night no more than a blurry sequence of still images, but some bits and pieces remain intact. he remembers getting drunk in a way he hasn’t since he made that bet with satoru back in high school — and he remembers that you were there to take care of him.

a smile tugs at his lips. a little giddy, butterflies erupting in his chest. he’s so damn lucky.

”thanks for taking care of me yesterday, sweetheart.”

a hum. you smile, sheepishly, patting his arm. ”don’t need to thank me for that. how do you feel?”

suguru smiles. you feel it, against your skin, a chaste kiss on your neck. ”better.”

the low purring of the coffee machine has stopped, but the sizzling of the pan remains. from beyond the opened windows, you can hear the chirping of cicadas, melodic and serene. singing a summery tune. both of you soak in the preciousness of the moment, the fragile silence, before suguru breaks it.

”everything from last night is kinda fuzzy,” he admits, clearing his throat. just a tad sheepish. you simply hum, a low noise of acknowledgement, and he continues. ”i don’t really remember anything… ’m sorry, baby. i hope i didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

your lips curl up into a tiny smile. such a sweetheart — always worrying about you. always so caring and attentive. eager to reassure him, you smooth over the skin of his arm with your thumb. ”not at all.”

then you’re taking a couple steps back, moving from the stove, and suguru follows. you turn yourself around to meet his gaze, his arms still attached to your waist, a comforting weight.

a grin blooms on your lips, a little teasing, and a flicker of mischief shines in your eyes. ”you were cute, you know.”

suguru blinks, before emitting a low chuckle. a raspy little thing. ”was i?” he drawls, as you brush his bangs away from his face.

”mhm,” you chirp, eyes crinkled as they meet his own. you just can’t help but want to tease him, a little bit. just a smidge. ”kept going on and on about how much you love us.”

hands moving to cup his face, you squeeze his cheeks softly. and suguru lets you, too tired to resist, only giving you a lazy raise of his brow. there’s a sense of amusement in his eyes, and something in you knows he likes the attention. your teasing words buzz with endearment, akin to a purr. ”my sweet lil’ sugu.”

all he does is lean into your touch, allowing himself to melt into the tenderness of the physical contact. even as you pull at his cheek, earning you a very gentle pinch to your side. but he lets you have your fun. you’re warm, and sweet, and he’s so in love with you he’d probably let you tug his body around however you please.

still, your words leave him just slightly perplexed. he’s still smiling with half-lidded eyes when he asks you to elaborate, basking in the feeling of your thumb smoothing over his cheekbone. ”us?”

your grin widens, by a tad, something deeply amused glimmering in the depths of your iris. ”yep,” you answer, popping the p. for some reason, suguru dreads the teasing edge to your voice. ”me, and shoko, and satoru.”

a moment passes. he stiffens, for a second or two, mind processing the words. then he groans, softly, squeezing his eyes shut.

it makes you laugh, soft and amused, and he can’t help but smile along. despite the dreadful realization you present him with. no wonder he was met with so many notifications when he tapped at the screen of his phone — he didn’t read through any of them, but now he’s apprehensive to do so at all. shoko and satoru can be so goddamn obnoxious when they feel as if they have blackmail on him.

he can see it now, in his mind’s eye; shoko nagging him to run her errands, satoru reminding him of his words every time they have a slight disagreement.

(grab me a coffee. three shots of espresso, one cube of sugar. got it?)

slacker.

(we both know i’m right. don’t be so stubborn, suguru! it’s okay to be wrong sometimes.)

asshole.

(c’mon. you said you loved me, right?

so mean. and here i thought you loved me!)

idiots.

(he does love them. more than anything. even when they’re being absolutely insufferable.)

suguru just sighs, deep and fatigued, already anticipating his doom. ”they’re never gonna let me live it down, are they?”

a giggle slips from your lips, and his heart flutters helplessly. ”probably not. my condolences.”

another sigh. it only makes your smile widen. there’s something awfully delighted, in your eyes, as you cradle his face in your hands. ”well, i thought you were very sweet!”

”yeah, yeah…” he mutters, vaguely amused. placing one of his large palms over your hand, where it rests on his cheek. ”i won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

a chuckles bubbles up from within your throat. ”aww,” you pout, giving way to a teasing grin. ”that’s a shame. i wanted to hear you talk about how much you love me again.”

suguru blinks.

then he smiles. a very particular smile, characteristic, one you’ve come to associate solely with him. resting somewhere in the intersection between a soft grin and a teasing smirk. a flicker of mischief shines in his eyes, and you realize your mistake.

you can tease suguru all you want; but he'll always turn the tables on you, at the end of the day.

”oh?” he chuckles, fondly, thumb smoothing over the lines of your hand. his eyes gleam, looking straight into yours, shining with something mildly devilish. ”i don’t need to get drunk to tell you that, baby.”

in a smooth motion, one you can’t help but silently envy, suguru intertwines his fingers with yours and brings your hand to his lips. he never once breaks eye contact, gaze heavy as he basks in your flustered expression, planting a soft kiss against your knuckle. reverent.

”i love you. more than anything,” he purrs, lips still lingering on your skin. warm enough to burn. ”you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

a pause. heat crawls up your spine, and a flush rises to your cheeks. you couldn’t stop it if you tried.

”my everything,” he continues, intent on flustering you as much as humanly possible. voice low and smooth, honeyed and deep, and worst of all; terribly earnest. lips trailing over your knuckles, against every knot, so soft that you barely feel it. ”my entire world.”

”okay, okay!” you sputter, an embarrassed hue to your cheeks, your gaze landing on the windowpane to your right. his stare is just too heavy, too deeply in love. overwhelming. ”point taken. nevermind.”

suguru laughs, genuine and full. warm and amused, deep and real, and you catch yourself thinking that you don’t want to go a single day without hearing it. even if it’s at your own expense.

a coo rests on his the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back, opting to lean forward instead. he trails the pads of his fingers along your jaw, touch like a butterfly, lifting your chin up ever so slightly. then he closes the distance between you.

in your throat, your breath hitches.

— but he doesn’t kiss you. suguru stops right in front of your lips, so close you can feel his breath on your skin, taking a moment to simply look into your eyes. and despite how flustered the close proximity makes you, you can’t bring yourself to look away. heart fluttering madly, a string of staccatos against your parted ribs.

a tilt of his head. amber eyes gleaming, crinkled and fond. ”can i kiss you, now?” he asks, grinning softly. hand smoothing down your hip, big and warm, teasing. ”i made sure to brush away all the alcohol. or do you still not want to?”

you pause.

”hey, what happened to not remembering anything?” you pout, narrowing your eyes. the corner of suguru’s bottom lip twitches upwards.

but he only shrugs, feigning nonchalance, a playful glint in his eyes. ”guess i was just that disappointed.”

a giggle flows from your lips. he drinks it in, gazing at you with pure contentment.

”alright, alright... c’mere,” you coo, smile honeyed and sweet. tracing your fingertips along his jaw, brushing a silky strand of hair behind his ear. you take in the sight of him, meeting his lovesick gaze. he squeezes at your hips softly, a little impatient — so you finally lean in.

suguru’s lips are warm, when they meet yours. they taste like sunlight, devoid of any alcoholic flavour, just like he so kindly assured you of. and it’s a little amusing, the thought of him in front of the bathroom sink — desperately scrubbing his teeth, just to get his kissing privileges back. such a dork.

he’s your dork, though.

suguru sighs into the kiss, smiling giddily, satisfied at last. a sound you can’t help but mirror. he deepens it, ever so slightly, fingers squeezing gently at the plush of your waist. a hum of approval buzzes in your throat, and his smile only grows.

when he pulls away, that smile is all you can see, along with the ever so slight flush to his cheeks. a hint of peach dusting his skin, framed by the sunrays caressing his jaw, highlighting his handsome features. breathtaking.

before you have a chance to protest, he’s leaning in again, to press one more chaste kiss to your lips. your heartbeat picks up.

everything finally feels just right.

the warmth of the sizzling pan, the fragrance of freshly made coffee and now-burnt pancakes. the light of the morning sun, scattered across the open space of your apartment, splotches of life painting everything in a heavenly glow. the love in the air, all soft and light and comfortable.

domestic bliss. with suguru, who never seems to change, no matter how many years go by. if you could live in this moment for the rest of your life, forever and ever, you’re sure you’d die happy.

and wow, is that a heavy word. forever.

(but suguru makes it feel so very, very light.)

forever feels a lot more real, like this. cradled in the midst of a drowsy morning, bumping elbows with the man you love most, after getting to take care of him in his most vulnerable state. accepting every part of him, and having him accept you just as fervently.

just this moment alone is worth far more than you could ever comprehend.

suguru, with his warm hands, his familiar embrace. your shared laughter, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen as you try in vain to save your scorched pancakes. and his smile, his fervent devotion, coaxing him into eating them even though they’re burnt at the edges and don’t taste even a quarter as good as his. because you made them, for him, and that makes them taste sweeter than anything.

you stare at him, from across the table, admiring the sight you’ve grown so used to; suguru, with his slightly tousled hair, mug in hand and smile painted on his handsome face. drowned in sunlight, pink petals flitting in through the opened window. you don’t want a single day to ever pass without you seeing this. what does that mean, exactly? you think you know.

it means forever.

(forever, forever, forever. what a pretty word.)

marriage. you think of it, again, let it linger in the depths of your skull, bounce around until you grow just a little more used to it. and it’s a scary thought, for sure. a terrifying thought, even, something so foreign that it makes you nervous. but you truly wouldn’t mind doing this forever — not one bit. not if it’s with him.

and, unbeknownst to you, maybe that promise of forever isn’t all that far off.

maybe it’s only a couple rooms away, hidden within the depths of a certain drawer, until suguru finally gets the courage to bring it out. and maybe, just maybe — that day isn’t all that far off, either.

(suguru smiles at you, from across the table. he thinks you look ethereal, sipping from your morning coffee, blinking tiredly. so sweet and angelic.

all he can think of is forever.)

#finalllyyyyyyy took the time to finish this r u proud of me 👉👈#im very very soft for this sugu in particular :< kinda takes place in the same universe as the breakfast sugu fic !!!!#he’s ur smitten husband-to-be <333 i love to see suguru geto thrive and be happy i think being a househusband could save him #geto x reader #geto x y/n #geto x you #jjk fluff #geto fluff #geto suguru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n

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novaursa · 2 months ago

Text

The Cold Embrace (2/2)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: As time passes, snow begins to melt.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: @missisjoker So, here is the second and last part straight from the oven that was being baked all night. I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you guys like this conclusion of this two part story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 1/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @jellybeanstacey0519 @strengthandstay @anne-mary-1d @lovelyteenagebeard

The crisp chill of autumn clung to the air, painting the landscape of Winterfell in muted shades of orange and gold. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, and the days had grown shorter, yet despite the changing season, little had thawed between you and Cregan Stark. The cold inside the walls of Winterfell seemed to mirror the tension that still lingered between the two of you, each day marked by stilted conversations and, more often than not, sharp exchanges.

Today was no different.

"You speak of duty as if it’s something noble," you spat, your voice tight as you stood across from Cregan in the courtyard, your cloak billowing in the wind. "But this—this life you’ve trapped me in—it’s a cage. You call it honor, but what is honorable about ripping me away from my family?"

Cregan, his expression as hard as the stone walls surrounding you, stood tall, arms crossed over his chest. The northern winds blew through the yard, stirring his dark hair as he met your gaze with his own unflinching one. "A cage? Is that what you see this as? I have given you more freedom than many would expect from a lord. You come and go as you please, and I have not demanded anything of you that you have not been ready to give."

"You think freedom means letting me roam these cold, barren lands?" you shot back, your voice rising. "I am a dragon, Cregan, not some northern wolf content with howling at the moon. I am bound to the skies, to fire and wind, and every moment I am here, I wither. You cannot understand that."

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with frustration. "I have done everything to make this a home for you," he said, his tone dangerously low. "But it’s clear that nothing will ever satisfy you. You’re too busy yearning for something you’ve lost to see what is right in front of you."

You scoffed, turning away from him, your steps hurried as you walked toward the godswood, needing space, needing air. "There is nothing here for me but snow and silence," you muttered, though you knew he heard you.

Cregan watched you go, his heart heavy as the weight of your words settled in. He stood there for a long moment, the wind tugging at his cloak, his expression unreadable. Inside, however, there was a storm brewing—a storm of disappointment, frustration, and something else, something deeper that he had been trying to deny for months.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he turned and made his way back into the keep, his mind racing with thoughts he could no longer ignore.

In the warmth of the solar, the fire crackled in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows across the room. Grand Maester Kennet sat across from Cregan, his wise old eyes studying the lord with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"You’ve been quieter than usual, my lord," Kennet said, folding his hands in his lap. "Something weighs heavily on you."

Cregan leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames. He had kept his feelings bottled up for so long, unwilling to admit to anyone, let alone himself, how much this situation had affected him. But now, with the distance between him and you growing each day, the burden felt too great to carry alone.

"She doesn’t want to be here," Cregan said quietly, his voice rough with an emotion he rarely let show. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I try to make this place a home for her, she only sees Winterfell as a prison. She longs for Dragonstone. For her family."

Kennet nodded thoughtfully, his expression sympathetic. "It is not uncommon for one to yearn for the place of their birth, especially when it’s been taken from them. The Princess... she is like her mother, strong-willed and fierce. The North is a different world for someone raised among dragons and fire."

Cregan exhaled slowly, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face. "I know that. I’ve known it since the day she arrived. But... there’s more. It’s not just that she can’t find a place here." He paused, his voice dropping, as if the words themselves were difficult to admit. "I care for her, Kennet. More than I thought I ever would. When Jacaerys first came to me, he spoke of her with such passion and admiration. He told me stories of her strength, her spirit, how she was a woman who could stand beside any man, even one like me. And I believed him. I admired her before I even met her."

The Maester listened in silence, his brow furrowed in thought as Cregan continued.

"And when she arrived," Cregan went on, his gaze distant, "I saw it. Everything Jacaerys said was true. She’s fierce, and proud, and... gods, she’s beautiful in her own way. But she looks at me like I’m the reason for all her misery, like I’ve taken something from her that she can never get back. She’ll never see me as anything but the man who keeps her from the life she wants."

Kennet sighed softly, shaking his head. "Love is a complicated thing, my lord. You cannot force it, nor can you expect it to bloom in a place of resentment. The Princess... she is grieving the life she left behind. She may yet come to see what you offer, but it will take time."

Cregan’s eyes flickered with doubt as he looked at the older man. "Time may be something we don’t have. The war brews in the South, and her family is at the heart of it. She feels trapped here while her brothers and mother fight for the throne. I’ve heard her speak of it—how the North is no place for dragons, how she feels as though she’s losing herself in the cold."

The Maester tilted his head, considering Cregan’s words carefully. "It is true that the North is no easy place for a soul like hers. But perhaps... perhaps if you can show her that she can still be who she is, even here, she might come to find her place."

Cregan stood from his seat, pacing the room, the weight of his frustration palpable. "How can I show her that when she refuses to let me in? Every time we speak, it turns into an argument. She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t want to be here, and she certainly doesn’t want to be with me."

Kennet rose slowly, his hands resting on the table as he regarded Cregan with a calm, steady gaze. "Then you must be patient, my lord. If you truly care for the Princess, you will have to endure her fire, much like one endures the harshest winters. But winters pass, and even in the North, the snow melts. Perhaps in time, her heart will soften."

Cregan sighed deeply, staring into the fire once more. He wished it were as simple as waiting for the snow to melt, but as the days passed, he feared the rift between him and you was growing too wide to ever close.

He wanted you to see him, truly see him, not as the man who kept you here but as someone who could stand beside you, strong enough to weather the storm of your spirit. But until then, all he could do was wait.

And hope.

The halls of Winterfell buzzed with an unusual energy, a hive of activity that Cregan hadn’t expected so soon after the summer's end. The brisk wind of autumn howled through the open courtyards, and yet the chill in the air was not the only sign that winter was approaching. Men and women rushed through the keep, arms filled with supplies, voices rising in quick, urgent conversation.

Cregan furrowed his brow as he observed the flurry of work. His bannermen and servants seemed to be following orders, yet none had come directly from him. His curiosity piqued, he caught sight of one of his men, Ser Roland, directing a group of stable hands with a sense of urgency. Cregan made his way over, his long strides carrying him across the courtyard.

"Ser Roland," he called out, his deep voice cutting through the noise. "What’s all this about? I don’t recall ordering preparations for winter just yet."

Ser Roland turned quickly, bowing his head in respect before answering. "Lord Stark, it’s not your orders we’re following. The Princess has taken it upon herself to make sure Winterfell is ready for the long winter ahead. She’s been directing the stores, making changes to the rations, and ensuring that all livestock are accounted for."

Cregan’s brow lifted in surprise. "The Princess? I wasn’t aware she had taken an interest in such matters."

Ser Roland nodded, his expression a mixture of admiration and confusion. "Aye, my lord. She’s had us reorganize the grain stores and instructed that additional salt be used to preserve meats in case the winter lasts longer than expected. She also had some of the women gather herbs and berries for medicinal stocks—said it’s something her mother did on Dragonstone. Even ordered new tunnels to be dug beneath the walls, should the snow block access to certain parts of the keep. It’s... impressive."

Cregan was silent for a moment, taken aback by the level of thought and strategy that had gone into the preparations. The Princess, who had made it clear she despised this place, was ensuring it would withstand winter’s cruelty. And yet, she hadn’t spoken a word of it to him. His initial surprise gave way to a grudging respect.

"And where is she now?" Cregan asked, his tone more curious than demanding.

Roland hesitated before answering. "The Princess took to the skies a short while ago, my lord. She went flying on Silverwing."

"Flying," Cregan repeated, his brow furrowing. It wasn’t unusual for you to seek solace in the skies, but the flicker of worry began to creep in. "And who accompanied her?"

Roland shifted, his expression turning sheepish. "Your son, my lord. Young Rickon went with her."

Cregan stiffened, his heart quickening at the thought of Rickon riding atop Silverwing. His instinct was to feel alarmed—to think of all the things that could go wrong with a boy so young riding a dragon, even one as gentle as Silverwing. For a moment, the image of his son, small and fragile, atop such a powerful beast made him want to storm out and demand answers.

But then he stopped himself. Rickon was not some fragile boy. He was his son, a Stark, raised to face the wild north and the dangers that came with it. And more than that, Silverwing was under your command, a dragon bound to your will. His mind raced with the desire to scold you for being reckless, but something held him back. Rickon had begged for a chance to fly, ever since he had seen the dragons for the first time.

"Thank you, Roland," Cregan said curtly, turning away from the bustling activity of the courtyard and heading toward the godswood where he knew you often landed with Silverwing.

The cold air bit at Cregan's face as he walked through the open fields behind Winterfell. The godswood stood tall and silent in the distance, but it was the open expanse of land beyond it that caught his attention. There, just returning from the skies, was Silverwing. Her massive form settled gracefully on the ground, her wings folding in with practiced ease as you and Rickon dismounted.

He could see Rickon from afar, his small figure bounding toward the keep, his face lit up with sheer joy. As Cregan approached, he heard his son before he saw him up close.

"Father!" Rickon shouted, running full speed toward Cregan, his excitement bubbling over. "I flew, Father! I flew on Silverwing! She let me ride with her, and we soared above the trees! You should’ve seen it!"

The boy’s face was flushed with exhilaration, his cheeks red from the cold wind, and his eyes sparkled with uncontainable glee. He practically bounced in front of Cregan, his enthusiasm infectious.

Cregan knelt down, placing a hand on Rickon’s shoulder. "Did you now?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "And you weren’t afraid?"

Rickon shook his head vigorously. "No! The Princess told me not to worry. She said Silverwing wouldn’t let anything happen to me." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, eyes wide with awe. "And she didn’t. I felt like I was part of the sky. Can I go again, Father? Please?"

Cregan looked down at his son, his heart swelling with pride at the boy’s bravery. The initial urge to reprimand you, to accuse you of putting his son at risk, faded as he saw the pure joy on Rickon’s face. How could he take that away from him?

He stood up, his eyes drifting toward you. You were brushing snow from your cloak, your gaze turned elsewhere, as if trying to pretend you hadn’t noticed him approaching. But you had noticed. You always did.

For a moment, Cregan was silent, the tension between the two of you palpable. He could have said something. Could have warned you against taking such risks with his son. But instead, he let out a quiet sigh, looking back down at Rickon.

"You can go again," he said softly, ruffling the boy’s hair. "But only when the Princess says it's safe."

Rickon beamed and immediately ran off toward the keep, his excitement carrying him as fast as his legs could take him. Cregan watched him go, then turned his gaze back to you. You still hadn’t spoken, but your eyes met his, guarded as always.

"I should scold you," he said, his tone measured. "You had no right to take Rickon flying without asking me first."

You straightened, your chin lifting slightly. "He wanted to go. And Silverwing wouldn’t have harmed him."

Cregan nodded, but his expression remained serious. "I know. But he’s still my son. And as much as he may adore dragons, I need to know he’s safe."

The tension hung between you for a moment longer, but Cregan couldn’t help the way his heart softened slightly. Despite everything—despite the constant bickering, the distance between you—he could see that while you might not want this marriage, you cared for Rickon. The way you had taken him flying, giving him the one thing that had brought him so much joy, didn’t go unnoticed.

"Perhaps," Cregan added quietly, his tone softer now, "you don’t want me. But you will be a good mother to Rickon. I can see that."

For a moment, you didn’t respond, your expression unreadable. Then you gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I’ll keep him safe," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan watched you for a long moment before turning and heading back toward Winterfell. The coldness between you two remained, but now there was a small crack in the icy wall that had stood between you since the moment you arrived.

The cold air was sharper here, beyond the walls of Winterfell, biting deep into Cregan’s skin as he led his men through the thick snow-covered wilderness. The northern winds howled, carrying with them the scent of pine and frost, mingled with something far more sinister—the smell of smoke from a Wildling camp. They had been tracking the Wildlings for days now, ever since word came that a raiding party had crossed the Wall, attacking isolated settlements and stealing what little food and supplies they could find before winter’s full grip took hold.

Cregan’s blood thrummed with the familiar tension that came before battle. His breath formed clouds in the cold air, his grip firm on the hilt of his sword as he and his men closed in. They could see the crude campfires in the distance, flickering like beacons in the darkening forest.

"Stay low," Cregan whispered to his men, his voice barely audible above the wind. The Stark bannermen, seasoned and loyal, followed his command without hesitation. They fanned out in a loose line, their cloaks blending into the snowy landscape.

The Wildlings had set up in a small clearing, their crude weapons and fur-lined tents marking them as a desperate group. There were perhaps a dozen of them—armed with spears, axes, and the occasional rusty sword—but they were not to be underestimated. Wildlings were fierce, survivalists hardened by the lands beyond the Wall. This fight would be bloody.

Cregan motioned to his men, and in unison, they surged forward, the snow muffling their approach until they were nearly upon the camp.

The first clash came fast and violent.

Cregan’s sword met the steel of a Wildling’s axe, the sharp clang of metal ringing out into the frigid night. The raiders shouted in surprise, their camp erupting into chaos as the Stark men descended upon them. The Wildlings fought back viciously, their crude weapons swinging wildly, aiming for any vulnerable flesh they could find.

Cregan swung his blade with precision, cleaving through a Wildling’s chest, blood spraying across the snow like ink on parchment. He turned just in time to parry another blow, gritting his teeth as the impact jarred his arm. Around him, the sounds of battle raged—shouts, screams, the wet thud of bodies falling into the snow.

But then, something sharp and hot bit into his side.

Cregan gasped, stumbling back as a Wildling spear pierced his flesh just below his ribs. The pain was immediate and blinding, spreading like fire through his body. His grip faltered on his sword for a moment, but he didn’t let go. With a roar, he swung his blade in a brutal arc, slicing through the man who had struck him. The Wildling crumpled to the ground, but Cregan was already weakening, his vision blurring at the edges.

The fight continued around him, his men cutting down the remaining Wildlings, but every movement Cregan made sent waves of pain crashing through him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright, even as the blood began to seep through his furs, staining the snow beneath his feet a dark crimson.

At last, the battle was over. The Wildlings lay dead, their bodies scattered across the snow like broken dolls. Cregan’s men stood victorious, though bruised and bloodied themselves.

One of his men, Ser Vayon, rushed over to him, his face pale with worry as he saw the blood. "My lord! You’re wounded."

Cregan waved him off, trying to mask the severity of his injury. "I’ll live," he growled, though his voice was weaker than he intended. "But I can’t make it back as fast as the rest of you. Take the others and ride ahead. Get help."

Ser Vayon hesitated, his eyes darting between Cregan and the rest of the men. "We can carry you—"

"No," Cregan interrupted, his tone firm despite the pain. "I’ll slow you down. If you ride ahead, you’ll reach Winterfell faster. I’ll follow behind." His vision blurred for a moment, and he had to steady himself against a nearby tree. "Go. That’s an order."

Reluctantly, Ser Vayon nodded, glancing back at the other men. "As you command, my lord."

With that, they mounted their horses, casting one last worried glance at him before spurring their mounts and riding off through the snow. Cregan watched them go, the sound of hooves fading into the distance, leaving him alone in the quiet, snow-covered forest.

He took a few shaky steps, but each movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his body. His hand clutched his side where the blood still flowed, staining the white snow beneath his boots. The world around him tilted, and he fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to rise, but his strength was failing, his body too weak to carry him any further.

Just as his vision began to swim, he heard a sound—a distant, high-pitched screech that cut through the silence like a knife.

Cregan blinked, his vision blurring as something massive appeared in the sky above him. He squinted through the haze of pain, trying to focus, and then he saw it—Silverwing, her silver-scaled body descending from the clouds like a gleaming specter. The dragon landed with a soft thud, her wings folding as she approached him, her eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Cregan cursed under his breath, trying to wave her off with a weak motion of his hand. "Go on, beast," he muttered, his voice slurred with exhaustion. "I’m not your rider."

But Silverwing ignored him, her massive head lowering as she nudged him gently with her nose. The touch was surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome creature, as if the dragon knew he was on the brink of collapse. She nudged him again, more insistently this time, her warm breath washing over him as if urging him to stand.

Cregan tried to push her away, but his strength was gone. "Damn dragon," he rasped, his body trembling from blood loss. "Leave me."

Silverwing let out a low rumble, her large eyes narrowing as if in disapproval. She nudged him one last time, and when he still didn’t move, she took matters into her own talons. With surprising care, Silverwing wrapped her claws around his body, lifting him effortlessly from the snow.

Cregan groaned, the world spinning around him as Silverwing took flight, the sensation of being carried through the sky both terrifying and surreal. His body was limp in her talons, the wind whipping through his hair as they soared above the treetops, Winterfell a distant shadow on the horizon.

His eyelids grew heavy, the pain in his side fading as numbness took over. The world below him grew smaller, the sky a dark blur above.

As Silverwing’s wings beat rhythmically, the wind howling in his ears, Cregan's consciousness began to slip away, the edges of his vision turning black.

The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was Winterfell’s walls in the distance, growing closer with every beat of Silverwing’s wings. Then, nothing.

Cregan Stark knew no more.

The courtyard of Winterfell was a storm of chaos as you pushed through the throngs of servants and guards, your heart racing, breath short. The cold northern wind stung your face, but you barely felt it. All you could focus on was the sight ahead—Silverwing, her massive silver form crouched low on the snow, her head lowered protectively over a motionless figure sprawled at her feet. You shoved past a startled servant, your voice rising above the din of panic.

"Move aside!" you barked, pushing through the crowd until you finally reached the clearing where Cregan lay, blood staining the snow beneath him, his face pale and ashen.

Silverwing rumbled softly as you approached, her enormous eyes watching you, but she made no move to stop you. Her wings shifted, creating a barrier between the man she had carried home and the gathering onlookers.

Your heart leapt into your throat. The sight of Cregan—your husband, though it had never felt real until this moment—bleeding and unconscious before his own keep sent a surge of fear through you that you hadn’t expected.

"Where is Rickon?" you demanded, whirling around to one of the women standing near the edge of the scene. Rickon’s nanny stepped forward, worry etched on her face.

"He was playing with the other children when we heard the commotion," she said nervously, glancing toward Silverwing. "Should I—?"

"Find him," you interrupted quickly, your voice firmer than it had been in weeks. "Keep him away from here. I don’t want him seeing his father like this."

The woman nodded, clearly relieved to have something to do, and hurried off into the crowd. You turned back toward Cregan just as Maester Kennet knelt beside him, his hands moving with the steady calm of a man who had seen too many battle injuries in his lifetime. His fingers probed at the wound beneath Cregan’s furs, his face grim.

"Will he live?" you asked, unable to keep the edge of desperation from creeping into your voice.

Kennet didn’t look up, his attention still fixed on the blood-soaked gash. "The wound is deep, but he’s strong. If we can stop the bleeding and keep the fever from setting in, he has a chance. But we need to get him inside—now."

Already, several of Cregan’s men were lifting him carefully onto a makeshift stretcher, their faces pale with worry. You followed as they carried him toward the castle, your feet moving without thought. The icy wind cut through your cloak, but you ignored it. The only thing you could focus on was the sight of Cregan’s lifeless form being carried through the halls of Winterfell, his breathing shallow and labored.

As they reached his chambers, the men gently placed him on the large bed, stepping back to allow Maester Kennet to work. You hovered just beyond the bedside, your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, helplessness gnawing at you. Despite everything—despite the constant arguments, the coldness between you—you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him like this. The stark realization struck you hard, knocking the wind from your lungs.

You didn’t want him to die.

For what felt like hours, Kennet worked over Cregan’s body, stitching the wound with deft hands and applying herbs to stave off infection. You stood nearby, your eyes never leaving Cregan’s pale face. He was so still, too still. The sight of him like this made the cold inside Winterfell seem even more unbearable.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Kennet finished his work. The room was filled with the scent of medicinal salves and the sharp tang of blood. The old Maester wiped his hands on a cloth and turned to you, exhaustion etched in every line of his face.

"I’ve done all I can for now," he said quietly. "He will need time to heal, but whether he wakes or not depends on his own strength."

You nodded mutely, your throat tight with unspoken fear. "Thank you, Maester," you managed to whisper. Kennet gave a small nod, then gathered his supplies and left the room, leaving you alone with Cregan.

For a long time, you stood there, staring at the man who had become your husband, the man you had fought with, resented, and yet now feared to lose. His breathing was shallow, but steady, the rise and fall of his chest a small reassurance in the overwhelming uncertainty that hung over the room.

Without thinking, you moved closer to the bed, sinking into the chair beside him. Your hand reached out almost instinctively, and before you could stop yourself, your fingers closed around his. His hand was rough and calloused, larger than yours, but in this moment, it felt fragile.

"You stubborn, foolish man," you whispered, your voice breaking as you held onto him. "You always have to be the hero, don’t you?"

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away, unwilling to give in to the fear gnawing at your insides. Instead, you lowered your head, closing your eyes as you prayed softly in Valyrian, the words flowing from your lips in a desperate plea to the gods of your ancestors.

"Grant him strength," you whispered, tightening your grip on his hand. "Give him the will to fight, to wake up."

The room was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the warmth of the flames doing little to thaw the cold dread that had settled in your chest. You stayed by his bedside, refusing to leave, your heart pounding with every passing second.

Despite everything, you weren’t ready to let him go. Not yet.

And so, you stayed, waiting, praying, and hoping that Cregan Stark—your husband—would find his way back to you.

Cregan awoke slowly, his mind swimming through the thick fog of pain and disorientation. The world around him was hazy, the room spinning as he tried to make sense of where he was. His body felt heavy, weighed down by a deep, aching fatigue that seemed to seep into his very bones. He blinked, his vision clearing little by little, and as the soft flicker of firelight came into focus, he realized he was back in his chambers, the familiar scent of burning wood and herbs filling the air.

It was then that he noticed her.

You sat beside his bed, your arms crossed, your expression a mixture of concern and irritation. The furrow in your brow deepened as you noticed him stirring, your lips pressed into a thin line that barely masked the relief you must have felt. Despite the heaviness in his limbs and the sharp pain that shot through his side with every breath, Cregan couldn’t help but find it almost... amusing. There you were, the Dragon Princess, always so fierce and untamable, looking as though you were about to scold him, even now.

"You're awake," you said sharply, though there was a tremor of emotion beneath your voice that gave you away.

Cregan tried to sit up, wincing as the pain lanced through his side, but before he could make much progress, you were leaning forward, pushing him back down with a firm hand on his chest.

"Don’t even think about it," you warned, your tone brooking no argument. "Maester Kennet said you shouldn’t move. Not unless you want to tear your stitches and end up back in this bed for even longer."

He lay back with a grunt, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the discomfort. "Well, I wouldn’t want to upset the Maester," he muttered, his voice gravelly from disuse.

You gave him a look that would have wilted lesser men. "You almost died out there, Cregan."

The smirk faded from his face as he looked at you more closely. There was something in your eyes—something raw and unguarded. The irritation, the frustration—it was all there, but beneath it, there was a depth of feeling that surprised him. You were angry, yes, but not just at him. You were angry because you had been scared. Scared of losing him.

The realization hit him like a punch to the chest, and for the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him. It was warmth, not from the fire in the hearth, but from the way you were looking at him—fierce and tender all at once. It had been a long time since anyone had cared for him in that way, and now, seeing it in you—the woman who had resisted him, who had fought him every step of the way—brought a strange sense of peace to his heart.

"You care," he said softly, more to himself than to you.

You scoffed, crossing your arms tighter as you sat back in the chair. "Of course I care. You’re my husband, for better or worse." Your tone was sharp, but the emotion in your eyes betrayed you.

Cregan couldn’t help but chuckle, even though it sent a sharp pain through his side. "I didn’t think you’d admit that so easily."

You glared at him, though the fire in your eyes wasn’t the same angry blaze he was used to. It was different now—softer, though no less fierce. "Don’t flatter yourself," you shot back. "I’m only here because Rickon can’t see you like this. He’d worry too much."

Cregan’s lips twitched into a faint smile. "So, you’re saying you’re here for Rickon, not for me?"

You opened your mouth to retort, but then you stopped, your eyes flicking away for a brief moment before returning to his. "I’m here for both of you," you admitted quietly, your voice losing some of its edge. "You were reckless, Cregan. Going after those Wildlings in your condition was foolish. What were you thinking?"

He sighed, his hand moving slightly to rest against his bandaged side. "I was thinking I needed to protect the North. To protect my people."

"At the cost of your life?" you shot back, incredulous. "Your people need you alive, not bleeding out in the snow."

There was a pause, and then Cregan gave a small nod, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that surprised you. "You’re right," he said, his voice low and steady. "I was reckless. But it’s what I’ve always done. I’ve always put others first. The North, Winterfell, my family... I didn’t think anyone would care if something happened to me."

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken things. You stared at him for a long moment, your expression softening, and for the first time, Cregan saw something shift in you. The walls you had built between you—the ice that had kept you at a distance—continues to crack, again a little more than before.

"I would care," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I may not have wanted this marriage, but I don’t want you dead."

The warmth in his chest grew, spreading through him like a fire kindling to life after a long, cold winter. He had known you were strong, had admired your spirit from the moment Jacaerys spoke of you. But now, seeing you like this—caring, vulnerable in your own way—it was more than he could have ever expected.

"I never thought you’d stay by my side like this," he said, his voice soft, his dark eyes searching your face. "But you did."

You looked away for a moment, your fingers tightening in your lap. "I stayed because I couldn’t leave you like that. No one deserves to be alone when they’re hurt, not even you."

He chuckled softly, wincing at the pain it caused. "You have a strange way of showing concern, Princess."

Your lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was laced with exasperation. "You’re insufferable, you know that?"

"I’ve been told," he muttered, still smiling despite himself.

The tension between you seemed to ease then, the space between you no longer as cold and vast as it once had been. Cregan felt it—the change, subtle but undeniable. And though he knew things wouldn’t be easy, though you would likely bicker again and clash as fiercely as you had before, there was something different now.

For the first time in a long while, Cregan Stark felt something stir inside him—a warmth, a sense of hope. He didn’t know what the future would bring, but for now, he was content with the knowledge that you were here, by his side, and that perhaps, just perhaps, you cared for him more than either of you had realized.

And that was enough.

The godswood was bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon sun, the ancient red leaves of the weirwood tree rustling in the cool breeze. Cregan walked beside you, his stride steady now, fully recovered from his near-fatal wounds. It had been months since that day when Silverwing had saved him from death's grip, and in that time, the distance between you and Cregan had shifted. You still bickered, your sharp words clashing like swords, but there was something different now. Beneath the teasing, the arguments, there was a warmth that neither of you could deny.

"I still think you're insufferably stubborn," you muttered, your arms crossed as you walked along the path beside him. "Charging into battle like a fool—next time, I won’t be sitting by your bedside."

Cregan chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your irritation flare even hotter. "Ah, but you did sit by my bedside," he said, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "And I seem to recall you staying there for quite some time. Worrying about me, even."

You shot him a sharp glare, though it lacked the real venom it once held. "You should be thanking the gods you survived, not teasing me for caring whether you lived or died."

"I do thank the gods," he replied, his voice quieter now, more serious. "But I also thank you. You stayed with me, Y/N. I haven’t forgotten that."

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt the familiar defenses you had built around yourself begin to crumble. You glanced away, your gaze falling on the gnarled roots of the weirwood tree, trying to ignore the way his words made your heart flutter.

"You’re still a fool," you mumbled, though the edge had left your voice.

Cregan stopped walking, and you felt him gently take your hand, pulling you to a halt. You turned to face him, and in the quiet of the godswood, with only the wind rustling through the leaves, you found yourself caught in his gaze—those deep, grey eyes filled with something you hadn’t allowed yourself to see before. There was no frustration, no anger—only warmth, only want.

"And you’re still the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met," he said softly, stepping closer. His hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine despite the cold air. "But I wouldn’t want you any other way."

You opened your mouth to retort, to say something biting, but the words never came. Instead, you found yourself closing the distance between you, your breath catching as his hand cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, and the last remnants of the ice between you began to melt.

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though both of you were testing the waters. But the moment your mouths touched, the fire that had been simmering beneath your bickering flared to life. His hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Neither of you spoke; there were no more words left to be said. The cold air around you seemed to disappear, muted by the heat that surged between you. His lips were warm and insistent, his body pressed against yours with a need you hadn’t known you could feel.

Without breaking the kiss, Cregan’s hands moved to the ties of your cloak, loosening them with deft fingers. You tugged at his own furs, pushing them from his shoulders, and soon the cold was biting at your exposed skin, but you didn’t care. And neither did he. The warmth of your body, of your fire, was all that mattered to him now.

Your cloak fell to the ground, forgotten among the roots of the weirwood, and Cregan’s hands were on you, pulling at the fastenings of your gown. You gasped as the cold air hit your bare skin, but his hands were there to chase it away, his touch rough and gentle all at once. You tugged at his tunic, eager to feel his skin beneath your hands, and when he pulled it over his head, you marveled at the strength of him, the way his muscles rippled beneath the scars and callouses of a warrior.

Before long, the two of you were bare to the elements, the cold air forgotten as he lowered you gently to the ground. The soft moss beneath you was cool, but the fire in your veins made it bearable. Cregan’s body hovered over yours, his eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice husky with desire, but still full of the respect that had always been there beneath your bickering. "I won’t force this, Y/N."

You stared up at him, your heart racing, and for the first time, you felt no resistance. No walls, no barriers. You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. "I’m sure."

With that, he kissed you again, slow and deep, as his body pressed gently against yours. His hands were everywhere—on your waist, your hips, trailing down your thighs, sending sparks of heat through your entire being. When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, deliberate tenderness, his eyes never leaving yours.

The brief flash of pain as he broke your maidenhead made you wince, but he was there, soothing it with soft kisses, his hand tangled in your hair. And then, as the discomfort began to fade, the pleasure took its place, warm and insistent.

You moved against him, your body finding a rhythm as you urged him on with the softest of moans, your hands gripping his shoulders, your legs wrapping around him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his control slipping as he gave in to the fire between you, the primal, unspoken connection that had been building for months.

The cold wind whispered through the trees, but it could not reach you. The warmth of your bodies, entwined beneath the ancient weirwood, was enough to drive it away. Cregan’s movements grew more intense, his lips never straying far from yours, his hands gripping you as though he feared you might vanish.

Your moans mixed with his groans, the air between you thick with the sounds of your love-making, the passion that had been hidden behind walls of ice and words for so long. Every touch, every thrust, brought you closer to a place neither of you had been before, and when the moment came—when your bodies finally reached the peak—you clung to him, your breath ragged, your body trembling with the force of it.

He followed you over the edge moments later, his own release marked by a soft growl that sent shivers down your spine. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the wind quieting, the godswood holding its breath as the two of you lay entwined, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

Cregan didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered your name. You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the moment settle over you, your heart still racing from the intensity of it all.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt truly warm.

The day was crisp and clear, the sky a bright blue canvas that stretched out endlessly above Winterfell. Silverwing, her silver scales shimmering in the afternoon sun, stood in the godswood, shifting her weight restlessly, her wings fluttering with barely-contained excitement. You stood beside her, hands on your hips, grinning as you watched Cregan approach, his expression a mix of wariness and resignation.

"You look like you're marching to your execution," you teased, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. Silverwing gave a low, eager rumble, her eyes fixed on Cregan as though she sensed his hesitation and found it endlessly amusing.

Cregan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to share Silverwing’s enthusiasm—or yours, for that matter. He slowed his approach, eyes narrowing at the massive dragon before him. "I thought I was done with near-death experiences for a while," he muttered, giving you a sideways glance. "But here I am, about to climb on the back of something that could roast me alive."

You chuckled, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his chest. "Oh, don’t be such a Stark about it. Silverwing wouldn’t dream of harming you—not as long as I’m here." You flashed him a grin, though you could tell from the way his jaw tightened that he wasn’t quite convinced.

"I suppose that’s supposed to reassure me?" he asked, glancing up at Silverwing’s massive head as she tilted it curiously toward him.

"Well, it should," you said, rolling your eyes playfully. "Besides, she likes you. Remember how she likes to nudge you? If a dragon doesn’t like you, trust me, you’ll know."

Cregan swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back to Silverwing’s gleaming teeth. "Comforting."

You laughed, grabbing his hand and tugging him closer to Silverwing, whose tail flicked impatiently behind her. "Come on, brave Lord of Winterfell. It’s not every day you get to ride a dragon. You might even enjoy it."

"I highly doubt that," Cregan grumbled, though he allowed you to lead him closer.

When you reached Silverwing’s side, you placed a hand on her flank, feeling the familiar warmth of her scales beneath your palm. The dragon lowered herself slightly, making it easier for you to mount. You turned to Cregan, your smile widening at the sight of him standing there, arms crossed, clearly trying to mask his discomfort.

"Up you go," you said brightly, giving him a playful shove toward Silverwing’s side. "Ladies first."

He shot you a look that could have frozen the Wall, but with a resigned sigh, he began to clamber up the dragon’s side, his movements careful and deliberate. You followed him, slipping easily into the saddle behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist to keep both of you secure.

"You’re going to want to hold on tight," you whispered into his ear, your voice laced with mischief. "Silverwing can be...enthusiastic."

"Great," Cregan muttered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the saddle. "Just what I needed to hear."

Silverwing, sensing the shift in your posture, gave an eager roar, her wings unfurling in preparation for takeoff. The wind stirred around you, and you felt Cregan tense beneath your arms, his muscles coiled with nervous energy.

"Here we go!" you called out, laughing as Silverwing leaped into the sky with a powerful beat of her wings.

The ground fell away beneath you in an instant, the cold wind rushing past as Silverwing soared higher and higher. Cregan let out a startled curse, gripping the saddle with both hands as if his life depended on it, while you laughed, the exhilaration of flight filling you with a wild sense of freedom.

"Relax, Cregan!" you shouted over the wind, leaning into him. "You’re not going to fall!"

"I’d rather not test that theory!" he shot back, his voice strained as Silverwing dipped suddenly, her wings cutting through the air with effortless grace.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, leaning your chin on his shoulder as the dragon steadied herself, gliding smoothly over the landscape. "See? It’s not so bad, is it?"

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, though you could feel the tension in his body slowly start to ease as the flight became less of a frantic rush and more of a smooth ride. The wind was cold but invigorating, and beneath you, Silverwing hummed contentedly, clearly enjoying the chance to stretch her wings with both of you on her back.

"Alright," Cregan finally admitted, his voice quieter now, though still laced with reluctance. "Maybe it’s not as terrifying as I thought."

You grinned, tightening your arms around him as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. "See? I told you. You’re a natural dragonrider."

"Let’s not go that far," he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward in a smile.

For a while, you soared together in silence, the vast expanse of the North stretching out beneath you—white fields, dark forests, and the distant peaks of mountains all bathed in the pale winter light. Cregan relaxed more with each passing moment, his breath steadying, though he still gripped the saddle firmly. You could feel his heart pounding beneath your touch, but it wasn’t the frantic rhythm of fear anymore. It was something else—something closer to excitement.

After a while, you guided Silverwing back toward Winterfell, and as the dragon swooped low over the godswood once more, you couldn’t help but tease him again. "I think you might have even enjoyed that a little."

Cregan shook his head, though there was a faint laugh in his voice. "Enjoyed? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Princess. I’m still deciding if I’ll ever do this again."

You smirked as Silverwing touched down with a graceful thud, her wings folding as she lowered herself to the ground. You dismounted easily, then turned to help Cregan down, though he shot you a look as if to say he didn’t need the help.

"I’ll give you credit for bravery," you said, watching as he finally stood on solid ground again. "You didn’t scream once."

"That’s because I was too busy clinging for dear life," Cregan muttered, though his lips quirked in a smile. "But I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s something."

You laughed, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You did well. Maybe you’re more suited for the sky than you thought."

He looked down at you, his expression softening as he rested his hand over yours. "Maybe. But for now, I think I’ll leave the flying to you."

You grinned, leaning up to kiss him softly. "Suit yourself. But you’re always welcome to join me."

Cregan chuckled, pulling you closer. "We’ll see about that. But if Silverwing’s happy, I suppose I’ll consider it."

Silverwing let out a soft, approving rumble behind you, and you couldn’t help but smile. "I think she likes having you around."

"Gods help me," Cregan muttered, though there was warmth in his eyes that told you he didn’t really mind.

And as the two of you stood there, with Silverwing watching over you, the cold air seemed to fade away, replaced by the warmth of your shared laughter and the fire you had ignited between you.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan stark #hotd cregan #cregan x

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folkloreandfable · 2 months ago

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Serendipity･ﾟ✧

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x f!reader, Tags: Fluff Warnings: childbirth Synopsis: Just wholesome family fluff, no plot. A/N: I kept it very short.

The waning cresent rose high above clouds to cast silvery gleams into the Red Keep. As calm as the night may be, the princess’s chambers were certainly not. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she tried taking the steady breaths the midwife instructed. It was a grave matter indeed, with her mother and the queen herself present to witness the birth of the Targaryen lineage. Her husband paced restlessly after being ousted, since such affairs were best facilitated by women. Also, he was being a meddlesome mother hen that questioned the midwives' every move. Slowly, the night began to move, the stars appeared and shallows gasps evolved to agonising screams. It took all for the young prince to not burst into the room again. And then it stopped. No screams, no gasps. It was all suffocatingly silent. The prince felt his blood begin running cold, and he stormed toward the chamber doors. Propriety be damned. Just as he opened the heavy oak, he heard a slap followed by piercing cries. Cries. There were two of them.

»»———-　˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀　———-««

The midday sun shone high in the rare clear blue skies though its incandesce dimmed in comparison to the beaming glow of the new family. The young mother smiled down at the blessings in her arms. A boy and a girl with dark hair, rosy cheeks and thick lashes that fluttered in content as they nursed from their mother. Hardly the image of Targaryen beauty, but they were in the image of the one she loved. The babes unlatched, tired from the strenuous task of being born and fell fast asleep to the gentle humming of their mother. As she rocked them, the chamber doors opened ever so slightly to reveal the peeking face of her husband. “Is it a good time to come in?” He whispered and the new mother couldn’t help but be amused by his caution, gesturing him in.

“I thought the meeting was to end at sundown?” She asks as he presses a kiss on her hair line before leaning down to kiss the babes. “I had more pressing matters,” Jace half smiled, taking a seat next to her on the bed and taking Visenya in his arms. “They look so much like me,” He proudly declared, causing his wife to scoff. “They just happen to have your hair colour and eyes.” “They have my nose too.” “The babes are barely a day old. They’re more like tubers with hair.” Jace clutched his chest with his free hand, feigning indignation. “You will not insult the heirs of house Targaryen so.” To which she rolled her eyes. “I carried them for eight moons and laboured for an entire night,” she retorted, playfully glaring at the twins. “Thus, their choice of countenance offends me even more.” This caused Jace to throw his head back in laughter before comfortingly wrapping his arms around hers shoulders. “Your time will come with our next ones.” “Maybe,” she rested her head against him, looking softly at their sleeping children. “But for now, I could not be more happy with what we have.”

Jace hummed in agreement, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

“Our Lucerys and Visenya.

»»———-　˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀　———-««

Inbox: Open

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd s2 #hotd season 2 #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys targaryen #hotd jacaerys #prince jacaerys

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illyrianbitch · 3 months ago

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One Summer — Part Two

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: brief mentions of alcohol, cass & mor being bickering siblings, cass with facial hair, modern adaptions of bat wings aka tattoos, sexual n romantic tension, reader has a big fat crush

Word Count: 5.5k

Part One — Series Masterlist — Part Three

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

“I hate it.”

Though Mor was seated beside you, her voice seemed to reverberate from a great distance, oscillating from one ear to the other. Your attention was not on your two best friends; their conversation filtering through your senses like white noise. Instead, your mind was entirely captivated by the view of the beach you sat on. The sun was setting and a golden hue painted the skies, its final light skittering across the soft waves of the ocean.

This was always one of your favorite times of day.

There was a specific sense of peace that seemed to settle among everyone as the sun gave over to the power of the moon, a peace that almost felt tangible on your skin, like the grains of the warm sand beneath you. You dug your toes further into its warmth as Mor scowled next to you, her gaze stuck on the horizon where Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys currently ran around, attempting to pin one another and throw each other into the waves.

The topic of conversation was what it had been every time Mor complained over the past week: Cassian’s new mustache.

It had grown exponentially over the last week, now fully formed above his top lip. Even from this distance, you could make out its shadow. But, in all honesty, it wasn’t his mustache that you were focusing on. It was his chiseled, bare torso.

The boys were always very fit, sporting defined bodies with even more defined muscles. But you hadn’t seen them like this in a while: shirtless, sun-kissed, tanned skin, and swimming shorts that created sleek, stark tan lines along their hips. Not since way back in the first summer you all shared. Last year’s break was filled with an internship to beef up your resume, moving into your new place with Mor and Feyre, and spending whatever free time you had with Eris and his family— far, far away from Mor.

The boys had grown even bigger since that first summer. Cassian, in particular, had developed noticeable definition, which you attributed to ROTC and his various sports activities. After all, ROTC combined military training with college coursework and demanded a significant amount of time and discipline. Balancing academics, those military duties, and being a student athlete seemed like an overwhelming feat, but Cassian managed it all. His physique was a clear indication of it.

Yet, despite his impressive build, it was Cassian’s face that truly drew attention. His large, beaming grin had a way of captivating anyone who saw it. It seemed to say more about his character than his muscular frame ever could, making it clear that beneath all that strength was someone incredibly approachable and genuinely good-hearted.

Your attention traveled to Rhysand next. Rhysand always held a certain grace to him, a regal essence of someone born to be a leader, to stand out among a crowd. You’d watched him come into his own in the past few years, watched as he fell in love with Feyre and began planning a life for himself outside of the pressures his father had implemented throughout his childhood.

Rhysand’s usually meticulously styled hair now hung in front of his eyes as he dodged Cassian and went under his arm. He was always a bit leaner than Cass, but still very built, with large, defined muscles that Feyre giggled about every girls' night. Rhys knew how to put those muscles to use, Feyre seemed to remind you every time she was three margaritas in. You didn’t doubt it, even if you and Mor groaned and pushed her further off the couch—and watched as she fell to the floor since Feyre’s balance tended to disappear when alcohol was introduced to her nightly diet.

Despite every fiber in your being begging for your gaze to fall to him first, your eyes went to Azriel last. You’d been fighting the urge, telling yourself that if you looked at him last, your eyes could linger just a few seconds longer.

You were currently mesmerized by the tattoo sprawling across his back.

The design was captivating—an elaborate pair of wings stretching gracefully across his shoulder blades, with their apex extending along the sides of his neck. The wings seemed almost alive, their fine details appearing three-dimensional against his golden skin. The spaces around the wings were filled with swirling patterns that looked like shadows, moving fluidly as though they were dancing across his skin.

The wings didn’t stop at his back; they extended over his biceps and down to his elbows. When he moved his arms, it almost seemed as if he was preparing for flight, the tattoo coming to life with every gesture. Cassian’s wings mirrored this design, stretching over his own biceps and elbows in a similar fashion. However, the empty spaces on his arms were adorned with sharp, angular patterns. Where the patterns on Az’s skin were fluid, like smoke and shadow, Cassians were rigid, sharp lines like that of a fierce fight.

Rhysand’s tattoo was distinctively more reserved. His bat-style wings were intricately etched into his back, spanning from his shoulder blades to his lower back, but they remained tightly confined to his torso. Unlike Azriel and Cassian, the design didn’t extend onto his arms. Instead, it was tattooed in a tucked, retracted position. Besides the wings, Rhysand’s collarbone was adorned with an elaborate tattoo of stars and swirling patterns that mimicked the night sky, with galaxies appearing to shimmer and shift across his skin.

Your eyes stuck to Azriel’s moving form— glued to his every gesture, really.

Azriel was always very cute. Handsome and pretty in a way that made chests tighten. But you hadn’t seen it much recently, hadn’t paid attention to anyone besides Eris, really. Now that you were broken up, it was as if you were seeing things in a completely new light, with new glasses that magnified every detail of the males around you. The reality was undeniable: Azriel had gotten more attractive over the past two years.

It was unfair. Completely and utterly unfair.

And you were completely and utterly overwhelmed by it— more so than you’d ever expected. God, you needed to check yourself, to reel in this strange crush that had begun to bloom like a flower in a new spring. You felt feral. It was embarrassing, to say the least, and you were grateful that your friends were often too absorbed in their own lives to notice your lingering glances.

Your fingers itched to trace the intricate ink on Azriel’s skin. You settled for running the pads of your fingers along the bare skin of your knee, mimicking the graceful movements of his tattoos. The act was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it helped channel the sudden urge to connect with the beautiful art that adorned him.

Feyre let out a hum besides Mor. From the corner of your eye you caught sight of her tilting her head in quiet focus. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment, “It’s not that bad.”

Mor whipped her head to the side, her blonde locks cascading across her shoulder like a golden waterfall. She let out a shocked gasp.

“Feyre,” she scolded, “You can’t be serious.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow in response. “I’m serious. I’ve seen worse. It works for him, I think.”

Mor’s attention shifted to you. It took a minute before you were able to tear your gaze away from the view in front of you— the three boys illuminated by the soft glow of sunset; the delicate waves behind them that collected the remaining colors of the sky.

You turned to look at her, taking in her widened eyes and pursed lips. It was an expectant face, one she wore when she was waiting for important news— or in this case, for someone to agree with her. You offered a sheepish smile and shrugged, pulling your knees closer to your chest.

“Sorry girl, it’s kinda growing on me, too.”

Her mouth fell open and another dramatic, shocked gasp left her mouth. She returned her gaze to the view before her.

“It’s like I’m the only one with taste in this entire house.”

You snorted, turning to look as Mor shook her head in disbelief. Your gaze connected with Feyre’s as you leaned over slightly and you watched as her mouth curved into an amused smile, a small laugh leaving her delicate lips.

“You have a completely different taste than both of us, Mor. Maybe that's why you feel so passionate about this topic.”

Mor shook her head again, waving the comment off with an elegant hand— long red painted nails on every finger except for two: her ring and middle finger. The same style was mirrored on her other hand, currently at her side and playing with the sand.

“Actually,” Mor started, and you rolled your eyes at the tone of her voice, a smile tugging stronger at your lips. “It’s because I’m into girls that my opinion here matters the most.”

Your attention drifted back to the boys who had finally ceased their game. They were catching their breath, hunched over and panting, before gradually making their way back.

Cassian reached you guys first, his steps falling from a jog into a soft walk before he came to a complete stop. He brought his hands to his head, smoothing down the top of his pulled back hair and readjusting his bun. Then, he placed his hands on his hips as a grin broke out on his face, eyes trailing between you, Mor, and Feyre.

“Whatcha ladies gossiping about?”

His voice was still ragged from the running, coming out in a long breath and followed by a deep one. Mor frowned at him, crinkling her nose as she scanned his appearance.

“We’re talking about that disgusting caterpillar of facial hair you’ve forced us to endure the sight of.”

Cassian’s grin faltered. “Excuse me?”

Mor only raised a brow in response— a challenge. Cassian accepted wordlessly, crossing his arms across his bare chest and jutting his chin out defiantly.

“Don’t be a hater, Mor.”

She scoffed. “Hater is my middle name. Consider this a reality check: Shave.”

Cassian considered her response for a moment, lips pursing in feign contemplation. Nope,” he said, a hand caressing his mustache. “You’re just too stubborn to admit you might actually like it.”

Another scoff. Offended and insulted all at once, the presence of those emotions fully present in the sound as it left her lips. “There are many words to describe the way I feel about that monstrosity you’re touching. ‘Like’ is certainly not one of them.”

You tossed a glance over at Feyre. She caught your gaze, eyes glistening with a quiet amusement as she tugged her legs to her chest, her sitting stance mirroring yours. She placed her chin on her knee, eyes drifting back towards the two bickering adults.

“You’re so dramatic. This ‘stache isn’t for you, anyways. You’re not the population I’m aiming for.”

“And who, pray tell, is the target audience? Divorcees in soon-to-be foreclosed homes?” A raised brow. “Republicans?”

This conversation was one you’d heard almost every day since Cass had decided to grow his ‘stache out, opting to only shave his beard. The argument held the same structure everytime. Mor would complain that it was gross and an eyesore, offer a new metaphor to describe it, and insist that Cassian shave it off. Cass would wave it off, act offended, and explain his reasonings once more to her deaf ears. It’s for the indie girls at the festival, Mor, Cassian had whined two days prior, They’ll go crazy for a pornstache. It’s a trend now. Mor only complained more in response, groaning in disgust and telling him she was going to shave it in his sleep.

As the argument continued, Azriel and Rhysand finally approached. Rhys raised an eyebrow at the bickering duo, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. He flashed you a grin before flopping down next to Feyre. With a playful shake of his head, reminiscent of a wet dog, he sent droplets of water flying. Feyre let out a startled shriek and pushed him away, her eyes sparkling with annoyance as Rhysand’s laughter filled the air.

Meanwhile, Azriel approached slowly, the last rays of the setting sun casting a faint glow on his figure. As he neared, Cassian turned his attention to him, desperation evident in his eyes.

“Hey, man, help me out here,” he called, a hand extended in Az’s direction. “Tell her it works. Back me up.”

Azriel gave him a steady look before shaking his head. “I’m not going to do that.”

Mor let out a triumphant laugh. “Aha!” Her eyes glimmered in satisfaction. “Even Azriel agrees with me!”

Cass kicked a spray of sand towards her in response. It scattered in all directions and you sputtered, grimacing as the gritty texture found its way into your mouth and eyes. With a groan, you brushed it off, watching as Cassian’s face dropped and concern flashed across his widened eyes.

Both him and Azriel muttered curses under their breath, the two starting to move towards you. But Cassian was faster. With a swift motion, he plopped down beside you, arm reaching out to pull you into his side.

“My bad, my bad,” He said, his voice laced with sincerity as he tucked you against him, his damp arm warm around you. He gave you a reassuring squeeze, though you still felt the remnants of sand clinging to your skin.

You squirmed a bit, trying to escape his sweaty embrace, but Cassian held you close. Over your hunched back, he shot a glare at Mor. “See what you made me do?”

She squeaked. “What I made you do?”

“Yes you.”

Your cheek pressed against his chest, squished near the area where his arms met his torso.

“I didn’t force you to kick sand at me with your big ass feet,” she huffed.

A new argument arose, Cassian leaning further over your back to bicker with Mor face to face. The more enthusiastic he became, the farther he seemed to shove you into his form. You looked up and managed to meet Azriel’s gaze, widening your eyes in a plea for help.

He understood the look immediately. The corners of his lips twitched upwards in amusement as he stepped forward, knocking Cassian’s muscled calf with his foot.

“Cass,” Azriel said, “You’re suffocating her.”

It took him a moment to register the words. But when they finally hit, Cass sprung back, holding you out with his arms in a movement so swift you blinked to reorient yourself. He examined you with the same observant eye as a parent, looking over your exposed skin as if he was searching for any open wounds or deformities.

“My bad,” he repeated. He gave you a guilty grin as brought his hands to smooth down your hair. His large hazel eyes met yours, widened and soft like that of a puppy. “All better.”

You gave him a look— brows raised and scrunched, a deep crease forming in the middle of them.

“Get outta here,” you muttered, pushing his warm body away from you. But despite yourself, a small grin hung on the corners of your lips.

You still felt Azriel’s eyes on you— that faint warm sensation that filtered through your skin. You met his gaze momentarily, watching as his eyes bounced between all of you. He settled back on the large teddy bear next to you.

“Help me start the fire,” Az said, calling Cassian’s attention back to him. Azriel looked at Mor next, gesturing towards her with his chin. “You too, judgy.”

“What?” Mor paused, hands freezing mid motion of wiping sand off her thighs. “Why me?”

“Because you’re mean,” Cassian said, bringing a hand to stroke his mustache. “And mean people do labor.”

Rhysand snorted. You had almost forgotten Rhys and Feyre were sitting there, quietly in their own world until Rhys leaned back on his hands with a grin, obviously enjoying the argument.

Azriel rolled his eyes. “Get up, c’mon.” He gestured with his hands, herding them both like sheep. Mor let out a grumble but began to push herself up nonetheless.

“I’m getting up because I want to. Not because you told me.”

Cassian was in front of her before she managed, offering a large hand out. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Let's go.”

She threw him a scowl, but the act had no malice behind it. Taking his hand, she muttered, “This would be much sweeter if you didn’t look like my creepy uncle Chris.”

Cassian just groaned.

Thank you, you mouthed when Azriel met your eyes once more. The corner of his eyes crinkled as he gave you a soft smile. Something deep within your chest flickered, like a candle being lit aflame. He dipped his head in acknowledgement before trailing after the two.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Forty five minutes later, you found yourself seated around a crackling fire, the sound of Rhysand's offhand joke eliciting laughter from everyone.The night had fully descended and the sky above was dotted with dim, flickering stars. You’d all discussed the summer, the festival, and your plans for the month. It was a summer of living, you’d told them. A summer to sit back and let life do with you what it may—and hope that meant all good things.

The stretch of beach was empty except for your group. Whether Rhysand and Mor’s family owned this area or the rest of the world had simply decided to stay in, you weren’t sure. Either way, you were appreciative.

Cassian was beside you, but your attention was solely on Azriel, who sat next to him. The firelight played upon his skin, casting a warm glow that accentuated the sharp lines of his face. The embers illuminated his hazel eyes with a brilliance that made your breath catch every time he laughed.

Azriel met your gaze, his features softened by the dancing flames, and your heart skipped a beat. His mouth moved, forming words, and it took a moment for you to realize he was speaking to you. You blinked, the spell breaking, and slowly forced yourself to focus, bringing yourself down from the reverie you had drifted into.

“Are you cold?”

Azriel’s voice rolled over you like a small wave and you shivered at the sensation. You looked down at yourself and realized, for the first time, how the night’s chill had settled in. Goosebumps had risen on your skin, more pronounced than you had initially thought.

“Just a little,” you admitted, running your hands along your arms in a vain attempt to generate warmth. The friction offered little relief and you exhaled softly. “I can just move closer to the fire.”

You repositioned yourself, moving to scooch closer to the fire that illuminated your faces.

“Nah, don’t do that.” Cassian said. You turned to find him watching you, his gaze steady, shadows of flames flickering on his features. He gestured back towards the house with his chin. "I have a hoodie in the living room if you want to grab it."

You considered his idea for a moment, then nodded in agreement. It was a sensible suggestion. Placing a gentle hand on Mor’s shoulder, you let her know you’d be right back. She smiled in response, her eyes warm in the flickering firelight.

You brushed off your pants and walked towards the house, your feet sinking slightly into the still-warm sand with each step. The contrast of the cool night air and the lingering warmth of the sand created a soothing, almost nostalgic sensation as you made your way to the living room.

The dimly lit interior welcomed you with a cozy, muted glow and your gaze fell on the kitchen counter. There, amid Azriel’s keys and a variety of Rhysand’s rings, rested a camera.

You took a moment to examine it—a digital model. While you weren’t particularly knowledgeable about cameras, this one was nice; reminiscent of a simpler time. You weren’t exactly sure if it was the design that made you feel that way or the person that owned it: Azriel.

You knew without a doubt that it was his. You could also assume, with a fair degree of confidence, that the camera could beautifully simulate the look of film.

Azriel had mentioned his burgeoning passion for photography two years ago, expressing a particular fondness for the aesthetic of film. He’d said that a true film camera was beyond his budget at the time, but a digital model with film simulation would be an ideal compromise. Rhysand and Cassian had gifted him this very camera the following Christmas. From what Mor had told you, Az never felt comfortable enough to pick up the passion— kept telling her that he hadn’t found his muse yet.

"Hey."

Despite how soft the voice was, you still jumped, placing the camera back down on the counter as you turned to face Azriel. He always had an uncanny ability to move silently, almost as if he emerged from the shadows themselves. It was unnerving at first, but there was a certain comfort found in his stealth now. His presence wasn't loud. You appreciated it.

"Hi, Az." You smiled sheepishly. "You're so quiet. It's crazy."

The corners of his lips twitched upwards. Azriel’s gaze softened slightly, his hazel eyes now glowing with a gentle amusement.

“Sorry,” he said, accompanied by a small laugh. He moved around you and made his way to the fridge. It opened with a small clatter, the glass bottles stacked on the door moving with the movement. He pulled out a few bottles of beers.

“You agreed to be the errand boy?” you asked, a hint of playful reproach in your voice.

Usually, the boys argued over every action; who would grab the next drink, who would drive while the others drank— the options were endless. It was often settled with a game of rock, paper, scissors, or a classic nose-goes. Azriel always seemed to come out on top.

He glanced back over his shoulder, a casual shrug punctuating his response. “If I didn’t, no one would.”

His voice was quiet– steady. You studied his movements, taking in the details of his tattooed back that were too small to appreciate from a distance. He turned around, walking forward to place the bottles on the kitchen counter across from you.

"You could be a spy, y'know."

Azriel raised an eyebrow skeptically, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that suggested he was both amused and intrigued. You returned the gesture, leaning forward on your forearms. The kitchen counter was cold against your skin and you felt a slight chill run through your body.

“You don’t agree?” you asked.

He met your gaze through his lashes and shook his head, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. The curls otop of his head bounced with the subtle movement and the warmth in his eyes reflected the gentle glow of the dim kitchen light.

“Nah,” he responded. He popped the caps off the bottles. “Don’t know if that fits me.”

“I think it does. You’re an observer.”

“Careful,” Azriel warned with a playful edge. His voice was smooth in a way that made you clench, tone low and unintendedly seductive. “Don’t make me sound like a creep.”

”Okay, what would you like me to say instead?”

He contemplated. “I just like to people-watch.”

You had to stifle a chuckle, finding his self-description almost endearing in its simplicity. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that actually sounded worse— at least to you. Instead, you reached to the side, grabbing the camera that had been in your hands a few moments prior. "This kind of people watching?"

For a moment, you both stood in silence as you stared at the camera in your hands. When you looked up, you focused on Azriel’s face. His eyes traveled from the camera to your eyes, and in that moment, there was something alive in his gaze—an intensity that seemed to make the room itself disappear. Something warm and comforting.

“I remember you talking about wanting to get into photography,” you said, your voice softening with genuine warmth. With a smile, you extended the camera toward him. “I’m glad to see you’re pursuing it. At least for the summer.”

Azriel’s smile widened slightly as he reached out and took it from your hands, the brush of his fingers against your skin sending a pleasant shiver through you. Your smile grew deeper into your cheeks, pulled at the edges by his very touch.

But when the camera was finally in his hold, something seemed to change in his gaze, as if the weight of the it in his palm was transferred to a weight on his chest. He let out a small sigh.

"Don't get your hopes up,” he murmured, “I haven't taken any pictures yet."

He placed the camera back onto the counter with a slight thud, the sound echoing softly in the quiet kitchen. You gave him a face.

“It’s barely been a week,” you said, trying to keep your tone light. “Six days to be exact.”

“That’s already a week behind.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, a small laugh leaving your lips. Azriel seemed to lock onto the sound, eyes glittering as his hand found the beer bottle again.

“Seriously?” You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms in a playful gesture of mock indignation. “It’s been six days and you’re already considering yourself behind schedule?”

He gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s not just about having the camera. It’s about actually using it. I had high hopes for this week.”

“Sometimes its okay to just enjoy the moment, Az.”

He leaned in slightly, his eyes twinkling with playful intensity. You felt a catch in your breath at the way his expression shifted. It was enough to remind you that Az wasn’t just kind and attractive; he was a suave college boy when needed.

“Ah, but the burden of my artistic aspirations are too great,” he said, his voice low and playful, “How will I ever manage without my schedule?”

A comedian, truly. You raised an amused eyebrow. “And I’m the Type A one?”

"You are." He grinned. "Who counts the days they've been on vacation for, anyways?"

"Okay that's not fair."

Azriel chuckled and walked over to a vase on the counter. The vase, a clear, simple one that had come with a bouquet of flowers for Rhys’s mother, was part of a collection Azriel started—a small yet meaningful tradition of saving bottle caps from vacation. You took the opportunity to glance at his back again, taking in the intricate tattoos that adorned his shoulder blades. The designs seemed to pulse with life against his skin when they caught the light.

“It’s cool seeing all of the details in your tattoos. I never really noticed them before.”

Azriel turned slightly, his gaze meeting yours as he considered your observation. “Is this you admitting that you’re staring at my naked back?”

“Do you want me to be staring at your naked back?”

Azriel dropped the caps into the vase and walked back towards you. He gave you a nonchalant shrug, his mischievous smile lingering slightly on his lips, casual and knowing.

“It’s hard not to stare,” you added, tracing idle patterns onto the counter, unaware of how the motions mimicked the swirls on Az’s skin. “You, Cass, and Rhys have the most ink out of everyone I know. My eyes naturally gravitate.”

“And here I thought my back was special.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks and you quickly looked down at the counter, hoping it would hide the color spreading across your face. Your smile was so wide it almost hurt. You met his eyes once more. They were already on you.

“I will tell you that your wings seem a bit bigger than Cass or Rhys’s.”

Azriel’s grin widened at your response. He leaned forward, resting on the counter and lowering his gaze to meet yours. “Don’t tell them that.”

He took a swig of his drink. You watched the path of the liquid down his throat, tracing it to his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. You cleared your throat, laughing softly. “Never.”

He looked at you for a moment, gaze soft and contemplative. A thoughtful glaze found his eyes, as if he were lost in deep reflection.

“What?”

Your voice came out meeker than intended.

“I’m just really glad you’re here.” Azriel said. His voice was sincere, carrying with it a weight that made you pause.

You sucked in a breath. “Me too. It’s nice to be around you guys. All of you.”

“Would I be a dick if I said that I’m glad you and Eris broke up?” Azriel paused. “Because now you can be here with us.”

You bit back a smile, your cheeks warming slightly. “Maybe just a tiny bit.”

But the corners of your lips still twitched upwards, forming a lopsided smile.

He shrugged, a casual grin returning to his lips. “In that case, consider it thought, not said.”

You smiled at him, feeling a nervous flutter in your chest. The dim light of the kitchen seemed to cast a warm glow around him, making his features appear even more inviting than usual. He looked soft now, and you found yourself struggling to understood why, at one point, you were unbelievably intimidated by him.

Freshman year you would be having a heart attack now, truly. You could still feel her deep down in your mind, beginning to hyperventilate with excitement.

You looked down shyly, trying to steady your racing heart, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before pointing at the beers.

“Do you need help with those?”

“Sure,” he replied with a grin, pushing one towards you. “I can never say no to you.” His words sent a rush of warmth through you, and you bit your lip to prevent your smile from growing even more. Forget alcohol— subtlety is what you needed more of. He rounded the kitchen counter.

As he neared you, he paused, his eyes flicking to your forehead. Placing the beers back down, he reached out, his fingers hovering inches from your skin. You scrunched your brows in confusion, blinking rapidly as his face came closer to yours. His touch was feather-light, so soft it was almost imperceptible, yet it sent a shiver down your spine all the same.

“What—” you began, but the words caught in your throat.

“There,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. He brushed something from your temple, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. You felt your cheeks heat up, a growing blush spreading like wildfire.

You couldn’t help but imagine how Azriel must be with those he loved beyond friendship—how his gentle gestures must perfectly soothe the hearts of those he held dear. The soft touches, the attentiveness, the small actions that made Azriel so uniquely himself. The thought lingered as he pulled away, rubbing his fingers with a small, smile.

“Some sand,” he said, his voice casual, but the warmth in his eyes gave it a softer edge.

You managed to breathe out a thank you, the breath escaping you in a soft rush. Another shiver ran through you, not just from the chill, but from the unexpected intimacy of his touch. You stared at the counter, hoping it would hide the flush on your cheeks and the way your smile made your cheeks ache.

Azriel seemed to have a sudden realization. “Aaand,” he said, turning on his heel and walking briskly into the living room. Moments later, he returned with a small jog, tossing you a hoodie. “It’s mine, not Cass’s, but hopefully it’ll work.”

The hoodie smelled faintly of him—an understated blend of his personal scent that made you feel a little warmer. You took it from him, the fabric soft and reassuring against your fingers.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling as you pulled the hoodie on.

“Ready?” he asked, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before he grabbed the remaining beers.

You nodded, following him back outside. As you stepped into the night, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth on your temple. It felt as if the very spot on your head held an imprint of his touch, a marker of his fingerprints.

You smiled for the rest of the night.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Part Three

authors note: this series is the only thing keeping me going rn, just two sweethearts with crushes on each other and a lovely beach….and cass with a pornstache 😏

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