#just wanted to be clear about that ^ this is just a thought i had

[deadpoetskin]

DADDY, YOU DUMMY — II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

time travel psychological trauma in toddlers

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

He clicked none of them.

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

The rustle of sheets pulled Tim out of his thoughts.

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

Sleep-heavy and glassy, they blinked once.

Then again.

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

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

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

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

“Do you want some breakfast?”

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

He blinked. “Green?”

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

Tim almost laughed. Almost.

“No green pancakes,” he promised.

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

“…Yeah. Of course, I can.”

Gia had never let go of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She beamed. “Grandpa Alfred, you remembered!”

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

Gia immediately dug in, humming around a mouthful.

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

She was so at home. So certain.

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

He moved like gravity had called him.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

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

Bare feet on hardwood. Light, casual, familiar.

A moment later, Dick stepped into the kitchen.

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

And then he saw them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim didn’t answer immediately.

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

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

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

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

Dick grinned. “I contain multitudes.”

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

“Yeah, munchkin?”

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

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

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

Gia offered one without hesitation, syrup and all.

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

She giggled, proud of herself.

Tim watched them, something unreadable in his eyes.

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

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

And Tim couldn’t stop wondering what else she knew

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

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

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

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

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

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

None of them interrupted. They just listened as Gia spoke

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

The stories didn’t stop.

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

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

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

Dick looked over. “You alright, Tim?”

Tim blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was both comforting and terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason blinked. “Well, that tracks.”

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

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

Until now.

“Gia,” he said evenly.

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

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

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

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

The others exchanged glances—but none of them interrupted.

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

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

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

Everyone stayed quiet. Watching.

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

Tim sat up straighter. So did everyone else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They fell into silence again.

And then—footsteps.

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

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

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

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

“I found it!” she announced.

Technically, Alfred had—but no one corrected her.

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

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

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

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

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

She held the picture out.

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

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

Tim unfolded the picture.

And stopped breathing entirely.

The image was unmistakable:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim didn’t even argue.

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

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

“I know her,” Tim said quietly.

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

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” Dick asked, blinking. “How—?”

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

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

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

Jason blinked. “She’s a celebrity?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ARCHIVE PART ONE | PART THREE

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

divider: @enchanthings

[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: none

“Where’s Liam? Her husband.”

“In the NICU with the baby.” You search for air in the room like a fish out of water, not surprised to find it lacking. “He’s been going back and forth.”

“Right.” There’s a patient in this bed, and it shouldn’t be your sister. Your sister, who was suddenly pre-eclamptic and had a massive pulmonary embolism, who delivered a tiny, twenty six week old baby who’s upstairs on a vent. “She um, has there been a neurological exam?” The nurse shakes her head sympathetically.

“Not yet.”

“And they’re sure it was a PE?” PE, worst case scenario normally, but Tess’s was worse. The kind that kills you.

“They’re sure.” You eye the computer on the desk. You’ll absolutely lose your job if you pulled up her chart but the desire to comb through every single test, every single note, is burning under your skin. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m okay. Thank you though.” She’s sweet. You don’t know how ICU nurses do it. You patch your patients up and send them on their way, either to another unit or out the door, while they watch theirs die half the time. “I’m just going to sit for a while.”

“Okay. Let me know.” She motions to the call button and you give her a weak smile, swallowing the nausea rising in your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Oh. Hi.” He regards you evenly, rhythm of the rocking chair never missing a beat.

“He was having trouble regulating his temperature.” The texture of your scrubs against your skin suddenly feels too scratchy, the room itself too warm.

Doctor Riley is shirtless. In your patient’s room. Shirtless.

“Right.” He nods, like it’s natural, like he’s not sitting in here, with your tiny patient cradled against his chest, Eli’s small arms and legs and feet and toes curled up on his forearm, the wide expanse of his palm pressed to his back. “I uh, I just need his blood pressure.” You weren’t even supposed to have this baby today, but Key asked you to switch, something about being overly attached and needing a break and now, you’re standing frozen in the doorway frozen with what you’re sure is a stupid, dumbstruck expression. He cocks his head.

“Daisy? You okay?” Yes. No. You don’t know. Your reaction to him is unsettling. It’s like an undertow, and  your arms are weak, your muscles are burning, and you’re trying so hard to swim against the current, to fight it.

But you’re losing.

And you never lose, you can’t lose. Not now. Not when you have Riley, or she has you, and you have everything on your fucking shoulders, dragging you down into the dirt.

“Daisy, hey.” Eli is back in his crib, Doctor Riley’s scrub top is on, and he’s standing in front of you, hand hovering at your elbow. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat of his skin, and the growing need inside you urges you to lean into it, into him. “What is it?” I’m tired, you want to confess, it’s too heavy, it’s crushing me.

“Nothing, sorry, just didn’t sleep super well.” Your patient squirms, and then lets out the smallest cry, interrupting the tightrope you’re standing on, and you give Doctor Riley an apologetic smile. “I should get him. He's uh, NPO for surgery later today, right?”

"That's right. Are you circulating?" You try to look away as he rolls his shoulder and his scrub top rides up his belly, exposing a sliver of skin just above his pants, but it's impossible not to linger on him. He clears his throat, and your cheeks flood when you realize he's also staring at you, waiting for a response. Jesus Christ.

"Oh, no. It'll be Isa." He frowns.

"I thought-"

"We switched." You shrug, trying to play it casual, and his relaxed demeanor changes, turns tense as his jaw hardens to stone.

"You what?" He looks pissed, and you scramble to try to explain it.

"Yeah, we, a few of us, switch sometimes. No big deal, we-"

"Daisy," Your name is heavy gravel echoing from his chest, low and full of warning, and you brace for his usual anger, or impatience but it doesn't come. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a very long, very deep breath, and rubs his face. "No more switching without my approval, do you understand?"

"I-" He cuts you off.

"Do you understand, Daisy?" In all the pieces of this man that you've seen, this one is the strangest. It's the firm yet tender one, the one that makes your knees weak and your head hurt. The one that ignites the flame, and every time he takes it with him, it leaves you alone. cold. Confused.

"Yes, I understand Doctor Riley."

The very pretty woman with the very cute toddler clinging to her legs is standing off to the side across from the nurses station.

“Do you need help?” Maybe she’s visiting a patient? Though kids aren’t usually allowed in the NICU. She gives you a smile, and ruffles the little boy’s hair.

“No, we’re okay. Thank you. Just waiting for-” The toddler giggles at something down the hall, and without even looking, you know.

It’s Doctor Riley. He’s wearing casual clothes, the second time you’ve seen him in them in a month, and a dark blue baseball cap, though it doesn’t do much to hide the crinkle of his eyes when he gets closer to the woman and her child. He looks good, he looks great, he looks-

like he could ruin you as he goes down on one knee and the little boy flings himself into his arms, his chest rumbling with a chuckle as he pretends to gnaw on him. They fit together, same sandy blonde-brown hair, same eyes, same stocky build. Reality crashes into you like a tidal wave, and you try to ignore the way your throat constricts. The reaction is completely illogical.

You try to appear busy as he stands with the boy and flings him over his shoulder, leaning in to give the woman a kiss on her cheek. “Get in alright?”

“No problems, yeah.” He tucks her into his side, the two of them shouldering the weight of the boy now, and he giggles.

“Should we get this hungry lad to dinner?” She nods agreeably, and he hitches the toddler onto his hip, his babbling and giggling still rolling even as he snuggles into Doctor Riley’s chest. You tear your eyes away and start clicking mindlessly through a chart, trying to ignore the weird tangle in your chest, a knot tugging tighter and tighter, compressing your rib cage.

What is wrong with you?

“Daisy.”

“Sorry? I was looking at these labs.” The toddler swings his legs and Doctor Riley stills him. The knot gets tighter.

“I said Karim is on call tonight, but if anything is urgent let me know too. Especially with Ellie.”

“Okay.” Ellie is straddling a thin line. Some days she’s great, some days she’s struggling, and it can all turn on a dime so fast your head spins. “We’ll let you know. Have a good night.” There’s a brief interlude, a moment of silence as he looks you over from head to toe, and then scoots the boy up higher on his side.

“You too.”

The HR woman looks like she’d rather be anywhere else but here right now.

And she probably does.

You certainly wouldn’t want to be sitting behind a desk, staring at someone as they realize their loved one won’t have health insurance for a full calendar year.

“I don’t understand.” You keep trying to make it make sense, to fit the puzzle pieces together, but nothing clicks. “That… I wouldn’t do that. I’m careful, I’m so careful.”

“I understand this is difficult-”

“I have a medically vulnerable dependent. You don’t understand anything.” You shoot to your feet. “So what does this mean?”

“You’ll need to make arrangements for Riley’s health insurance after her current plan expires in three months.” You’re going to be sick all over this ugly office carpet. “You can look at plans on the marketplace, or apply for medicaid.” You laugh. It’s sharp and brittle, heavy with disbelief, anger. You don’t qualify for medicaid, you’ve tried. Your income level is above the threshold, even though your costs drain you dry. And looking for insurance on the marketplace is no better. Those plans start at eight hundred dollars a month.

“I chose this plan for her specifically, for what she might need if something happened. Why didn’t she just roll over onto the new plan with me? She’s been my dependent for years.”

“You have to enroll everyone individually when you change plans. The instructions are very clear.” This is all your fault. You did this. You were careless. You were stupid.

Your stomach flips and thrashes.

“Okay.”

“Any medical care you or Riley receive here will be heavily discounted.”

“That’s… that’s great. Thanks.” You’re speaking but you don’t know what you’re saying. Everything is numb except for your nausea, which is rapidly turning the contents in your stomach into a projectile. “I have to go.” You rush out, and before she can even answer, you’re down the hall, slamming into a bathroom and keeling over the toilet.

Fuck.

“Just get married.” You drop your spoon and it clatters on the table. Olivia looks unimpressed, but Ava can never be deterred.

“Ava.”

“What? Pick someone. You’re smart and kind and funny and beautiful. I’m sure someone around here would marry you in a heartbeat.” She’s so nonchalant about it, like this is a logical solution.

“And tell them by doing so they’re committing fraud with me?” Her sigh is exasperated.

“Oh come on. Have you never read a romance novel?”

“Sorry I don’t exactly have a lot of time to read.” She waves you off.

“It’s called marriage of convenience. Get married, stay married until you can enroll Riley in health insurance again and it kicks in, get divorced, or…”

“Or?”

“Maybe fall in love along the way?” You choke on your yogurt.

“You’re actually insane.”

“Uh-” Olivia whispers, but it’s too late. Doctor Price is looming over Ava’s shoulder.

“Hey girls. “Causin’ trouble over here?” He winks, and she beams up at him.

“Us? Never.”

“Well I-” His phone interrupts him with a shrill ring, and as he walks off, Ava turns to you, suddenly very serious.

“Except him. I call dibs.”

The day is bad but it’s nothing compared to the weight on your chest.

It has you pinned down, immobile, stuck behind the wheel of the truck, keys in the ignition, staring through the windshield at nothing. Maybe the crack of sunlight between the concrete barriers of the parking garage if you were forced to pick something, the tangerine pink shadows of the setting sun scrawling across the sky.

You keep replaying the conversation with the HR rep over and over and over, like a broken fucking record, a carousel you can’t get off. The sun sinks lower and you know you need to leave, you need to get home, but you can’t bring yourself to put your foot on the pedal.

Who are you going home to? The kid you’ve failed, again? This is far worse than a late school drop off or too much ice cream before bed or a momentary short straw of patience.

You’re so lost in your own head you don’t even hear the knock on your window, and it takes the metal creak of the door being tugged on to snap you to attention.

Doctor Riley.

Simon.

He’s holding the handle with an expectant look on his face, and you hit the unlock button.

You don’t know why you do it, why you sit there shock still as he reaches across you to turn the truck off and pull the keys from the ignition, why you turn in the seat to face him, immediately holding your breath.

He’s so confusing. The rough edges, his gritty accent and sharp, biting words are nowhere to be found sometimes, and what’s left in their place is this. This man. The one who watches you, who’s pushing you closer and closer to an edge like he already knows what will happen, like he’s waiting for it.

Like he wants to destroy your foundation, your armor, like he wants to shred your control.

All of it by design.

“What is it?” You shake your head. There’s nothing you can say, nothing to give him that would explain the direness of your situation, the depth of your failure. Your lungs are burning, but you can’t bring yourself to release the air the you’re holding in your chest. “Daisy. Let it out.” Your refusal is steadfast, but he outfoxes you, places his hand on your thigh and takes you by surprise, the reaction rippling through to force your exhale. “That’s it, good,” the praise feels better than it should, and oxygen comes easier. So does the next one, and his hand doesn’t move as he coaxes you. “You’re doing great.” Eventually, stasis returns as your breathing evens out, and you try to come up with something, anything to say.

“Doctor Ri-”

“Simon. Outside of work, that’s who I am to you. Simon.” You feel the urge to freeze your lungs all over again, but like he’s reading your mind, he squeezes your thigh and the pressure is thoroughly distracting. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“I had a bad day.” A shit summation but the only one you can offer. His chest expands with his own deep breath. “That’s all.”

“That’s all.” He echoes. “You had a bad day, so you’ve been sitting in the garage for a half an hour with your truck running, staring into space,” he reaches for your face, pad of his thumb lightly tracing the curve of your cheekbone, and now you’re holding your breath for an entirely different reason. “But that’s all.”

“I… yeah, that’s all.” He sighs. It’s long, and you think about what he’s carrying, the weight of all those little lives and their families too. Is he tired like you? Desperate for a reprieve even though he knows he can’t slip up, not even for a moment? There’s no comparison. In a world of the two of you, your weight is a feather and his is the world. Atlas carrying it all on his shoulders.

And that makes you burn.

His hand falls, and with a metallic chirp, your keys are pressed into your palm. “You should get home.”

“Right.” The acknowledgment sticks in your throat. “Yeah.” He cups your cheek. Cups it. Holds it like a treasure before his touch vanishes completely, leaving you cold. Confused.

“Goodnight Daisy.”

“Goodnight Simon.”

[laceyfaeryy]

FORGET ME NOTS

MDNI 18+

butcher simon x floralist reader

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ retired! simon riley who is a butcher in a small town suddenly finds himself infatuated with the florist across the road who gave him flowers on national flower day.

note: not proof read

cw: fem! reader, dom! simon x sub! reader, mentions of masturbation

i.part 1 ii. part 2

its been a weekly routine, you coming every few days to the butcher with simon’s best cuts already prepped and ready from the moment he opened the shop. he didn’t care if other customers asked or tried to bargain, it was yours and he didn’t care about what others asked for.

he found himself adding more to just the cut, personal seasoning, oil and small notes filled with tips on how to cook it perfectly. simon told himself that it was simply a kind gesture, and not because he wanted to smell the sweet scent of your perfume for a few seconds longer, or having a closer view of your glossy lips.

no. of course not.

“it should be perfect after you add this seasoning,” his gruff voice filling up the empty store. simon was a respectful man… when he wasn’t fisting his cock to the thought of your warm plush lips wrapped around his head with drool dribbling down your chin.

but the sight of you craning up your neck to look at him made his pants a little more tighter. it was something he was used to, being a man his height and size it was an every day occurrence of having his customers looking up.

but seeing your eyes so wide and trusting, listening to everything he is saying so intently rubbed his ego slightly, having the attention of a pretty thing like you all to himself. “this one will fill you up for tonight,” he spoke roughly, handing the bag to you. he loved the way your eyes sparkled, trusting everything that came out of his mouth. “thanks sir.”

the word made his cock swell ever so slightly, simon now suddenly grateful for the bench in between the two of you.

sometimes, he didn’t know if you were just a minx or a total airhead who was completely unaware.

“i got you some flowers, i hope the last ones i gave you are doing well.” simon stared at the colourful arrangement that was now placed on the glass bench. he was never a plant guy or a flower guy, he was simply simon.

but his once dull apartment was filled with flowers, watered carefully and strategically placed on his windowsill when it was sunny. “they’re doin’ great swee’heart.” the word of endearment slipped out like second nature, however the way you blushed shyly, your head looking down made his cock swell.

nervously he cleared his throat, “if you want i can cook something up.”

never in his life has he lost composure, but today might just be the day.

“of course.”

or not.

“i finish in an hour, then back in my apartment?” he eyed you carefully, as if he were expecting you to slither out. but instead you flashed him a warm smile, “sounds great sir.”

now he had an hour of his imagination running wild, you pinned down on his bed as he sank his teeth into your skin, listening to the sweet sounds of your moans as he was hurried deep inside you.

but he quickly brushed those thoughts away, after all, he had the most important dinner of his life to cook.

tag list;

@happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666 @ghostsd8s @ama-eve @webmvie @your-internet-tenshi @novthewolf @1ilo @simpingreader @angeldoll1e @avgdestitute @anonymouse1807 @chaieanne @i-live-in-spite @angel-z-xdx @trashaccount19

[thatonegrimm]

Helluuu, I just read the post/req that reader called saja boys "husband" to get a creep to scram

Sooo, what about marriage proposal 😍 like, will saja boy ask the big question??? 🥰

(No need to do if ur too busy, thank you!)

Thank you for the request! This is such a sweet idea ❤️ Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader—marriage proposal

---------------------

🧿 Jinu

Jinu had the ring for weeks.

It lived in a tiny box tucked inside an even tinier compartment in his nightstand, where he checked on it more often than he’d admit. He practiced the words under his breath while brushing his teeth. Rehearsed with Derpy. Even tried to script the moment—quiet music, nice dinner, sunset maybe.

But none of it felt right.

Until one lazy morning, you walked into the kitchen wearing one of his hoodies, hair messy, yawning like a cat. You rubbed your eyes and said, “Hi,” like it was the best part of your day.

And something in him broke open.

"Wait," he said, heart in his throat. "Don't move."

You blinked, confused, as Jinu bolted to the bedroom. When he returned, he was breathless, ring box clutched in hand.

“I was gonna wait,” he said, “but then you walked in like that and I just—no. I wanna wake up to that face for the rest of my life. Please?”

You stared.

“Please marry me,” he added, stumbling through the words with zero coolness and full sincerity. “I’ll re-ask it better later. But for now. Say yes?”

Your mouth fell open—and then you smiled so big it made him tear up.

“Yes,” you whispered, arms around his neck. “Even if you do re-ask it later.”

He absolutely would.

But the first time was already perfect.

---------------------

💪 Abby 

It was the day after a grueling performance—everyone sore, exhausted, barely functioning. But Abby insisted you come with him to the beach, just for an hour. “Fresh air,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

You didn’t expect to find a blanket already laid out. Your favorite snacks. A thermos of cocoa. And Abby, trying not to look proud of himself as he offered you a seat.

“Okay,” you said, narrowing your eyes, “what’s all this?”

He shrugged. “Wanted to spend time with you.”

He did. But also, he was nervous as hell.

You lay side by side for a while, watching the ocean. It was quiet. Golden.

And then Abby shifted. Sat up. Fished something out of his hoodie pocket.

“I’m not great with fancy speeches,” he started, voice low and a little shaky. “But you already know that.”

You turned toward him, breath catching.

“But I’ve been thinking… if I’m gonna build something strong—like really strong—I want it to be with you. And I want to protect it for the rest of my life.”

He opened the box.

Simple. Classic. Completely him.

“So, yeah. Will you marry me?”

You didn’t even let him finish before throwing your arms around his neck.

“Abby,” you whispered, laughing against his shoulder. “You absolute idiot. Of course I will.”

He held you tight like he’d just won the whole damn world.

---------------------

📚 Mystery 

Mystery didn’t make plans like this. Not usually.

But tonight, the rooftop was clear. The moon was covered. The night sky was soft.

And you were beside him, legs tucked under a blanket, sharing the silence.

He reached into his coat and pulled out something small—a folded scrap of paper. At first, you thought it was a note. But when you unfolded it, something heavy slid into your palm.

A ring.

Plain but smooth. Black, with faint silver etching along the inside.

You looked up, heart thudding.

Mystery didn’t smile.

He looked at you. Like really looked, in that way only he could. Quiet. Intense. Real.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want to be known this much,” he murmured. “But you made it feel… right. Like the world got quieter when you said my name.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’m still a work in progress,” he added. “But if you want me… if you’ll have me…”

He paused.

“I want to be yours. Every strange, sharp part of me.”

You didn’t say anything for a long time. Just slid the ring onto your finger and curled your hand around his.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Always.”

Mystery didn’t smile.

But his hand trembled when he held yours.

---------------------

💋 Romance 

You thought it was just a regular performance night.

Until the lights dimmed early.

And the screen above the stage flickered to life.

Photos of you. Candid, blurry, sweet. Clips of your voice, giggling off-camera. A song you didn’t recognize but that clearly had you in the lyrics.

And then—

Romance.

Walking onto the stage in a fitted black suit, looking nervous for the first time in your life.

“This,” he said into the mic, “is the scariest and easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

You froze.

“I fall in love with you every day. In dressing rooms, in traffic jams, in grocery store lines. You’ve turned every ordinary thing into a love story.”

A hush fell over the room.

“I don’t want it to be a story that ends.”

He knelt. Right there. With a ring that sparkled under the lights and a gaze that didn’t look anywhere but at you.

“So please, my love,” he said. “Let’s make this permanent. Marry me?”

Your hands flew to your mouth.

And through a blur of happy tears, you nodded.

He was on his feet in a flash, lifting you into his arms.

The crowd exploded.

But he only looked at you.

As if none of them mattered. Only you.

---------------------

🔥 Baby 

He didn’t ask your size.

He just made the ring.

Melted scrap metal, crushed stones, laced it with fire and a whisper of demon magic. He worked on it when you weren’t looking, lips pursed, soot on his cheek, hands covered in tiny burns.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was his.

The night he gave it to you, there were no candles. No setup.

Just Baby handing you a small black pouch in the hallway, looking like he might combust from nerves.

“…I made you something.”

You peeked inside.

Your heart skipped.

“You didn’t even ask if I’d say yes,” you said, voice catching.

Baby crossed his arms, defensive. “Yeah, because I know you’ll say yes.”

You stared at him.

He looked ready to fight you for your own hand in marriage.

You stepped forward, eyes shining.

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

“…You will?”

“Yes,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “You chaotic, flame-sneezing gremlin. I love you.”

He blinked.

“…Okay cool,” he said, trying and failing not to smile. “Yeah. Cool. Good. Okay.”

Then he kissed you like you’d just promised him eternity.

Because you had.

---------------------

M-List

[dead-flight]

Overprotective!Simon my HUSBAND.

He's never been worried. Not at home, not when he could fight any assailants off himself. Hell, they'd be fucking loose in the head to think they could take him on. It's not like he had much to show either--he didn't have much in the ways of luxury, simply because he chose not to purchase it.

Until he met you. He was nervous then, suddenly fixing shit around the house he'd let slip by him--the broken security system, the hole in the ceiling where he'd ripped out the smoke alarm because of its incessant 'low battery' beeping. Sure it was dangerous, but he hadn't cared before.

What never changed was the fact he'd had guns all over the house. You told him before that you'd feel sorry for whatever poor bloke thought he could grab a quick check off of your home, and he'd laughed in response, told you not to worry about it. He'd deal with it, after all, should push come to shove.

So he's prepared when he hears rustling from downstairs, and the beeping of the security system he'd had installed beeping away beside his ear--quiet enough for you to never notice, loud enough for him to wake up. He slips out of bed, sooths the crease that forms between your brows when his warmth leaves from beside yours, and grabs the pistol under the bed.

Whoever's broken in is about to feel bloody sorry for even trying.

He's efficient. Makes quick work of checking upstairs, deems it all clear before he's creeping down the stairs--the perpetrator's back in immediate sight. He's rifling through the desk in the study, thumbing through cabinets for cash, or anything expensive.

He only notices Simon when Simon wants him to. It's a firm press of the gun to the guy's head, causing him to jump, flinching under the touch. "What the hell--"

“I’d shoot y’point blank right ‘ere if I could, but the missus is sleepin’ upstairs. So y’ve got thirty seconds t’fuck off before I turn y’into a stain on the carpet," Simon interjects, checking the clock on the wall absently. Like it's just an average weekday to him.

"Hey, hey man, I'm just--" he raises his hands placatingly, dropping the papers he had been holding.

"Aye. Don't give a fuck. Would rather not stain the carpet, though, missus really likes this one. Said it's real soft n' nice on 'er feet."

Simon catches the door as he practically sprints from the home, only to avoid it slamming--he wouldn't want to alarm you, of course. He hums, shuts it quietly, and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

When he's back upstairs, shuffling into the bedroom, your wide eyes looking at him and quietly asking him where he went--how dare he leave you when you were cuddling, he smiles, places the glass on the nightstand and sneakily slips the gun right where he'd first gotten it.

“Nothing, luv, was thirsty, needed t’grab some water.”

[hearts4hughes]

THE SPACE BETWEEN FRIENDS

bsf!clark kent x reader | notes: how i yearn for best friend clark kent😭

“you’re telling me,” you furrow your brows. “that you’ve never kissed anyone before?” your voice isn’t judgmental, it’s just surprised. wide-eyed and honest in the way only you can get away with.

clark shifts beside you on the couch, suddenly very aware of how close your knee is to his. the cushion dips between you, and it’s almost comical how stiff he goes when you lean in, just slightly, waiting for an answer. he clears his throat. scratches the back of his neck. classic stall. “no, i’ve kissed someone before.” he finally sputters out. he doesn’t continue. so you just look at him. head tilted, brows raised. after a beat too long, he caves. “just…not in a long time.”

your lips part. a smile tugs at the edge, soft and amused. “how long is ‘a long time’?”

he squints, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on his sleeve. “senior year.”

you blink. “high school?”

“…yeah.” his voice is an octave higher. he tugs at the loose tread until it pulls away from his sleeve. you sit back a little, processing. not because it’s weird, but because it’s him. clark kent. six-foot-something, save-the-world-on-weekends clark kent. the man who picks up your favorite takeout without asking and always remembers your deadlines better than you do.

you’ve kissed a fair number of people. not recklessly, but you’ve lived. you’ve loved a little. you’ve made mistakes. and somewhere along the line, you learned how to be sweet about it. and now he’s sitting beside you blushing and nervous. all broad shoulders and big hands, like he doesn’t realize how stupidly kissable he is.

you tilt your head again. “can i ask why?”

he shrugs, eyes still on his sleeve. “i guess i just…haven’t wanted to. i haven’t had the time.” the room feels smaller, or maybe he feels out of place. his palms are suddenly clammy. he wipes them against his pants and prays you didn’t notice. “when’s the last time you kissed someone?” his voice is sheepish.

“i don’t know.” you lie. you know exactly when it was, but you don’t want to upset him. he exhales deeply. he can hear your heartbeat increasing, the blood sloshing a little faster in your body.

“y/n,” he raises a brow. “you’re a horrible liar.”

you smile, small and caught. “okay. i know when it was.” your eyes flick to the floor. he waits. doesn’t press. doesn’t rush you. but he’s looking at you now—really looking. like the world might tilt depending on what you say next. “a few weeks ago,” you admit. “some guy from a club. it was—it was nothing.”

he nods, slow and unreadable. his eyes drop for a second. something pits in his stomach—mean and sour. he swallows harshly. he hates how your answer affects him. it shouldn’t. you’re just friends. but the thought of you and some other guy makes it hard to breathe.

“clark?” your sweet voice brings him back to reality. his gaze moves back to you. your closer than he remembers. you smell like vanilla and something addictive. “it meant nothing.” you reassure. your hand rests on his. his skin tingles where you touch.

he nods once again. his eyes flicker between your hand and your lips. something possessive rushes over him and before he can stop himself, he leans forward and captures your lips. you gasp, the sound swallowed into his chest.

clark’s not thinking anymore. he’s moving on instinct, driven by desire months in the making. his mouth presses against yours like a confession. like he’s trying to say i want you without using words he’s not sure he deserves to speak. you don’t pull away. you should, maybe—just to get your footing, just to think. but your hand tightens over his instead, and when he tilts his head to kiss you deeper, you let him.

his hand ghosts up to your cheek, hesitant but warm, the way a man might hold a thing he’s spent his whole life aching for. your lips part, slow and cautious, and he makes a quiet sound at the back of his throat, like this is the exact taste he’s been dreaming about and finally, finally, he gets to have it.

the kiss doesn’t burn. it blooms. it’s steady and warm, curling through your chest like light flooding into a room that hasn’t seen morning in years. when he finally pulls back, just a few inches, his forehead rests against yours. his breath is ragged. yours isn’t much steadier. his eyes are closed. like he’s scared to open them. “i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i didn’t mean to—I didn’t plan to-”

“don’t apologize,” you say. your voice is breathy, lips still tingling. “you didn’t do anything wrong.” his eyes open then and there’s so much in them. longing, relief, a kind of fear you can feel in your own bones. “you meant it, right?” you ask quietly. “the kiss?”

he nods instantly like there was never a question. “i’ve wanted to kiss you for months,” he says. “i just didn’t know if i should. or if you’d let me.”

your smile returns, just a little crooked now. “i was starting to think you never would.”

he lets out a soft, nervous laugh. “i didn’t think i was your type.”

“you’re not,” you say, teasing, fingers brushing lightly up his arm. “you’re even better.” he blushes something fierce. you meet his eyes, and for once you don’t look away. you lean in again. when your lips meet his again, there’s no hesitation left. just want. just warmth. just him.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty @bewitchedarchive @yelqze

[athenalvss]

Omg I just stumbled onto your page after reading your “Flashancy” fic. It was so cute! If you don’t mind me asking could I ask for a follow up after that? Like the months of bat!sis pregnancy, how everyone helps, Damian glaring daggers at Wally if she even so much as sniffles, and how Wally through his panic steps up when it’s time for the baby to be born? 💕💕

DONT BE WALLY PLEASE (Wally west! )

summary: Everyone accompanies the young couple during your pregnancy.

pairing: Wally west x batsis reader

1 part - open request - Wally masterlist

Month 3

After the announcement, the initial chaos gave way to a tense calm, like the silence that comes after a storm... although everyone knew that the worst, or the best, was yet to come.

The mansion felt different. Not in any specific way, but in the small details. Conversations lowered their volume when you entered a room, as if everyone was trying to size you up. There were constant glances, some concerned, others simply curious. And a silent care in the air. As if everyone, subconsciously, knew there was now something fragile between you, something precious.

Now you were spending more time with your family when you weren't with Wally, because none of them wanted to miss the progress of your pregnancy; it was the first time they had experienced it so closely.

Coffee disappeared from your cup and was replaced by mild infusions. Training was replaced by short walks. Nights on patrol became quiet dinners with Wally, who went out of his way to learn how to accompany you, even though he still forgot basic things like how strong smells now made you nauseous.

No one talked much about the baby because, well, they don't know much about pregnancies. But someone was always nearby. There was always a hand extended if they saw you hesitate on a step, an excuse to stop by to "check on you," even if it was just to sit in silence for five minutes.

Your father said almost nothing, but it was clear he was always attentive and looking after you in every way, from the reinforced security reports, to the health analyses reviewed with double attention, to how his gaze lingered on you a little longer than usual when he thought you weren't looking.

Wally, for his part, was on his own emotional roller coaster, but he was always there, worried and caring for you and his baby. He was there for every ultrasound, every appointment, every discomfort. He spoke to you tenderly even when you were irritable. He held your back when everything hurt. And he held you tight every night, as if that way he could protect you from everything.

Sometimes you cried, over small things like a song, an old photo from when you were a child, a smell. Sometimes you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. Your hormones were a mess, and you really hoped it would all pass quickly, but someone in your family was always willing to try different methods to ease everything you were going through.

And that was the greatest show of love you could ask for.

Month 6

By month five, pregnancy was no longer "news" or a "surprise." The whole situation had become normalized, or at least for you, because while you remained calm and didn't have to put up with anything, those around you seemed to be going through the pregnancy for you.

Dick treated you like you were made of glass, with slow hugs and gentle steps, as if you were about to shatter at any second. Tim filled the refrigerator with meals scheduled by calories and nutrients, having Alfred prepare the recipes he'd found.

Jason didn't say much. But he came by more often. Always with some other excuse: bringing you a soft blanket, a romance novel, and a box of homemade cookies. "Don't ask who made them, just eat them."

He didn't ask any questions. He just put his things down, leaned against the door frame, and said, "Is everything okay?"

And you nodded, and that was enough for him. But one night, as you shared ice cream in the kitchen, he looked at you sideways and murmured, "You're going to do just fine. And that baby... that baby is going to be lucky to have you for a mom."

"Thanks Jay"

And Damian...

Damian followed you like a hawk. He didn't say much, but he took note of everything. He checked your sleep schedule, your posture, what you ate, the room temperature. If you frowned, he'd already call Alfred.

More than once you found him standing in the middle of the hallway, fully dressed in his training robes, in the dark.

"Dami, you know I don't mind you coming to my house, but what are you doing there in the dark?"

"I'm keeping watch. If you get hungry at midnight, I'll be ready. And if that useless ginger falls asleep, someone has to be awake."

You rolled your eyes with a smile and closed the door, already accustomed to his Operation-like vigilance. But when you turned around, you found Wally lying next to you, face down, his head on your stomach and his eyes closed as if waiting for the universe to speak to him directly.

"Did you know the baby can already hear voices?" she asked suddenly, her voice filled with restrained excitement.

"Yes, I read that. And they can kick too."

"Kicking? Already?" he asked, sitting up slightly, excited. "Did you feel anything?"

"Sometimes. it's like... little bubbles. But I don't think you can see them from the outside yet."

Wally went completely still. He rested his cheek against your belly again and placed a hand gently on your skin, as if it were something fragile. "Hi, little one... it's me, Daddy, the one who's going to run by your side until you get tired of me. I promise."

And the first time the baby kicked him in the face, he froze. Then, with his eyes wide open and a mixture of shock and overwhelming love, he screamed at you. "He kicked me in the face! A kick! Right here!" He pointed to his forehead, completely overwhelmed.

"You sure?"

"Yes! Yes! It was real. It was… it was like, 'You silly old man, I heard you, let me sleep.' Do you understand what this means?"

"Were you beaten before they were born?"

"He recognizes me! My son recognizes me! I'm his favorite!"

You laughed so hard your tears flowed. Wally stared at you, grinning from ear to ear, then pressed his ear back against your tummy, hoping for another little kick, like a secret code between the two of you.

he stood there, whispering to them as you stroked his hair, your heart in knots and the absolute certainty that this baby was already loved. Deeply. Ridiculously.

Wally, with all his nerves, his clumsiness, and his uncontrollable enthusiasm, was ready. Or rather: he was learning to be ready. Step by step. Kick by kick.

And that night, as he fell asleep with his head on your belly, his arms wrapped around you with protective tenderness, you thought there was no safer place in the world than that.

Month 9

It was early in the morning. Of course it was early in the morning. You were in the kitchen, eating cereal straight from the carton because you didn't have the patience to find a bowl, when you felt the first contraction.

It didn't hurt that much. Yet. It was just a strange, uncomfortable pressure, like something big was about to happen. You knew right away.

"Wally..." you said calmly, as if you were letting us know you were out of milk. "I think it's time."

Wally, who was half asleep on the couch with a ridiculous duck blanket, raised his head, blinked, and paused. His face went from sleepy to completely panicked in a matter of seconds.

"Time? Time like 'we're going to the hospital' or 'just a little longer' or 'he's coming out now'?"

"Time to say 'grab your stuff and take me now.'"

Wally disappeared in the blink of an eye, running through the house. You heard him shout unintelligibly, stomp up the stairs, throw something that sounded very expensive, and then return with three bags. "We're ready!" he announced, his eyes wide, as if he'd just completed a level impossible mission.

"Wally… "you said with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

"Don't be nervous."

"Me? Nervous? No! I'm perfectly calm. Absolute control. Total serenity."

"One of his eyebrows was twitching."

"Wally. I'm fine. Nothing hurts yet."

"But it could hurt at any moment! That's what terrifies me! This can escalate in seconds! One minute you're eating cereal, and the next...!" he made an exaggerated gesture with her arms" BOOM! Baby!"

"Wally," you cut him off, grabbing him by the shirt. "Breathe."

He stood still. He looked at you. He took a deep breath. Again. And little by little, the color returned to his face. Then he hugged you, quickly, clumsily, with a kiss on your forehead that was more an apology than anything else. And then, with a flash and a gentle whirlwind, they shot off toward the hospital.

In less than half an hour, the hospital waiting room looked like a crime scene.

Alfred was at their side, with a folded blanket, a diaper bag, and a face that looked like he was going to take control of the situation if someone else panicked.

Bruce stood, serious, arms crossed, pacing. Every five minutes he asked for the doctor. "Have they said anything yet?"

And Dick and Damian… well.

"I'm just saying, if the baby has red hair, we're going to have to dye it," Damian said, his tone serious.

"We're not dyeing the baby, Damian. It's a baby," Dick replied with a sigh. "There's always the option of leaving it on the Kents' doorstep."

Wally, who had just gone back inside to get some water, froze in the doorway. He looked at them, offended, one hand on his chest. "Excuse me?!" he exclaimed. "What's with me today? I'm the father! You should want them to look like me!"

Damian didn't bother to look up. "That's precisely what we're all trying to avoid."

"I'm just saying," Dick repeated seriously, "that I appreciate your friendship very much despite everything, but I don't know if I want another Wally."

Just as he opened his mouth to continue complaining, the door opened with a subtle creak. The doctor came out into the hallway, his gown wrinkled, his mask hanging around his neck, his expression tired but warm.

"Miss Wayne's relatives?"

Everyone stood up instantly.

Even Bruce, who until that moment had remained in sentinel mode, motionless and silent.

The doctor nodded gently. "Everything went well. Mom and baby are healthy. It's a little boy."

The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was Wally's glass falling to the floor.

And then Alfred sighed and smiled, his eyes moist. "Welcome, little West," he murmured. "We've been waiting for you."

Wally blinked. Once. Twice.

And suddenly, he burst into tears. he wiped his eyes with her sleeve without even realizing it. "Can I...?" hhe asked, his voice breaking. "Can I see them?"

The doctor nodded with a smile. "They're waiting for you."

Wally went out first. He didn't even run. He just walked quickly, as if he didn't trust his legs, as if the excitement was too heavy to move at his speed.

The others followed behind him, one by one, leaving the tension and nervousness behind, entering as a family.

And in the background, Damian murmured softly, not looking at anyone. "If he has his smile… he can stay too."

Dick patted him on the head. "Don't act tough, you'll spoil him in less than a week."

Damian didn't answer, but he smiled a little, just a little, as they walked toward the room where a new life had just begun.

[mischievousmoony]

Mayhaps , can I request a part 2 of steamy fantasies ? Kinda obsessed w perv!roommate James, actually. lol maybe r can torture can him some more b4 actually *helping* 😉😏

got unbelievably carried away. he's so pathetic in this mwahaha

𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗

⟢ pairing: perv!roommate!james potter x fem!reader ⟢ summary: you show james how little you mind his pervy habits, but not without torturing him a bit first ⊹ 5.1k ⟢ warnings: smut mdni, jerking off, hand job, spit play, kinda very sub!james, begging, praise, hair pulling, shame (james, he does lighten up), dubcon (?) for the pervy things he did in the past, someone pls tell me what else, feels like there's more but idk ⟢ read part 1 first ⟡ series masterlist

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

James called out of work that morning, said he was sick. There was absolutely no way he’d be able to focus on anything, not with the mess of emotions churning in his gut.

Truth be told, he’s embarrassed that you caught him, and all the shame he’s been burying—for all his filthy little habits—has risen to the surface. A debilitating, confusing combination of shame and arousal keeps him glued to his bed all day, the same memory gnawing at him.

“All you had to say was please and I would’ve helped you out. Next time, kay?”

James replays your words on a loop, trying to dissect every possible meaning while ignoring how painfully hard he is thinking about it. His fingers twitch with the urge to scroll through that hidden photo album on his phone, the one full of pictures he’s taken when you weren’t looking, and take care of the ache. But the guilt of even having those photos is too heavy.

What would you think if you found out about that too? Or what if you knew that a single smile in his direction could send him rushing off to his room, hard and desperate, jerking off to the thought of you. Or if you knew about the increasingly frequent visits to your bedroom when you’re not home? Not just to get off to the lingering scent of your perfume, but sometimes, just to lie in your bed and imagine what it would feel like to fall asleep next to you.

Fuck, he’s pathetic. You’d surely think so too. He’s convinced he must’ve misheard you earlier. Or maybe you were just teasing him. Mocking him because you didn’t know how else to react. God, maybe you were just uncomfortable and trying to have a laugh at his expense to ease your own discomfort.

Even if you really didn’t think much of it, he’s sure that if you found out about everything else, you’d send him packing.

James finally leaves his room when the takeout he promised to order arrives—because, of course, he always keeps his promises when they’re made to you. Even if the thought of you right now makes him want to hide out in his room for the foreseeable future.

He is sitting on the sofa now, picking at a loose strand at the hem of his shirt as he waits anxiously for your arrival. He’ll have to face you eventually, he figures. Besides, he wants to do right by you. He has to. He’s not quite sure what he’ll tell you. Sorry for being a perv, seems a little audacious.

He’s still mulling over possible excuses for his behavior when he hears the jingle of your keys at the door. For some reason, he’s memorized every cute little keychain you have. Can picture them perfectly, dangling next to the key to the flat you share. His whole body stiffens when the lock clicks open.

The first thing you notice is the brown takeout bag on the kitchen table, the receipt stapled to the front displaying the contents in bold letters. All of your favorites. You smirk as you slip out of your shoes and hang your blazer on the coat rack.

You pop your head into the sitting room, seeking him out.

“Hi, there,” you say, an air of smugness in your tone, finding James sitting on the sofa, looking downright miserable. Shoulders slumped and eyes fixed on the floor. Oh, poor thing, you think.

He clears his throat, barely looking up at you. “Hi,” he replies, his voice sounding smaller than he intended.

“My meeting went well. I’ve gotta admit, it’s in small part thanks to you for that little… confidence boost this morning.”

James shrinks into the cushions, mortified. Any whisper of an idea to play it off like his jerking off in the shower had nothing to do with you vanishes. It was simply a bad morning for you to need to use the mirror, he could have told you. He could have tried to excuse it. Impersonalize it. But if you had any doubt about his reasons that he could have played into before, he’s certainly crushed it with the way he just reacted.

It’s obvious to you how much all of this is weighing on him, how his thoughts seem to be running a mile a minute.

“Something on your mind, James?” you ask in a low, teasing tone that makes James’s cheeks burn. That, and the sudden proximity as you step closer, almost standing between his legs.

James stammers, staring up at you with big, wide, chestnut eyes. The shame burning in his chest is urging him to tear his gaze away, hide. But you look so beautiful. With your hair falling in front of your face as you look down at him, your kissable lips curved into a slight smirk. There’s something tantalizing about your work clothes. A white, collared shirt with short puff sleeves, tucked neatly into striped gray trousers that hug your curves just right. The top two buttons are undone, as if to tempt him.

“James?” you murmur, pulling him out of his trance.

“I- I really like you,” he blurts out in a shaky, almost whiny voice. This isn’t exactly how he imagined confessing his feelings—if he was ever going to in the first place. And it’s not exactly how he planned to start this conversation either, not that he was able to come up with much of a plan, but anything might’ve been better than turning into mush.

“You’re amazing and brilliant and so pretty and- and I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever. I know I shouldn’t have done that in the shower with you… there. But I just can’t control myself when it comes to you. And I’m sorry because I don’t want to make things weird or- or uncomfortable because I really don’t want to lose you.”

The words don’t feel like enough. James's hands flex restlessly in his lap as he fights the urge to reach out and touch you. Hug you. Shake you and beg for forgiveness.

“Oh, baby.”

His breath hitches at the pet name.

“I thought I was being clear,” you say as you drag a hand down the side of his face, following the sharp curve of his jaw to his chin. He shivers at your touch—barely there, he could be imagining it. “I like that you like me so much. Honestly, I’m flattered.”

James’s lips part like he has something to say, but no noise comes out. All he can manage to do is look at you like he’s already completely at your mercy.

“C’mere,” you purr, pulling his head to your chest. He goes easily, like he’s been waiting for this, because he has. His big arms finally encircle your waist, holding you tightly, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he lets go.

His body practically sags against you as you card your fingers through his curls. His cheek is pressed against your chest, and he can hear your heartbeat. It’s a lot more controlled than his and it helps him relax a little.

You slide a hand back through his hair, gripping it at the roots this time. He sucks in a sharp breath as you pull his head back. The room suddenly feels several degrees warmer.

“But if you’re feeling like you have something to apologize for, we can work something out,” you tell him in a low, sultry tone that has him choking on air.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, neck craning back farther as you give his hair another little tug. He doesn’t understand what you mean. Hell, he can hardly understand how this is even real. All he really knows is that the words that come out of your mouth sound so pretty.

“I’ll do anything you want,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Aw, yeah?” you murmur, your tone patronizing. Your eyes trail down his body to the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, straining against the gray fabric since you first touched his cheek. His eyes follow yours and he’s hit with another wave of embarrassment.

“Why don’t we lay everything out in the open?”

“What?” he asks, his voice cracking.

Your eyes flick back up to his. “No more secrets. I want to know what you do when you think about me.” Your gaze turns down to his bulge again. “I want you to show me.”

Of course he’ll show you. Anything you ask. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a nervous wreck. It’s not just about exposing himself, it’s about laying himself bare. Showing you the most depraved side of himself.

He can’t do that without making something clear first.

“I don’t just think about you when I’m horny. It’s not just that. I- I think about you all the time. As much as I think about how badly I want to touch you, I think about how badly I want to be with you more.”

Your hand drops from his hair to cup his cheek, stroking gently at his cheekbone. “I know,” you say softly. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, James.”

You had. It really is so cute how in his head he gets, completely unaware that every time you catch him looking at you lustfully, you revel in it. You find little excuses to expose more skin, flaunt yourself, just to watch his eyes go wide. But maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Because he also doesn’t notice how affected you are when he looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. It’s easier to maintain the upper hand when he doesn’t know how much he does you in.

“You have?” he asks bashfully.

“I’ve seen more than you think.”

James’s gaze drops shyly to the floor, which you’re having none of, and you promptly turn his chin back up with a press of your thumb.

“You don’t have to be shy,” you whisper, a reassuring smile overtaking the cocky smirk on your lips. Your thumb swipes across his lower lip, teasing, before your hand starts to trail slowly down his toned chest over the soft black cotton of his t-shirt. “Can I help?”

James nods quickly, his heart skipping a beat as your hand travels lower and lower. You toy with the string of his sweatpants before tugging it loose. Then, you hook your fingers in the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down just enough for his hard cock to spring out.

He mutters curses under his breath. He’s halfway convinced this is a dream—he’s definitely had one just like it before.

“Pretty boy,” you muse. Shit, you hadn’t expected him to be that big. Long, thick, and already flushed and leaking for you. You watch a bead of precum trace a path down his length, imagining how he’d stretch you out, and you have to fight the urge to press your thighs together.

Seeing the way you look at him, hungry and wanting, a shiver runs down his spine. His blush has crept all the way up his neck to the burning tips of his ears now, and his hand grips the arm of the couch like a lifeline.

James is disappointed when you put a bit of space between the two of you, backing up to sit on the edge of the coffee table behind you. He already feels the loss of you keenly, missing the closeness of your body. His cheek still burns where you had touched him.

You get comfortable, leaning back and supporting your weight with your hands on either side of you.

“Go on,” you say coolly, watching his cock twitch under your gaze. “Touch yourself for me, baby.”

“Oh, fuck,” James mutters, breath shuddering out of him. His jaw clenches, but he starts to lift his right hand at your command.

Oh, you’re going to have fun with him.

He slowly traces a trail up his thigh, buying time. A groan slips past his lips as he tentatively wraps his hand around himself. Pushing through his embarrassment, he starts with slow strokes.

“Hm, wait,” you say, and he stills his hand immediately.

You wrap your fingers around his wrist and pull his hand towards you. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. Then, you spit in his palm.

“Oh, fuck.”

You place his hand back over his cock, covering it with your own to guide a single, slow stroke over his length. Then, you pull away, leaving him to continue what you started.

“Better?” you ask, watching the way his face contorts in pleasure.

A hopeless, breathy noise is all he can manage in response as he continues, starting at the slow pace you set. Your spit lubricating his cock makes it feel unbelievable. It’s not just the slickness, it’s the fact that it’s yours. His grip tightens, and his eyes screw shut as the pleasure builds.

You click your tongue. “Look at me.”

An embarrassing whimper slips past his lips as he forces his eyes open. You look equally amused as you are turned on. He watches as your eyes trail down his body. The way your teeth catch your bottom lip when they fall on his hand pumping his cock.

Fuck, this feels unreal. It’s different with you watching. So different. Nothing like the countless fantasies he’s had about you. No, this is better. Real. Even the low burn of embarrassment has nothing on how turned on he is right now. And all you’ve done is get him to use his own fucking hand. But that look in your eyes, trained on him, it’s enough to wreck him.

“Have you ever done this here before? On our sofa?” you ask, settling back on your hands again.

James tries to swallow, but his mouth has gone dry. “Y- yes,” he chokes out, trying to maintain the pace of his hand.

“When?” you ask, tilting your head.

You don’t even look up from his dick when you talk to him. Like you’re transfixed. Fuck, James can’t take it.

“When you’re—fuck, not home. Or—mmh—in the shower.”

“Where else?”

Your voice is too calm. It’s unfair, really. You just sit there, looking pretty, level-headed. And he’s falling apart.

“I-” James hesitates. Your eyes flick up to his face and you can see the embarrassment written all over it. You’ve never seen him blush such a deep shade of pink.

You lean in slightly, encouraging him gently. “Go on, baby. We’re being honest, yeah?”

“Your- your room. I’m sorry, fuck.”

You smirk as if that’s what you were hoping to hear.

He has to fight the urge to look away, but he knows you wouldn’t like that, so he keeps his eyes on your pretty face. But admitting that is humiliating, terrifying. And it turns him on more than he’d like to admit. He’s getting worked up fast under your command, under your smug, expectant gaze—you’re watching him like he’s all yours to play with.

He would wholeheartedly agree that he is.

“On my bed?” you ask knowingly.

“Yes,” he cries out, thumbing the sensitive head of his cock as he throbs in his hand, heat pooling in his gut with every stroke.

“Why there?” you ask, squinting. It’s almost a dumb question, you think, because it’s obvious. But you want to hear him say it.

He squirms, choking on his words. “I like to feel- feel close t’you.”

It’s a tame answer. True, but doesn’t quite capture the depravity he really feels. And it’s like you can see he’s holding back, but you let it slide, this time.

“And what do you think about?”

“You. Always you,” he sputters, dumbing down fast, all coherent thoughts slipping away as his hand speeds up.

“What about me?” you prod.

“Everything. The way you look—so fucking pretty—the way you sound, the way you smell,” he groans. The scent of your shampoo fills his nostrils, and he’s not sure if it’s because you're right there or because he’s memorized it. “I think about your mouth,” he continues.

“Yeah, you fuck your fist thinking about my mouth? Want my lips on your cock?”

Your filthy words send a shockwave of heat straight through him. “Fuck, yes, yes,” he cries out, squeezing himself hard.

“What else?”

“Think—hmmf—‘bout how you’d taste. How you’d sound if I—ah—ever got the chance to touch you. I think about you looking at me like- like I’m yours.”

That makes you smile. So sweet. Somehow, it all feels that way. So very sweet.

“I think about you touching me,” he continues. “Want your-” He’s cut off by his own moans.

You take pity, filling in the blanks. Or maybe you’re being cruel, knowing how your words affect him.

“What? Do you think about fucking me, James? Sinking your cock deep inside me?”

A series of humiliatingly high-pitched whimpers falls from his lips. Your words are doing horrible things to him, and he wishes for you to never stop.

“Dunno, baby,” you continue your teasing. “You’re a big boy, dunno know if I could fit you.”

“You could, you could do it, mhm, know you could, you’d feel so good,” he pants, words meshing together lazily.

Your lips stretch into a wicked smirk. “Yeah? You think about how good my pussy would feel when you jerk off to the panties you stole from me?”

James lets out a broken sound, his strokes faltering as he stares at you, wide-eyed. “You-? Fuck! How did you-?” he gasps, shame crashing down on him, his thoughts too scattered to form a full sentence. This is mortifying, you look so fucking hot, his head’s spinning, how did you find out?

You smile like you’re satisfied with yourself. Like you’ve caught him. Fuck, you were guessing.

Well, you suspected it when you noticed the missing pairs. Maybe hoped, because of how hot you get at the thought of him touching himself with your panties in his free hand. Maybe pressed against his face. Shit, maybe tangled between his fingers as he works himself raw with the same hand. You should feel violated, really, you know that. But you’re far from it, pressing your thighs together subtly, you're pulsing with arousal instead.

“Stole half of a matching set, baby,” you reveal how you caught onto his little habit, sounding like you pity him for being so foolish. “Hard not to notice they were missing. ‘S okay, though.”

James whimpers softly, unable to do much else.

“Kinda hot. You want to fuck me that badly?”

“Yes,” he whines. “Please, I- I-”

“Bet you're thinking of bending me over this sofa right now. What if I told you I’m not wearing any panties?”

You are. But torturing him is just so much fun.

“Fuck! Please, I’m-”

His hand starts to get sloppy, his rhythm faltering as his hips lift helplessly off the couch, chasing his own hand. Every breath comes out in a whine.

“Please. Not gonna last.”

“Aw, you can handle it. Just slow down for me, yeah, that’s it. Good boy,” you coo as his hand stutters, then slows.

The praise makes his head spin. His hips thrust up into his hand desperately one more time before he manages to rein it in, his grip on himself slacking a bit. “Fuck… just, please,” he pants, his breath coming out in uneven puffs, unsure of exactly what he’s even asking for.

“Wanna know what I think about when I touch myself?”

“Fffuh—oh, god.”

James’s mind goes blank. The mere idea of you, naked, with your hand between your legs, is undoing. He’s afraid your words alone will make him come. Even if he stops touching himself altogether, your voice might be enough.

“I think about you, too. About how it’d feel to have your fingers instead of mine. I bet you would make me feel so good,” you say, watching the way his fingers tense around his cock. James really does have nice hands. Nice long fingers, you can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like buried inside of you. You feel yourself clench around nothing. Shit, if James only knew how wet you are, he might go insane.

James moans, unable to form words—or thoughts. This is too good to be true. He can’t help the way his grip tightens and his hand pumps faster despite you telling him to slow down just a second ago.

“Something tells me you’re even better with your tongue,” you continue, every word meant to push him close to the edge as your eyes fix on his lips. “Oh, how I’d love to sit on that handsome face.”

You turn your attention back to his cock, drinking in the sight as it twitches desperately in his hand.

“Shit, and I’d ride your cock so good too. I’d take it nice and slow, bet you’d like it.”

Your voice, combined with the image your words put in his head, nearly sends him over the edge. “Please, I’m so close. Please, can I come?”

“Oh, but I haven’t even touched you yet,” you emphasize.

That gets him to really slow down. “You- you-” he sputters. His chest rises and falls heavily with every breath, his whole body is thrumming with need but he forces himself to slow down.

“Want me to touch you, baby?” you ask, your tone a touch mocking.

“Yes, god, yes,” he responds eagerly, his hand stuttering to a stop at the base of his cock.

You tilt your head down, looking at him expectantly. Waiting for more. A low whine escapes his throat when he realizes you want him to beg.

“I—fuck—I need you,” he pants, fingers of his left hand digging into the armrest. His eyes are filled with desperation and his eyebrows are pinched together, almost in anguish, as he begs for you. “W- will you touch me? Please. Please?”

Your lips stretch into a satisfied grin. “Move your hand, pretty boy.”

As you say it, you push off the coffee table to kneel on the carpeted floor in front of him and his heart just about stops. He mumbles something incoherent as he spreads his legs a little more to make room for you, moving his hand to lie flat on the cushion beside him.

It’s obvious how desperate he is, but you’re determined to drag this out. Tease him. You start by lightly touching his knees, running your hands over the soft fabric of his sweats, stopping just under where they bunch up at his muscular thighs, then trailing back down. Goosebumps litter every inch of his exposed skin.

He holds his breath when you finally touch him, looking up at him through your pretty eyelashes as you drag a finger down his length, your touch barely there as you trace along a thick vein. He moans loudly when you finally wrap your hand around the base of his cock.

You push yourself up on your knees, leaning closer with parted lips. So close, he can feel the warmth of your breath. But you don’t touch.

“Want my mouth, baby?” you whisper, your lips millimeters away from his leaking tip.

He lets out a pathetic little whimper, using every ounce of self-control not to buck his hips into your face. “Please,” he whines, his voice strained with desperation.

“No, not yet, I don’t think,” you murmur. Your voice is smooth as silk. Unfazed, completely casual. As if you’re not driving him insane. He thinks he could actually cry, he needs you that badly. He’s so desperate for you to open your mouth a little wider and take him. For you to move your hand even an inch. Anything. He’s about to whine, beg some more, when a slow strand of spit drops from your mouth. You catch it with your thumb as it paints a trail down his length, and rub it into the head of his cock, applying a delicious amount of pressure that makes him writhe against the sofa.

His breath catches in his throat, but when he recovers, he’s crying out for you.

“Oh, fuck! Please, I need-”

“Shh, be patient, baby,” you say, shooting a stern look up at him. But you give in to his pleas. Slowly stroking his length, taking your time bringing him back to the edge.

His eyes dart between your hand and your face, unable to decide what’s more captivating. He raises his hand from the armrest, itching to touch you, but unsure of what he’s allowed. He reaches out anyway, hovering near the side of your head. You look up at him, a dazzling smile on your lips that completely melts him, and you lean into his hand. He doesn’t hesitate anymore, grabbing a fistful of your hair.

A faint gasp falls from your lips, which only encourages him to hold on tighter. You find yourself getting lost in the blissed out look on his face. His pupils are blown wide, and he watches you like you’re the greatest thing to ever exist. Is he crazy for thinking that you are?

“You’re so—fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

His words make your heart thud harder against your chest. The way he looks at you does something to you. Twists something tight in your belly, and you’re eager to give him more.

You pick up the pace of your hand. You’re tempted to take him into your mouth, but you want to take your time with him. You want to give him everything, but not yet. You’re determined to make him wait. To take things slow (albeit not that slow).

He fights the urge to throw his head back in pleasure as you play with the tightness of your grip, squeezing him teasingly, then loosening up, pulsing your hand around him to drive him mad.

“That feels so good. Mmff, fuck. You’re perfect,” he babbles, getting lost in a thick haze of his own pleasure.

His praise spurs you on, and you add a second hand, one hand pumping his length while the other plays with his tip, smearing another ribbon of your spit with slow, filthy swipes.

He starts to lift his hips off the sofa, meeting your hands. You tut, but he’s too far gone to hold back now, rutting shamelessly into your touch.

“Please, please, I’m so close,” he whines, clutching your hair so hard there’s a dull ache in your scalp that has you biting back a groan.

“Yeah? You wanna come?” you ask, your teasing hand curling fully around his shaft now, matching the steady pace of the other. You twist your hands in unison, the wet heat of your palms drawing a ragged, guttural moan from his throat.

“Please, please, please,” he chants breathlessly like it’s the only word he knows, fingernails scratching against the sofa cushion and your scalp. It stings, but you don’t mind at all.

“How bad do you want it, baby?” you ask, just to drag this out.

Tears sting the corner of his eyes. He can barely answer you, mumbling almost unintelligible nonsense—pleas for you to let him come. He looks at you with a wrecked expression, features crumpling in on themselves.

A deep sense of satisfaction settles over you. You have him exactly where you want him.

“Come for me, baby,” you finally say, murmuring your words in a soft, honeyed whisper.

James comes with a broken, strangled cry of your name, coating your hands in his sticky release the very second you give him permission.

“That’s it, there you go,” you coo.

His back arches from the cushion behind him, muscles trembling as a shudder rips through him. And his grip on the edge of the couch turns so tight he tears a hole in the already fraying fabric. Better that than your hair, which he loosens his hold on significantly, afraid he could really hurt you. Even lost in the heat of his climax, you’re his greatest concern.

“Did so good for me,” you hum, gently working him through his high with just one hand now, not wanting to overwhelm him. His chest rises and falls heavily as he tries to catch his breath.

He’s a whimpering mess as he comes down, pulling on your hair gently as a silent plea for you to come closer. You oblige, climbing up onto the sofa next to him. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around you and curl into your side, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, addicted to the scent of your perfume, and it helps ground him. His other hand is still in your hair, combing through it lazily.

You keep your hands still, hovering over his lap, trying not to make more of a mess than he already has. But it’s hard, with the sudden urge you have to hold him too. Instead, you turn your head to press your lips to his forehead, staying just like that until his breathing evens out.

“We should get cleaned up,” you murmur against his skin. “After, do you wanna cuddle in your bed or mine?”

James is pretty sure he’s dreaming.

It’s only when he’s in your bed, snug under your duvet with your body tucked into his side and reheated takeout containers in your laps, that he accepts this isn’t a figment of his imagination. He didn’t scare you away with his obsession. Somehow, it helped him win you over.

And he doesn’t plan on ever letting you go.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[jarofstyles]

Picture blurb timeeeee. Low key a little sugar-daddy ish because someone sent an ask a little bit ago asking about it so I thought I’d find my way into the dynamic a little.

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Warnings- daddy kink (it’s been a whole), power imbalance (boss x assistant),

“You really want to assist me?”

Sitting with his palm laid on his thigh, the other holding the glass of whisky, Y/N looked up at him from across his desk. The chair was pushed back and away from the expensive, dark stained oak he spent most of his days behind. It was late in the office and Y/N had just helped him finish the last of his emails that had been backed up, but it hadn’t been lost on her that he’d been a bit spacey the whole time.

“Hm?” She looked up at him with rounded eyes from the pile of papers she was trying to clean up on his desk.

“Said, do you really want to assist me?”

Y/N knew that tone of voice. The one that made her quiver, her knees shake. The tone he took on when he wanted her in ways that HR would have a medical emergency over.

“Of course I do, Sir.” Her voice was airy as she stood up straighter, clasping her hands in front of her neatly.

He’d trained her well.

“Of course you do.” He echoed her words with a husky chuckle, placing the glass down on the striped coaster Y/N had crocheted him. “Come t’me. You know where I want you.”

He wasn’t playing around today. There was no hiding it, the hands moving to the arms of his chair as he waited for her to sit on his lap. Apparently, the first attempt wasn’t correct.

“Ah- no. Other way.” He murmured, watching her turn around so she was truly on him now. His chest against her back as he lifted his hands to adjust her the way he liked it. “There. Knew you could listen. You always do a good job for me, don’t you Sweets?”

“I try my best, Sir.”

“Y/N.” He mumbled, brushing the hair away from her neck. “You know what t’call me when we’re doing this.”

“S-Sorry. I try my best, Daddy.” Her voice wavered not because of uncertainty- it was excitement. Giddiness. They hadn’t done this nearly all week. Hadn’t touched like this because they’d been truly busy doing the job they both came her for, and Harry had obviously been stressed.

“That’s my girl. You know how much I like that.” His nose brushed over her sensitive skin, down her neck as he placed a wet kiss to the curve of it where it met her shoulder. “You’ve always had a knack for knowing how t’please me. I’m so lucky.”

Y/N preened at the compliment, leaning back against him as she let some of the tension from the day melt away from her. Harry took care of her. He always took such good care of her, made her feel good, made her feel healthy and happy, and she wanted more. Greedy wasn’t her usually feeling, but he’d not even kissed her in the last two days and it felt like she was finally getting a fix. “I like making your life easier. Making you happy.” She replied, a shuddery breath leaving her as his hands ran over her thighs.

The skirt she wore had ridden up, but that wasn’t a problem. That was exactly what the man wanted.

“And you do. Such sweet little thing. You help me work, you help me relax, you help me thrive. You, my sweet angel… have done everything I’ve ever needed. And that’s why you’re mine.” He’d made it abundantly clear that he didn’t share, and he had no interest in anything or anyone else. It had seemed too good to be true at first given what she’d heard of his prior activities but it was true.

Given the fact she made his calendar, she knew it would be near impossible for him to do regardless.

“I’ve been going crazy all week. Don’t like it when we don’t get to have our time alone together.” He sighed, sliding his slightly cool hand up her skirt. There was no hesitation, no question about it as he teased the hem of her panties, feeling her squirm just a little. Knuckles brushed back and forth over the edge, a happy sound leaving his lips as he felt her tense just the slightest bit at the close proximity to where she wanted him the most. “I know you have been too. S’not fun to be too busy to give you my cock.”

As much as he obviously enjoyed work, the place she saw him happiest was when she woke him up with her mouth on his cock, taking him down the way he liked.

“I do miss it.” She replied, swallowing the moan she wanted to let out as he nudged his hand fully between her thighs to cup over her cunt. There was no doubt he could feel the damp fabric, the way her clit was most definitely pulsing now. Holding it like he owned it, owned her- and he did. Y/N would hand over every inch happily if it meant she got to be his. She had been his since the first time he’d lifted his eyes and asked her to get him a coffee. “I miss when we can’t be close.”

“God, you’re fucking sweet.” He shook his head in disbelief, his free hand curling over her breast. It seemed he truly didn’t get how he had her devotion at times, but it was easy. For as prickly as he was, he treated her right. After a string of awful circumstances when it came to dating, he managed to blow them all out of the water. “I’ve had half a mind to bend you over every time you entered the office. To get you under the desk and suck. But we were too busy. I think that we’re going to take a break.”

A break? That had her curious.

“What do you mean, Daddy?” She turned her face to look at him, smiling slightly when he nudged his nose against hers.

She loved when he smiled back at her. His dimples. His teeth. The way his eyes softened just for her. It wasn’t often she got them, but she was seemingly the only one who did.

“I think that I need an entire week t’have you all to myself. I don’t want anyone interrupting. I don’t want phone calls. I just want you.” Harry’s fingers tugged the panties to the side, the little mewl she let out when his thumb slipped over her clit making him hum. It had swelled, hot and slick underneath his fingertip as he played with her pearl. Just how he preferred. “We’re going to Italy. The coast. Rented a pretty pink boat for us, because I know you’d love it.” It had taken him a bit to find a pink boat that would fit his needs, but he’d done it for her. He’d buy it at the end if that’s what she wanted. “Going to have you as much as I want, as much as you want.”

A getaway wasn’t something she’d done with him. It was something he mentioned in passing but the actual plans had her giddy. “Really?” Her words were breathless as his other finger slipped into her cunt, making her squirm. “We’re gonna… we’re going?”

“Mhm.” He nodded, connecting their lips in a chaste kiss. “We’re leaving here, going to let you pack a bag, and we’re taking my plane. You’re going to sleep with my cock tucked up into you, and by the time you wake up we’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” She grinned widely at him, only letting it fall as he curled his finger the way she liked. “I-I’ll make you so happy. I promise.” The concept of spending all that time with him alone was a reward in itself. A man who never took a real day off going off the grid to a yacht he booked because she liked the color of? It was far more than she’d expected.

“And I’ll make you happier, darling. Just wait n’see.”

[satoshy12]

The familiar glow of the Bat-Signal against the grim Gotham sky, a call Batman. Bruce inwardly groaned, excusing himself from the stifling grandeur of the annual Gotham Charity Gala with a polite, if somewhat abrupt, "I just need to use the restroom, Vlad."

Vlad Masters gave Bruce a hidden glare and paused, a glint in his eye that Bruce knew all too well. "Daniel, come!" he commanded.

Bruce watched, bewildered, as a tiny, black-haired toddler, no older than three, toddled over to Vlad's side. This was Daniel Fenton, Vlad's ward, a child Bruce had only recently heard about through the whispered rumors of Gotham’s elite, as Vlad bought him with him to the Gala. He assumed Vlad was fostering him as part of some elaborate tax write-off scheme. The thought that a man as notoriously self-serving as Vlad Masters would willingly take on the responsibility of a small child was baffling enough on its own. 

"You know it's Danny!" the little boy piped up, his voice surprisingly firm for his age. 

After an accident involving the GIW, Ghost Investigation Ward left Danny severely unstable. His parents and Vlad worked really hard to save his life. The only lasting effect was that he went back to being a toddler.

This event surprisingly fixed the problems between Vlad and his parents. Vlad now really cares about them. You could say Uncle Vlad is good now.

Vlad ignored him, "Daniel," he said, turning his gaze back to Bruce, "Mr. Wayne fears he will get lost on his way to the toilet. So I want you to show him the way there and back."

Bruce’s jaw nearly hit the floor. This was ridiculous. He was Batman, for crying out loud! He could navigate the darkest alleyways of Gotham blindfolded, but Vlad Masters genuinely expected him to be escorted to the bathroom by a toddler. In his own mansion. The sheer audacity. He opened his mouth to protest, but Vlad's smirk widened, daring him to go against his Brucie Personality.

Danny, seemingly rather unfazed by the bizarre request, took Bruce’s outstretched hand – or rather, his finger, as his tiny grasp couldn't encompass more than a single digit. Bruce, still reeling, allowed himself to be led, his mind racing. This was a new level of humiliation.

The toddler, surprisingly confident for his size, pulled Bruce along through Gotham's wealthiest and most influential people. Bruce, ever the strategist, saw an opportunity. If he played along, perhaps Vlad would drop his guard.

They reached what Bruce realized was a less-frequented corridor in Wayne Manor, leading to a smaller, private washroom. Danny, however, paused outside the door, looking up at Bruce with wide, innocent blue eyes. "Are you really that way Uncle Vlad says it?" he asked, his brow furrowed in concentration. I mean, he talks shi-poop about many people. Mr. Luthor said the same thing too about you, you know."

Bruce, caught off guard, instinctively stiffened. This was dangerous territory. He remained silent, a carefully schooled expression of mild confusion on his face. He knew his reputation as a flighty socialite was vital for his alter ego, but this was pushing the boundaries of believable idiocy.

Danny tilted his head, studying Bruce’s unresponsiveness. Vlad was for once right. He is worse than dad.

Danny, with a determined tug on his finger, declared, "No fear, I won't let you get lost!" And with that, he began to lead Bruce not to the washroom, but back to Vlad and the Gala. 

Danny’s little face was beaming, a clear expression of pride at his important task. He looked so genuinely pleased to be helpful, and Bruce, despite the internal screaming of his inner Batman, found himself unable to crush that joy. He had played the "Brucie" role too well, too convincingly inept, and now he was stuck. 

Bruce found himself being paraded through the opulent ballroom by the tiny hand-holder. Whispers immediately rippled through the crowd. Phones were subtly raised, flashes flickered, and a wave of hushed amusement spread like wildfire.

Unbeknownst to Bruce, across the room, the Bat-Family, scattered among the guests in their civilian guises, were having the time of their lives. Damian, ever Stoic, had a barely perceptible smirk. Tim was openly struggling to suppress his laughter, occasionally burying his face in his hand. Dick was subtly filming the entire spectacle on his phone, a wide grin plastered across his face. Jason had left to answer the Batsignal, but the others had sent him videos of this.

"Wow, for once he didn't get lost in his own mansion," someone muttered.

"Looks like even Brucie needs a "baby"sitter now."

Bruce, despite the escalating mortification, maintained his vacant, charming smile, nodding vaguely at acquaintances as if this was all perfectly normal. 

The next morning, as Bruce sat at breakfast, still simmering from the previous night's charade, Alfred brought him the morning paper with a barely concealed smirk. The headline, emblazoned in bold letters, screamed:

---

Brucie Wayne Didn't Get Lost In A Gala!

---

*Gotham, June 19th:* In an unprecedented turn of events at the annual Gotham Charity Gala, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne was observed navigating his own lavish manor with an unexpected guide: a charming toddler. Sources close to Mr. Wayne, who preferred to remain anonymous due to fear of getting lost, suggested that the young escort was providing invaluable assistance to the notoriously directionally challenged socialite.

"It was truly a sight to behold," remarked one prominent Gothamite, who requested anonymity. For the first time in memory, Mr. Wayne seemed to know exactly where he was going, thanks to his tiny companion."

The incident has sparked much discussion among Gotham's elite, with some speculating that Mr. Wayne has finally found a solution to his well-documented struggles with spatial awareness. Others, however, simply found the entire to be just Brucie Wayne.

---

Bruce crumpled the newspaper in his fist, a low growl escaping his lips. "Vlad Masters," he swore, would pay for this. He had been played, outmaneuvered by a cunning rival. 

The incident was already a running joke on every news channel and on social media. His carefully constructed image as an endearing, but harmless dimwit had just been cemented in the public consciousness like never before.

"Well, Master Bruce," Alfred said, his voice laced with amusement, "at least you didn't get lost, as the article so eloquently puts it."

Bruce just glared at the News-Papers, a new mission forming in his mind. He had to figure out how to get back at Vlad Masters because of this public humiliation.

Vlad, Toddler Danny and the Gotham Gala

Bruce saw the Bat signal outside and wanted to leave the Gala. He told Vlad Masters that he needed to go to the toilet. Vlad Master glared at Bruce and said, "Daniel, come!" A tiny black-haired toddler came walking to them. After Danny was hit by the GIW, his parents tried to save his life, and Vlad helped them. The only side effect was toddler Danny. But somehow, this made the relationship much better with his parents. So Uncle Vlad is now good? Danny:" You know it's Danny!" Vlad:" Daniel, Mr. Wayne fears he will get lost on his way to the toilet. So I want you to show him the way there and back." + Tiny Danny led Mr. Wayne to his own bathroom. He wasn't sure if that was real, but Vlad and Mr. Luthor told him he wasn't the smartest. So he asked just to be sure. Danny:" Are you really that way Uncle Vlad says it? I mean, he talks poop about many people." Bruce Wayne, who knows it would be bad if people knew he faked it, didn't say anything.

+ Danny now knew for once Vlad was right: Mr. Wayne was worse than his dad. So he took his hand... I mean finger and led him around the Gala in the Wayne Mansion. "No fear, I won't let you get lost." That was how the media and Gotham Elite were greeted by Bruce Wayne being led around by a toddler to not get lost.

"Wow, for once he didn't get lost in his own Mansion." And it became a news article. "Brucie Wayne didn't get lost in a gala!"

[suliigwp]

IT TAKES TWO— TO TOXIC

max verstappen x reader | angst

SULI: it was a little hard for me to finish this cus I was feeling quite bad if ykyk lol but I did finish it— this is part one, I have the second one planned... Hope you guys like it — this is set in MV33 era. PART ONE.

SUMMARY: you two were young, didn't know what you were doing, didn't know how to handle something so serious both of you got yourselves into.

WORD COUNT: 4,987

WARNINGS: Sexual Scenes, 19yo. Having sex, Swearing, Toxic Situationship, Jos Verstappen.

It was nearing one in the morning, and you were still wide awake—though not by choice.

Your tiny apartment off campus was dimly lit by the glow of your desk lamp. The pages of your criminal law textbook were starting to blur as your highlighter hovered over the same line for the third time. The coffee you made at eleven had long gone cold. You’d been wearing the same hoodie since yesterday. Your legs were tucked underneath you, bare skin chilled against the worn couch, and a dull ache pulsed behind your eyes from reading too long.

You didn’t even hear the first knock.

Just a faint, distant tap. Then another. Then again—sharper this time.

You frowned, paused your music, and turned your head slowly toward the source. The window. The one by your kitchen table.

You already knew.

With a sigh heavy enough to carry a storm, you got up, heart already pounding as you pulled the curtain aside.

There he was.

Max Verstappen. Hoodie pulled over his messy hair, a smirk already ghosting his lips. One hand shoved in his pocket, the other lightly rapping his knuckles against the glass.

Like it hadn’t been four days since you’d heard from him. Like he hadn’t vanished after his last race without even a text. Like he belonged here.

You unlocked the window, sliding it up just enough to hiss, “Are you serious?”

He grinned. “You gonna let me in or make me stay out here with the raccoons?”

You gave him the coldest look you could manage. He climbed in anyway.

He landed softly, moving through your apartment like muscle memory. Like he still remembered the creak in the third floorboard or where your slippers always ended up. He shook out his hoodie, dropping it on the back of a chair, and straightened up, looking around like something had changed.

Nothing had.

Not really.

"You look tired," he said, nodding toward the scattered textbooks. “Midterms?”

You blinked at him. “Don’t.”

Max looked at you then. Really looked. You hated that he still had that effect on you—like you were some kind of puzzle he never quite solved, like he’d missed something and was always chasing the answer.

“Four days, Max,” you said flatly. “Four days and not even a message.”

“I figured you didn’t want to hear from me,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer.

You backed away.

“Stop doing that. Just... dropping off the planet and showing up whenever it suits you. I’m not a stop on your way home from the airport.”

He raised a brow. “I didn’t come from the airport.”

You crossed your arms. “Where, then?”

“Hotel,” he said. “Dropped my stuff off. Thought about sleeping. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You hated how fast that cracked your composure.

You hated him for knowing it would.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, voice lower now. “This doesn’t mean anything, Max. You don’t text me. You don’t call. You don’t want anything real. You made that pretty fucking clear.”

He was right in front of you now. So close you could smell his cologne, the rain on his jacket, the faint scent of grease still clinging to him from the garage. You didn’t move.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know I fucked everything up.”

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” you whispered. “Because there was nothing to ruin.”

His hand brushed your wrist. Just a touch. Gentle. Familiar. Dangerous.

“Then tell me to leave.”

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

Because you didn’t want him to.

Because part of you still ached for him, no matter how much it hurt to admit it.

So you didn’t say anything.

And he kissed you.

Hard.

You gasped against his mouth, stumbling backward until your hip hit the edge of the table. His hands were under your hoodie in seconds, fingers finding your waist like they never forgot where they belonged. You let yourself melt into it for one stupid, selfish second—his body pressed against yours, his breath warm on your skin, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt like you needed to hold onto something.

“You’re not staying,” you mumbled against his lips, but your voice was already trembling.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I never do.”

But he was already kissing you again. Pulling you closer. Lifting you up until your legs wrapped around his waist and he carried you to the bed like he hadn’t done this before—but like he wanted to do it right this time.

Later, the room was quiet.

You were curled under the blanket, back to him, staring at the wall. His arm was draped over your waist, fingers tracing mindless shapes into your skin.

“You make me feel crazy,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, finally, a whisper: “You drive me insane too.”

You turned, just enough to see his face in the dark. His expression unreadable. His mouth drawn into a tight line like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

“Do you even care what this does to me?” you asked, and your voice cracked.

Max looked at you, and for once, he didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

And then he stood.

He got dressed slowly. Pulled his hoodie back over his head. Grabbed his keys. And without another word, he slipped out the window and disappeared into the night.

You lay back, eyes burning.

You told yourself next time, you wouldn’t open the window.

But you knew you would.

…

One of their good nights—late, quiet, unguarded.

It was 2:13 a.m. The streetlights outside her apartment blinked slowly against the curtains.

She should’ve been studying. She still had case briefs open on the floor, a half-highlighted textbook on her desk.

But he was on her bed—half-asleep, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower she made him take after sneaking in.

She sat cross-legged beside him, highlighter in one hand, the other idly tracing the line of his shoulder blade.

“That can’t be comfortable,” he murmured.

She looked down. “What?”

“Sitting like that. While you study. You’re gonna destroy your back.”

She raised an eyebrow. “This from the guy who gets thrown around in a car at 300 kilometers per hour.”

“Still. Come here.”

He reached out lazily and pulled her in by the wrist until she was lying across his chest.

Her cheek pressed against the warm skin just above his heart. It was beating steady. Softer than she expected.

She closed her eyes for a second.

“You know this is stupid,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“It’s going to end badly.”

“Probably.”

“So why are you still here?”

He didn't answer right away. Just curled his arm tighter around her back. His thumb moved in small, slow circles against her spine.

“Because when I’m with you,” he whispered, “the noise shuts off.”

She stilled.

“And that never happens for me. Ever.”

The room went quiet. Her hand moved up to rest just beneath his jaw.

He turned his head slightly. Kissed the top of hers.

“Just stay,” he said. …

The office was too quiet.

You’d been staring at the same corner of the window for five minutes. Your fingernail scraped the edge of your paper cup like it might crack under your thumb.

Your therapist waited.

She always waited.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you said finally.

You knew it was a lie. But you said it anyway.

Across from you, she gave you a gentle nod. “That’s okay. We can figure that out together.”

You rolled your eyes. You hated that kindness. That soft, neutral patience. You weren’t used to it. You didn’t trust it.

“I’m tired,” you said, more sharply this time. “Of pretending like I’m fine with everything. Of trying to be fine when clearly I’m not.”

She leaned forward a little, still calm. “Is this about Max?”

Your stomach clenched.

You shrugged, trying to look unaffected. “It’s always about Max.”

Silence again.

You looked down at your hands. Your nail had finally broken. You picked at it like that was more important than this conversation.

“He’s not even... He’s not my boyfriend. He never was. He’s just this—this stupid habit I can’t quit.”

“Do you care about him?”

You swallowed.

“That’s the problem.”

The words fell like they’d been waiting to escape for weeks.

“I care too much. And I hate it. I hate how easily he gets to me. I hate that he doesn’t have to try. I hate that he doesn’t even want the same things, and I still let him in.”

“What do you want?” your therapist asked, gently.

You blinked.

“I want him to feel it,” you said slowly. “I want him to know what it’s like to not be enough.”

There it was.

Your throat felt tight. Your hands were suddenly too hot. You crossed your arms and sat back in the chair like the confession hadn’t cracked your ribs open.

“I’ve done everything right,” you said. “I work hard. I don’t get attached. I study. I keep my shit together. I try to be good, and I try to be calm, and I try to be the better person—and it never fucking works.”

“So what would happen if you stopped trying to be the better person?”

That question landed hard. You looked away.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Then maybe he’d finally hurt like I do.”

…

It was late. Again.

You didn’t ask how he got in this time—whether it was the window or the spare key you hadn’t had the guts to take back. You were in the kitchen, barefoot in a t-shirt and shorts, when he walked in like he owned the air you were breathing.

Your spine straightened.

“You’re back,” you said flatly, not even looking at him. “Must’ve run out of other places to go.”

Max dropped his bag without answering. He stood in the doorway like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

“You’re pissed,” he said, voice quiet. Too calm.

You snorted. “You disappear for four days, show up in the middle of the night like it’s your fucking right, and you think I’m pissed?”

You turned then, and he looked just as tired as you remembered. Maybe worse. Red-rimmed eyes, messy hair, jaw clenched tight like he was swallowing everything he wanted to say.

“You didn’t text either,” he said. “Don’t act like it’s one-sided.”

You stared at him. That stupid, familiar twist in your chest burned.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He stepped closer. “Why? Because I don’t grovel when you go quiet for days?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Because I don’t have time to babysit a man who doesn’t know what the hell he wants.”

The second it left your mouth, the air in the room shifted. He laughed—but there was no humor in it. Just that mean, sharp, cutting edge he knew how to wield when you touched a nerve.

“You think I don’t know what I want?”

“Clearly you don’t.”

“No,” he said, stepping into your space. “I think I do. I think you just like pretending you don’t care.”

He was close now. Too close. And your voice dropped.

“Don’t act like you love me, Max.”

He didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t back away either.

“You’re not special,” you added coldly. “You think you are, but you’re not. You’re just another boy who thinks wanting me is enough.”

His hands curled into fists. You turned your back.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “I’ve actually been trying. To be good for you. To keep up.”

You exhaled a laugh—hard and hollow. “Trying?” you repeated, venom in your tone. “You flirt with every girl in the paddock. You disappear. You show up like this and expect what? Gratitude? You’re a little boy playing at being serious.”

Max’s face darkened. “I didn’t know there was a checklist.”

You walked past him, brushing his shoulder. Intentionally casual.

He was breathing harder now. You didn’t stop.

“I don’t need you to try,” you said, twisting the blade. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“Then why do you let me in?”

You turned slowly, arms folded, jaw tight.

“Because you're easy.”

His face changed.

“Because you make it easy to forget how alone I am. Because you’re stupid enough to come back every time. Because I know how to use you.”

He didn’t move. You could see it happening behind his eyes—that part of him cracking, splintering, trying to patch itself back together before you noticed.

But you wanted him to feel it. You wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one who could cut deep.

“I’m not stupid,” he said.

You stared at each other. Breathing hard. The silence stretching thin.

He nodded— like he understood, or tried to make himself understand.

“You’re right,” he said. “This is easy. Because it’s nothing.”

Then his hand reached up. Brushed against your jaw. And just like that, the whole thing snapped.

You kissed him first—angry, teeth, heat. He kissed you back like he wanted to make you pay for it.

Your hands were in his hair, dragging him in. His mouth was rough, relentless, like he was trying to forget everything you’d just said. He shoved you back against the wall, and you clawed at the hem of his shirt. It hit the floor. So did yours.

He lifted you in one movement. Your back hit the bedroom door.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whispered, as he kissed your throat.

“No,” he muttered, voice raw. “Just fucking convenience, right?”

You ripped his hoodie off, fingers tangling in his shirt, clawing it over his head. He pushed you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress, lips never leaving yours.

“You hate me?,” he breathed, as he pulled your shorts down.

“I do.”

“Liar.”

He shoved your knees apart, dragging his fingers up the inside of your thigh slowly—like he was daring you to stop him. You let your head fall back as he sank two fingers inside you without warning. You gasped.

“Still so fucking wet for someone you hate,” he growled, curling them.

You moaned, one hand gripping the sheets, the other fisting his hair.

“You’re and idiot if you think it's because of you,” you said again, like you did most nights.

“Keep saying it,” he said, “see if I believe you.”

You pulled him in, and the moment he lined up, there was no pause. No tenderness. He pushed into you in one sharp, brutal thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

“Fuck—Max—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take it.”

His rhythm was relentless. Angry. Your bodies colliding with enough force to shake the frame. You kissed like you hated each other. Touched like you couldn’t stop. Every time you cried out, he swore under his breath like he was falling apart.

“I fucking hate you,” he whispered into your neck. “And that's the only thing that makes this enjoyable— fuck.”

You choked out a sound that could’ve been a sob. Could’ve been a laugh.

“That’s what you’re good for.”

He pulled your wrists above your head, pinned them there. His mouth met yours again, slower now, but more vicious. Tongue, teeth, lips. Bruises bloomed along your collarbone. His name left your mouth like a confession.

You came around him with your body arching violently, and he followed right after, groaning against your throat like your skin was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

…

The debrief room was empty when Jos walked in.

Max sat alone at the small table, still in his fireproofs, elbows on his knees, sweat drying at his temples. He hadn’t spoken to anyone. He hadn’t taken off his race boots. He just stared at the floor like it might change what happened out there.

He heard the door open.

Didn’t look up.

He didn’t have to. The air changed when Jos walked in. Always did.

The silence dragged.

Then, quietly—flat and surgical:

“P7.”

Max swallowed. Didn’t speak.

“I watched that lap twice. You braked too early into Turn 9. You hesitated on the exit.”

Still, Max said nothing.

Jos stepped closer. Voice still calm. Still cold.

“You don’t trust the car. Or you don’t trust yourself. Which one is it?”

Max blinked once. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

Jos walked a slow circle around him. Not pacing—hunting.

“I warned you,” he said. “Didn’t I?”

Max stared at the floor.

“That girl—what’s her name? The one you sneak off to every time you’re home. She’s in your head. And now?” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Now she’s in your driving.”

Max finally lifted his eyes. Just for a second.

That was enough.

“You think I don’t see it?” Jos said, sharper now. “The late nights. The missed sim sessions. The soft hands on track. You’re slipping, Max.”

Silence.

“And for what? Some law student who strings you along when it’s convenient? Who wants to feel important because you’re hers?”

Jos leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re a world champion. Act like it.”

“Or walk away now—before you humiliate yourself further.”

Max’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

He couldn’t look at him.

Because Jos wasn’t wrong—not in a logical way. Not in the way Max had been taught mattered.

And worst of all?

Jos didn’t yell.

He didn’t even raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

Max nodded once. Small. Robotic.

Jos didn’t say goodbye. Just left him sitting there—small in a room that suddenly felt too big.

…

TWO MONTHS LATER

The rooftop was already buzzing. Warm amber lights stretched from one end to the other, strung between trees and wrought iron posts like constellations of people wealthier and weathier than each other. Champagne clinked against crystal. Laughter drifted like perfume. Everyone looked like they belonged.

She didn’t.

Still, she moved through the crowd like she had somewhere to be. Like she wasn’t already scanning every face before she even made it to the bar.

A friend had dragged her here. Said she needed to “come back to life.” She’d laughed at that—come back to life from what?

She accepted a glass of something dry and cold from a passing tray and forced herself to sip. The music was light jazz, layered under the hum of conversation and the occasional stiletto on tile. Her heels clicked softly as she stepped away from the crowd and toward the edge, where the view swallowed the coastline whole.

And for a minute—just a minute—she almost relaxed.

She took a breath. Closed her eyes. Let the wind lift her hair off her collarbone.

You’re fine. It’s fine. He’s not here. It’s Monaco. You’ll never see him again.

She turned to face the party.

And then—

there he was.

It felt like a blow.

Like the air had been sucked out of the rooftop and into her lungs all at once—too much and not enough.

He stood maybe ten feet away, a little to the left. Backlit by gold lighting and the soft, artificial warmth that made everyone glow. Dressed in black. No tie. Shirt open just enough to show skin. One hand curled around a whiskey glass.

The other?

Resting on the waist of a girl she didn’t recognize.

Blonde. Long legs. One of those bright, effortless smiles that made people look twice. She was saying something—leaning in too close—and Max was grinning. At her. With her. Like it was easy.

Her chest tightened. Not dramatically. Not like in the movies. Just… pressure. Like the zipper on her dress had suddenly been pulled too tight.

He hadn’t seen her yet. Or if he had, he was doing a damn good job pretending he hadn’t.

She couldn’t look away.

There had been a time—not long ago—when that hand had rested on her waist like that. When his smile only softened when he looked at her. When he whispered things meant only for her in the dark of her apartment, skin to skin, breaths tangled like confessions.

Now he was here. With someone else. Laughing like he hadn’t gutted her. Like he hadn’t left her in silence.

Like she’d never existed at all.

She took a slow step back. Then another. Her fingers gripped the flute so tightly the stem might snap.

Someone brushed past her shoulder, and still she didn’t move. Just watched.

And then—he looked up.

Eyes straight to hers. No warning. No build-up. Just bam—eye contact like a slap.

She didn’t flinch.

He did.

Barely. But enough. The shift in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. He knew. He remembered.

His smile faltered. His shoulders squared. He said something to the girl—quick, quiet, brushing her hand away like it burned.

And then?

He just looked at her.

No expression. No excuse. No apology. Just stood there, like a monument to everything he wasn’t brave enough to say.

The noise of the party dulled around her. Her vision narrowed. All she could see was him, and all she could feel was—

Nothing. Just hollow.

And that was worse.

Because once upon a time, she’d wanted to scream at him. To cry. To beg. To understand.

But now?

She just wanted to leave.

So she turned, slow and deliberate, and walked away. No drama. No words. Just her spine straight and her heartbeat in her ears.

He was smiling. He was touching someone else. He looked well.

And she stood there like a fool with a champagne flute and shaking hands, trying not to throw up on her heels.

So when the guy from earlier—Luca, or maybe Leo—brushed past her again with that smirk and a flirty little, “You changed your mind yet?”

She smiled.

“Actually, I did.”

She took his arm.

It was too easy. He was tall, attractive, probably rich. Wore his confidence like a linen blazer. He looked at her like she was the most interesting thing in the room—and for once, that’s exactly what she wanted.

But it wasn’t about him.

Not even a little.

They moved through the crowd slowly, deliberately, like something worth watching.

She let her hand rest on his chest. She leaned in when he spoke. She laughed at nothing.

And then, like a magnetic force pulling her spine to attention—

She felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy. Unrelenting. Burning into her like headlights on an open road.

Max stood where she’d left him. Same black dress shirt, same perfect hair. But now?

He was still.

The girl who’d been beside him was gone—just an empty space and a lowball glass in her place.

And Max was staring.

Across the entire rooftop, through the sea of fake smiles and soft jazz, straight at her.

Jaw clenched. Expression blank. That specific kind of rage that looked calm to strangers but sent her heart racing because she knew better.

Let him feel it.

She turned slightly in the other guy’s arms, just enough to face Max.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she leaned in and said something into Luca’s ear—something low and meaningless. It didn’t matter what.

He grinned. Handsy. Confident.

“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” he murmured against her hair.

It took exactly eight seconds of watching her drape herself all over that guy for Max to lose it.

He saw the laugh—the way she tilted her head, all neck and soft skin. The way she pressed her hand to the guy’s chest like she owned him.

And when the guy leaned in and kissed her?

Max didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He moved.

Straight across the rooftop. Fast. Focused. Unforgiving.

People noticed. Someone called his name. He didn’t care.

“What the fuck is this?”

His voice hit her sharp—cutting straight through the crowd like a shot fired.

She pulled back from the guy, slow, and turned to face him.

“Don’t start with me.”

“Start? You’re the one playing games like some bored little brat.”

“Go back to your blonde,” she snapped. “You seemed perfectly fine thirty minutes ago.”

“Don’t fucking mention her.”

“Oh? Why not?” she spat. “Did I ruin your perfect night with your arm candy? Sorry, Max, I forgot I’m not allowed to exist anymore.”

The guy beside her shifted. “Is there a problem—”

“Stay out of it,” Max barked without even looking at him.

“Jesus,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You think you still get to talk to me like that?”

“I think you’re acting like a goddamn child.”

“And you’re acting like you have a say over my actions.”

The slap still echoed when he grabbed her arm.

Not roughly. Not gently either.

Just… firmly. Like he was done holding back.

“We’re not doing this here,” Max said, voice low and dangerous.

“Get off me—”

“Now.”

“Let go of me!” she barked, heels scraping across the tile as Max dragged her down the hallway just off the rooftop terrace.

He didn’t. Not until they were far enough from the music, the chatter, the pretty fucking people pretending they didn’t just witness a public meltdown.

The second they were alone, he spun on her.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

She shoved him hard in the chest. “Don’t touch me like that ever again.”

“You’re lucky that’s all I did! What the fuck was that?”

She laughed—a sharp, bitter, fuck you sound.

“You mean the part where I kissed someone? God forbid I get a taste of how it feels to be you.”

“I don’t parade people around to get a fucking reaction.”

“No, you just disappear and show up with some blonde on your arm like you didn’t ghost me for months.”

“Are you still crying about that? Jesus Christ.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“And you’re still obsessed with me. Look at you.”

“Obsessed?! I didn’t even know you were gonna be here, Max!”

“Yeah? That why you’ve been eye-fucking me all night while hanging off some guy who couldn’t even spell his own name?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No. You want to act like a child, I’ll treat you like one.”

She got in his face then. “Try me.”

“You don’t want that.”

“No, you don’t want it—because the second I hit back, you fold like a little bitch.”

He stepped closer.

“Keep talking, princess. You’re a fucking expert at running your mouth until someone actually calls you on your shit.”

“Says the one who ran away.”

“I ran because you were a ticking fucking time bomb!”

“YOU ran because you’re a coward!”

“I ran because I was sick of pretending I wanted more than just fucking you!”

Silence.

“You fucking bastard!” She lunged at him, open-palmed fists pounding at his chest, arms, shoulders—anywhere she could reach. He didn’t block it. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there while she screamed.

“You really think you’re some gift to the world?! You think I was lucky to be used like that? You think that makes you a man?!”

“Don’t fucking twist this,” Max growled.

“Twist it? I lived it! I bled for it! I broke for you, and you’re standing here like it was all some joke?!”

“You’re not the only one who got fucking hurt!” he roared, finally shoving her back just enough to breathe. “You think I didn’t hate myself every time I left your place?! You think I didn’t feel like shit every time I lied to myself and said it was casual?!”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you stay?!”

“Because you made it impossible!”

“No, Max—YOU made it impossible. You needed me to be a fucking lifeboat while you drowned in your daddy issues and your career and whatever the hell you blame the world for, and the second I needed YOU—gone. Like a fucking ghost.”

“Oh shut the fuck up about needing me. You needed control. You needed power. The second I stopped crawling, you didn’t want it anymore.”

She shoved him again, harder this time. “You are so fucking delusional! I didn’t need control. I needed someone who didn’t treat me like a goddamn distraction.”

“You were a distraction! You were the only thing I couldn’t shut off!”

“Then you should’ve told me that before you shoved yourself inside me like it meant something!”

“Don’t do that!”

“Why not?! Too real?! Or too fucking true?!”

“You never cared about me!” she screamed. “You just liked that I made you feel wanted!”

“And you just liked that I hated myself more than you did!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you too!”

“Hey! Enough!” Carlos burst in, grabbing Max by the shoulder, yanking him back so hard he nearly stumbled.

“Get your shit together, man. What the fuck are you doing?!”

At the same moment, Rebecca slipped between them, arms out, shielding her like a wall.

“Hey, hey—look at me. You’re done. That’s enough.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snapped, eyes wild, voice still shaking.

“I’m not touching you,” Rebecca said calmly. “I’m standing between you and another goddamn breakdown.”

Max tried to surge forward again, eyes burning. “You think I liked walking away?! You think that was easy for me?!”

Rebecca held her ground. “You’re not saying anything that’ll fix it now!”

“Let him say it,” she spat. “Let him say every shitty little thing he’s been dying to throw in my face.”

“No,” Carlos said. “Because he’s not thinking. He’s not feeling! He’s burning everything to the ground because he’s afraid you’ll beat him to it.”

She blinked. Swallowed. Shook her head hard. “Don’t do that therapist shit right now.”

“Then go,” Rebecca said softly, still in front of her. “Come on. Let’s just go.”

“You’re not walking away from me again,” Max said, still breathing hard.

She looked over Rebecca’s shoulder. “Watch me.”

Then she turned and walked out. Rebecca followed.

Carlos waited. Watched Max.

“That’s twice now,” he muttered. “You gonna make it three?”

Max didn’t answer.

He just leaned back against the wall, dragged both hands down his face, and whispered—

“Fuck.”

PART TWO INCOMING...

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress @suibianupyourass make sure you can be tagged!

[monocaelia]

thanataphobia.

-you grasped for his soul tightly in fear that, if you relaxed for even a moment, he would slip through your fingertips ; aka, tending to his wounds. feat. dan heng, gepard, mydei, phainon. genre : fluff, mostly angst. note : the voices won :sadge: i hope u guys enjoy my fall into hsr insanity. also having everyone be sad was not my intention TT mb.

❀ DAN HENG

a wanderer that wasn't meant to stay for this long, dan heng had tried to keep his distance from everyone aboard the astral express. the lone man never wanted to become someone so important and dear to everybody, and here he is building friendships and bonds near unbreakable with people he thought he would have left behind by now.

a man prepared for a life of solitude welcomed in with open arms and cheerful laughter as he once again boards the express; a life where he met you. you, one of the first people to climb over the walls he tried to build around his heart and one of the first to put trust in him despite being a newer face on the express.

a life where he would come to love someone in the midst of new beginnings.

so, dan heng shouldn't be surprised at the worried looks and panicked exclamations when he returns to the express in a state that's worse for wear. he shouldn't be surprised at all when, after being looked after by dr. welt, that he would be left alone in your care once everyone had been reassured that he was fine.

the futon laid on the floor of the archive room is soft but hardly provides any comfort for dan heng as he shifts uncomfortably under your scrutiny. a cotton swab soaked with disinfectant presses into the scraped skin of his cheek and he flinches at the familiar sting.

your lips part as you begin to speak, but dan heng beats you to it, much to your chargrin.

"don't say it," dan heng says, his voice curt and straight to the point. despite only being on the express for a short time, he's fully aware of what you're about to say to his face. and, of course, you ignore his words.

"i told you so," your voice is firm as you put pressure onto his face on purpose and you're satisfied when he winces from the pain. your brows furrow when dan heng looks away from you to avoid your scowl. a huff escapes your lips and a forceful hand pushes his face back to meet yours.

teal is a beautiful color. it reminds you of the soothing breeze that would blow in your hometown; comforting, yet brisk with a nip to your skin if you indulged too much within it. like the wind of your home, dan heng brings comfort to you as a pillar of support during your adventures with the astral express. but, regardless of how long you remain by his side, his past is shrouded in a mystery that you may never uncover, and maybe you never will.

dan heng is the wind, ever changing and always moving.

"...of course i'm upset and worried for you," you begin as you pull away the stained swab from his face. you dispose it into the pile of used cotton. "but i'm more relieved that you made it back to us in one piece."

your gaze falls as multiple thoughts begin to run through your mind, none of which dan heng could configure before you begin to speak again.

"why didn't you ask me to go with you? you would've been safer that way."

dan heng parts his lips, the answer just on the tip of his tongue but something prevents him from giving you the answer you wanted. instead, he gives you a reply that sets a clear boundary between the two of you.

“i’m sorry.”

he can tell you're hurt; he doesn't miss the aching look in your eyes and your lips caught between your teeth.

in his own way of comforting you, dan heng reaches over to hold your hand in his. it's smaller than his in comparison, and yet he finds nothing but solace in your touch. he should be comforting you and apologizing for hurting you by keeping his life private, and yet here he is basking in your warm touch.

he half expects you to pull away from him and effectively put space between you as he did just now... but you don't. you let his touch remain on your skin and dan heng feels relief knowing that you’re still putting your trust in him.

"it's fine; you don't have to tell me anything until you're ready to, dan heng. i'm just glad you're okay."

the archive room is silent, save for the quiet humming of the data bank that resides in it and the soft breathing between you and dan heng. the lone wanderer wishes he could tell you everything and indulge you in your inquires; he longs for the day that his past no longer haunts him and poses as a threat to both him and his loved ones.

but until then, he'll keep this to himself. for your sake and his own.

❀ GEPARD LANDAU

the lantern's warm glow illuminates the infirmary room that both you and the blond captain reside in, though its light is nothing compared to the cold silence shared between the two of you. the cotton ball absorbed with a disinfectant is pressed into the open wound on gepard's side; he makes a noise of discomfort but you don't care.

if anything, you press harder and hope that he truly feels your wrath masked in cleaning up his wounds.

"you're upset," gepard breaks the silence. you don't respond as you swap out the dirtied cotton ball and exchange it for some gauze. luckily, this wound wasn't as deep as the others and wouldn't require anymore stitches.

or it was unlucky if you wanted to enact your revenge on him through harsh and rough medical care.

gepard says your name and you curse yourself as your anger begins to waver just at the mere tone of his voice.

"you should be more careful," you begin with a stern voice. your fingers move skillfully around gepard's body, being attentive to wrap as much of the wound as tight as possible. your body moves on autopilot as if you've done this many times before.

"you know it's my duty to be the shield of belobog," gepard begins, his eyes never leaving your face as you continue to dress his injury. "if no one will protect the people, my own soldiers included, then who will?"

the flame in the lantern flickers just as your eyes snap to his. there's a fire in your eyes almost as if your anger had borrowed the embers of the lantern. you can feel the heat boiling within you and it nearly explodes out of you into words that you won't mean as a result of your strong emotions.

almost.

you know ultimately that gepard is correct; he has sworn his life to belobog and if that means he has to succumb to death in order to ensure the safety of the people within, then so be it. but you cannot stomach that reality. gepard, whose heart is pure and noble like no other, does not deserve to die even if he believes otherwise.

"and who will protect you if you're throwing yourself into danger like that?" your tone is strained as to not raise your voice any louder. gepard's expression doesn't waver, but his azure eyes soften at your words. you can feel his hand, large and calloused, encase your own and squeezes it gently; a silent way to comfort you in your distress.

you hate how gentle gepard is, you hate how loyal he is to belobog and as captain of the silvermane guards. you hate how it's written in his blood to protect those that need protection and how he's willing to sacrifice his life if it meant ensuring the safety of his city and maintaining his family’s honor.

you hate how all of his noble acts and promises are the exact reasons why you've fallen so deeply for him.

a familiar hand gently cups your face, a contrast to the rough texture of his palms, and a thumb wipes away the tears you didn't know you had shed.

"i don't want to lose you, gepard," you say in a broken whisper. "i love you so much, please don't be so reckless with your life."

gepard knows he cannot promise you that, but he offers as much as he can to you. your quiet sobs are comforted by his strong arms as he embraces you in a hug; quiet apologies fall past the captain's lips as he listens to your hurt cries. his heart aches seeing you this distressed over his wounds, and he so wishes that he could fulfill your demands so you're never in this state again.

but the both of you know better than to have hope for something that could never happen.

❀ MYDEIMOS

mydei is near indestructible, you know this quite well. the crown prince of kremnos is a fierce opponent to reckon with as any and all attacks are quickly regenerated on the spot before he counters with a force more powerful than a wave crashing against steep cliffs.

despite being well aware of this fact and even witnessing this phenomenon in person, it does not stop you from ever worrying about mydei's wellbeing and health. you know he is built for battle and that any sort of attack to him is exhilarating, even more so if his opponent manages to strike him.

and yet, here you are, hands frantically lifting mydei's arms and inspecting the warrior's body for any lingering wounds that may have not healed all the way. eyes of ichor follow your every movement even as your hands, small in comparison to the taller and more muscular man in front of you, cup his face and rotate it around to continue your examination.

your name leaves his lips and you meet his intense gaze. though most would be intimidated by the permanent fierce expression on his face, you can feel your heart flutter against your chest at the way he's looking at you. maybe it's because you can read his expressions well for being around him for so long, but the crimson lion before you is malleable in your touch; his golden irises, a gift from the sun, are nothing but warm and soft when directed at you.

"i'm not so weak as to let the black tide consume me so easily," mydei tells you, his voice low and cool. "you know this well."

as you sigh at his response, you can feel gauntlet covered hands cover your own and the warmth of mydei's face as he leans into your touch. it isn't much, but even the small act of affection soothes your panicked heart; his warmth, after all, is a reminder that he is alive and well in your hands.

"that is true... but," you begin hesitantly. your eyes look into mydei's own, "is it a crime to worry about you? are you not a living being like me?"

"it is not," mydei assures you. "but you shouldn't waste your time on something as insignificant as this." his eyes close, relishing the gentle softness of your hand; a hand that knows nothing but peace and hope, a hand that has not been tainted with the blood of others.

the kremnoan prince hopes that your hand remains that way forever. you do not deserve a life of war and despair.

but mydei knows well enough that that wish is futile. you are his lover and if he were to succumb to strife one day, he cannot fathom how agonized you would be.

your brows furrow at his response and your fingers squeeze harshly onto the skin of mydei's cheek. yet mydei remains unmoved by your sudden pinch on him.

"don't make me laugh, mydeimos. your life is just as significant as any other. stop making statements like that."

despite the stern tone of your voice and the fire that seems to ignite in your eyes, mydeimos finds nothing but warmth in your glare. to someone like him, a prince that has known nothing but the abandonment of his family and the isolation of losing all of his comrades, your heart that is more vast than the sea of souls and yet has enough room to encompass mydei and all of his sins in its warmth and loving embrace is a feeling that he is unfamiliar with, but not one he can or will deny.

you are comfort incarnate, a force that even the strongest warrior succumbs to, and mydei has come to crave your benevolent touch.

but even he cannot grant you your wish of him coming home unscathed. mydei is not one to indulge in white lies and broken promises, and so he sits there as you reprimand him on the importance of life and wellbeing, relishing in your touch that he so wishes to feel for the rest of this lifetime.

❀ PHAINON

you know better than to lift your head and meet phainon’s gaze at this very moment, lest you be swayed by the clear, beautiful blue sea that resides in his eyes and the pout that is for sure on his lips. even the thought of his pathetic and apologetic expression is enough to make your anger spike and you tightly tie the bandage around his injured bicep.

you choose to ignore the whimper that leaves his lips and his attempts to duck his head lower to grab your attention. his free hand, the one rid of any injuries thank goodness, reaches for your own and you're almost faster than your white haired companion is, but ultimately his large hand holds your own.

"don't even think about it, phainon," you tell him through grit teeth. "i already told you that if you were reckless doing your rounds around okhema i would-"

"kill me, i know," phainon finishes your sentence for you. a sigh in frustration leaves your lips and you finally look up at the man before you. his eyes are filled with remorse as eyes as blue as you could imagine look up at you. his perfect, neat brows furrow upwards to really push his apologetic expression.

his hand easily slides through your fingers, intertwining them with his, and he pulls your knuckles to his lips in a gentle kiss. he whispers your name and the flames of your anger begin to dwindle away. mentally, a curse is laid upon him for having this much power over you.

"something this small wouldn't have knocked me down," phainon reassures you with another small kiss to your hand. he brings your knuckle to his cheek and begins to nuzzle it. his skin is soft to the touch and warm, brimming of life blessed by the sun; a reminder that indeed that small wound was just surface level and one your lover won't die from.

still... seeing the open wound on his arm made your heart ache and images of your lover on the floor in a pool of his own blood with his eyes void of the life that you love so much...

"i sincerely apologize... can't you forgive me?"

truthfully, you want to remain angry at him for worrying you so. phainon decides to go out on an expedition on the outskirts of the holy city and here he comes with an injury on his arm and a scuffed up face smiling like he wasn't just hurt, minor or not.

however, with his face now buried into the comfort of your palm and his eyes, like sparkling azure gems, shine with tears threatening to spill over, you're forced to rescind your vexation in hopes of appeasing the whining man before you.

a heavy sigh leaves your lips and you can almost hear phainon perking up at your resignation.

"do this again and i'll tell mydei to beat you up for me the next time the two of you hold a competition."

your threats fall on deaf ears as the sun beams down on you in the form of phainon's smile. typical of a hero blessed by the prophecy, he's handsome in anything that he does and that does not exclude the boyish grin on his lips as his strong arms pull you in for a firm embrace.

it's evident that something worse is bound to happen to your white haired companion should he continue with the prophecy of amphoreus and the twisted fate that lies before him, but you hold onto the small hope that he will be strong enough to overcome anything. a hero loved by all should not fall to such a tragic ending and you pray to any celestial being who would listen to your pleas to spare his life.

[pearlessance]

Cupid's Chokehold — part four!

LUCK OF THE DRAW

[prev/next]

summary: Uncle Tommy teaches you about the gambler's high in Stratford. And when you return home, you're forced to put that poker face to good use.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, stepcest, age gap, gambling, allusions to addiction, oral f!receiving, tommy 'let me eat it before we go' miller, unprotected piv, praise, breeding kink, light angst, teeny tiny bit of exhibitionism, orgasm delay, creampie, no beta, this part ends on a cliffhanger im so sorry

note: full disclosure i know absolutely nothing about poker or casino games so like...let's not look too hard at that

wc: 11.6k

[series masterlist] [main masterlist] [AO3]

The consultation goes far better than Tommy expects. 

You meet with a woman named Miranda. She’s tall as hell and wears one of those pinstripe blazers that reminds Tommy of his high school principal.

He lets you do most of the talking. You’re real good at it and have Miranda laughing five minutes in. The three of you walk through the house and Tommy’s critical in his observation. There’s ten bedrooms and four balconies and marble floors that shimmer and shine. The backyard has a goddamn waterfall in the heated pool and ten acres of woods behind it with a private lake and a brand new dock. Secluded and quiet. It’s beautiful. The most expensive house Tommy’s ever stepped foot in. 

Miranda explains that she wants to keep the house's old bones. Likes the charm of the curving archways and the transom windows and the laundry chute in the hallway. But the rest of the house is rather dated.

The roof needs to be completely redone—something she failed to mention in the email exchanges. Tommy clocks that one before they even step foot out of his truck.

The plumbing needs updated, there’s only power going into the left half of the house, the insulation needs to be switched with something more modern, and the wood that makes up that big, wrap-around porch is so dry rotted that it needs to be fully replaced.

Tommy makes note of all of it. Is overly observant because he knows Joel will want every little detail. And he tries not to get too excited. Truly, he does. 

But…they could do it with their fucking eyes closed.

Five million dollars. 

Even after labor and material cost and everything else, for this one job Tommy alone would get paid two hundred grand easily. And he can’t imagine everyone on the crew would want to go all the way to Stratford for a month, and so that paycheck would likely be even more than he thinks.

Truthfully, he’s never cared much about moving out of his apartment. It’s always been just him there with the occasional on and off again girlfriend. There’s space to fit his things comfortably and his neighbors are nice enough, so he’s never given a place of his own much thought.

But when Tommy thinks of his future now, his brain subconsciously makes room for you in it. 

He can see it clear as day when he dreams. Sees himself cooking dinner in the kitchen while you sit at the butcher block island he built with his own two hands, sipping whiskey from an icy glass. Sees you on the front porch steps while he’s out mowing the lawn. Sees you standing at the refrigerator late at night, bare feet on the tile, wearing nothing but his old t-shirt, trying to twist off the cap on a jar of olives that he always tightens just a little too much because he likes when you ask for his help.

You’re in everything he does. Present and future. Sometimes Tommy thinks even his past decisions had been made with you in mind, leading him right here. Right to you.

Miranda has lunch delivered during the consultation. A big spread of meats and hard cheeses and whole grain breads. She pours mimosas for you and herself but Tommy declines her offer. Wouldn’t be caught dead behind the wheel with an ounce of champagne in him if you’re the one in the passenger seat.

The two of you talk about labor pricing while you eat. Tommy sits silently beside you, taking slow bites of his turkey club concoction he’s put together, and lets you do your thing. 

Isn’t surprised at the easy way you make conversation. Slipping in those personal questions between the ones about dollar signs to make Miranda more comfortable. You ask how her husband’s doing on his business trip to Italy and about her son’s basketball tournament. If he didn’t know any better, Tommy would think the two of you have been friends for years and not just the two weeks you’ve been emailing back and forth. 

And when Miranda offers to pay another half million at the end of the consultation, Tommy isn’t surprised about that, either. She says, “My husband and I really love the work Miller Contracting does. And what’s even better is you’re good people. At the end of the day, that’s what we’re paying for.”

You tell her it was nice meeting her. Explain that Joel makes all final decisions so you can’t promise anything, but you’ll do what you can to sway his favor.

Miranda understands his hesitation. Knows it’s a long process and far away from home but swears to make the distance worthwhile.

Tommy hasn’t even pulled fully out of the long, winding driveway before you’re plucking your phone out of your back pocket and dialing Joel’s familiar phone number.  You put it on speaker and hold it between the two of you.

It only rings twice before he answers. “Hey, kiddo. How’d it go?”

“It’s real, Joel,” you say, the smallest bit of pride in your voice. As if to say, I told you it would be. It’s almost undetectable, but Tommy hears it. “Everything she said in the emails was true.”

“Did you check the basement? The plumbing down there, is it accessible?”

“Sure is.”

“And the furnace?”

“Yep. And the water heater and the HVAC and the foundation. I triple checked it all. Just like you taught me.”

“An’ she didn’t leave anything out? Nothin’ at all?”

“The roof,” you say. “But we figured as much from the exterior picture she sent us.”

“So she did lie.”

“It ain’t that bad,” Tommy interjects. “Would take us less than a day to fix. An’ I don’t think the roof was even in the proposal plan, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” you answer. “Not once has she asked about us redoing her roof. Could be something she wants someone else to do.”

“Alright, fair. But the cost of labor—”

“How much would it be? For housing and food and travel expenses and everything else. Including pay for each day for everyone who wants a hand in it. How much would it be?”

Joel’s hesitation translates, even through the phone. “A lot. I don’t—I don’t know off the top of my head.”

“Highball it.”

Tommy can’t hold back his grin. Has never in his life heard someone talk that way to his brother during one of his stubborn moods. You speak clearly. Concise. Your voice holds an edge that’s devoid of fear and cowardice. He can hear Joel’s teachings in the way you speak.

Joel sighs heavily, and Tommy would bet money that he’s squeezing his jaw or massaging the incoming headache from his temple. And then, finally, he says, “Four hundred thousand, maybe. I can’t imagine Cooper or Adam are going to want to go, they’ve got those young kids an’ all.”

“And what if I told you it would all be paid for and then some? Outside of the five million,” you say. 

“Where are we gonna get the kinda cash for—?”

Before Joel finishes, you’re explaining, “Miranda just offered another five hundred thousand. That means three and a half million dollars in profit after max material cost.”

“But Christmas bonuses and—”

“Joel.”

He stops. Silence hangs in the air, and Tommy knows it’s not because he doesn’t trust you, it’s because he doesn’t trust Miranda. The offer seems almost too good to be true. It’s taken them so long to get this far, and now that they’re here, Joel’s having trouble wrapping his head around it. 

Tommy wishes he had something wise to say. Something to sway his brother, something to calm the anxiety he can see written plainly on your face. But he isn’t like you—doesn’t always have the right words. And so he holds tight to the steering wheel with one hand and extends his other, giving you a soft smile when you thread your fingers between his.

“Look, I know it’s a lot,” you say. “The three of us are the only ones who know, so if you decide not to take the job, no harm no foul. And you know I’ll have your back no matter what decision you make. Okay? But一if we get half before the job, half after, we won’t need to spend a dime out of our pockets. It’s real. And you’ve worked hard for it. It’s not a hand out and it’s not charity. You built this business from the ground up. You deserve this, Joel.”

Tommy knows his brother’s done for before he even speaks. He’s been on the receiving end of these talks with you, the ones where you say everything he wants to hear with so much conviction in your heart it’s impossible to discount it.

Joel sighs again but it’s a little lighter this time. He says, “Alright, let me…just let me talk to your mom first. I’ll tell you as soon as I make a decision.”

Before you even make it back to the hotel parking lot, Joel sends you a wordy text explaining his agreement terms. He wants to wait a month before they start construction. Says he needs to figure out who’s able to lend a hand and give them time to inform everyone they need to. He needs to replace Noah with a new hire and find a decent job for everyone who stays in Austin so they still get paid, too. Says to put the words ‘half the payment at signature, half after completion’ in the first draft of the contract.

The second you’re back in the hotel room, you’re pulling out your laptop and setting it up on the edge of the bed to tell Miranda the good news. You promise to have a complete breakdown of Joel’s terms sent by Monday afternoon and a revised agreement sent by Friday.

Tommy waits patiently while you work. He flops back on the mattress beside you and admires the way you look and the soothing sound of your fingers as they hit the keys.

He doesn’t rush you. Gives you all the time you need and concocts a plan of his own while he lays beside you.

And when you finally close your laptop, there’s a satisfied smile on your face. “This is going to change everything,” you say. “I mean, if Miranda has people tour her house when it’s finished they’re gonna want to know who did it, right? This opens up a whole new world of clients for us.”

Truthfully, he’d never thought that far ahead. Supposes that’s why you’re so good at what you do, always seeing opportunities before they’re staring you right in the eye. “I think this is cause for celebration,” Tommy says. “You bring some goin’ out clothes?”

That troublesome smirk finds its way onto your pretty face. “Picked an outfit as soon as Joel told me you’d be my chauffeur.” You stand to your feet, fingers already working at the buttons of the white blouse you’d bought specifically for the consultation. “Where are we going?”

“You’re gettin’ a birthday do-over,” he answers, a tone of finality in his voice. “S’been eatin’ at me, so I’m gonna make it right.”

Tommy pushes himself to his feet and comes to stand in front of you. His hands take over for yours, undressing you slowly. You tilt your head back to stare up at him, lips parted just slightly, eyes beginning to darken with desire he’s familiar with now. “You already did,” you say, and it warms his heart to hear it.

But it’s not just the end of the night he wants to fix. It’s the beginning, the middle, the aftermath. He has a chance to give you everything you wanted that day without fear of prying eyes, and Tommy thinks he’d be a fool not to take it.

He pushes the pearlescent buttons through the satin fabric of your blouse. One by one. Revealing the red lace you wear beneath. “Y’know, I’ve got this…this errand to run.”

The prettiest crease forms between your brows. Tommy presses a kiss there. “We have errands?”

It takes considerable effort to fight his grin. He likes the way the word we sounds in your mouth. And that assumption is no surprise, really. He can’t remember the last time he did anything without you at his side. But he shakes his head. Says, “Nah, just me. You go ahead an’ get all dolled up. I’ll be back in an hour. Yeah?”

The confusion on your face persists. And Tommy knows you like the back of his hand, so he tries to ease your mind. To put some of your uncertainty at ease. 

“I just gotta pick something up,” he clarifies. “An’ it won’t be a surprise if you’re there the whole time, now would it?”

You narrow those pretty, suspicion filled eyes at him, but that grin gives you away.

Tilting your head up with gentle fingers beneath your chin, Tommy kisses you once, twice. Three times for good measure. “Be good,” he says.

“Never.”

He’s still smiling when he slides into the leather seat of his truck. It’s so easy, being with you. Loving you. Like second nature. As if it’s what he was made for. 

And while he drives through the streets of Stratford, Tommy can’t help but think about a future with you. Even though there’s a little voice in the back of his head, reminding him that fantasizing about it will only make the inevitable devastation worse.

But it’s just too good. It makes his heart race, thinking about the way you’d look with a diamond ring on your finger and a belly swollen with his baby. He’d ntroduce you to all his friends as his pretty little wife and when they tell him to stay for one more drink he’d say, ‘nah, gotta get home to the misses’ with a big grin on his face.

He’d buy a plot of land and build your dream house with his own two hands. Tommy knows just what you like—has seen all those Zillow links you send him when you’re tucked behind that desk on the job site. He’d make sure it had a big window in the kitchen above the sink and hardwood floors and all the hardware in the house would match. Brass, of course—because that’s the metal you always notice.

But most of all, Tommy would keep you happy. Satisfied. If you wanted to work, he’d drive you every morning. If you wanted to stay home, he’d pick up extra hours if need be. He’d take you to see the sights of the world or spend the weekends cozied up on the couch—whatever you wanted. 

He’d indulge your every whim and never let you participate in a bad idea alone. Whatever kept those stars in your eyes and that troublesome smirk on your sweet mouth.

And Tommy knows he’d be happy regardless of place or time. As long as you’re there with him.

When he arrives at the locally owned jewelry store he’d found online, he doesn’t linger. Does what he came to do and gets back to you with a sense of urgency.

Tommy hates being apart from you. Even if it’s easier knowing you’re waiting for him, the distance feels heavy. Like a waste of precious time. And you must feel it, too. Because as he’s pulling back into the hotel parking lot his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

Your text simply reads ‘miss you.’ His favorite one to receive. 

Tommy thinks he’ll never get over the way you make him feel. Wanted, needed, like he’s the most important man in your life. It doesn’t make sense to him, truthfully. He’ll never understand what the hell you see in him. 

But he’s well past the point of rationizing any of what lies between you. So he just sits with it instead. Feels the love you have for each other and the near paralyzing fear that comes with it. Lets that heaviness fill him to the brim because it’s you, and he’s greedy for it all.

When he opens the heavy hotel room door, he finds you fixing a stray piece of hair in the mirror. You smile wide and your eyes light up as they meet his in the reflection. 

You’re beautiful, Tommy thinks. Breathtaking.

His hands itch with the need to touch you, like they always do. Insatiable. And so he does, because for this weekend he can. He comes up behind you and places his broad palms on your hips, right over the waistband of your jeans. Light washed and distressed with glittering pockets, tight and casual but sexy. He presses a kiss behind your ear and promises, “Missed you more, sweetheart.”

Your hands find his, guiding them beneath the smooth satin of your black halter top, pressing them against your soft skin. It’s not an inherently sexual caress, it’s just there. Grounding. As if you need the touch just as much as he does.

“Got you somethin’,” he says. He fishes the small package from his pocket. “Close your eyes.”

When you do just as he asks, Tommy carefully unwraps your gift, turns one of your hands over, and sets the dainty piece of jewelry there. He can feel your excitement as if it were his own. Sees that pretty smile and mirrors it. “A present?”

“Mhm.” His stomach twists with nerves. But he’s not really sure why, because it’s you. Knows it’s something you would’ve picked out for yourself if given the chance. But he wants to impress you. Wants to make sure you feel loved. “Alright,” he says. “G’head.”

You laugh softly and your grin widens, fingers coming up to trace the thin chain of the necklace. In the center of it sits a single, pearl pendant. Small but pretty, not dissimilar to a lot of the jewelry you normally wear.

“I know when you asked for a pearl necklace that you meant the Uncle-Tommy-made one,” he says with a laugh. “But you still asked for it. So I wanted to get it for you.” 

“I love it,” you say. And then you're handing it back to him and gathering your hair in your hands, a silent instruction.

Tommy unclasps the necklace and lays it delicately in the center of your chest. “You know, the jewler lady was tellin’ me all this stuff about gemstones. Said they all kinda mean different things. Like emeralds are for growth and diamonds are for strength or whatever,” Tommy explains.

When he secures the necklace, he gently runs his knuckles down the back of your neck. Feeling you; your skin, your warmth, your pulse. 

“And when she started tellin’ me about pearls, at first she said they’re for purity and innocence.”

“Purity and innocence?” You laugh at that—one of those sweet, belly laughs he loves so much.

Tommy shakes his head, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt. “I know, I had the same reaction,” he tells you. “But just—just listen. Stay with me.”

With a nod, you press your lips together, trying to fight off your amusement.

“An’ then she said they could also be for spiritual connections," Tommy continues. 

You quiet a little then, hearing him, seeing his point before he even alludes to it. Reading his mind in that way you do. 

“I asked her to explain it to me. So I knew I was understandin’ right. An’ she told me a spiritual  connection ain’t somethin’ you can control. Doesn’t matter if it’s someone you shouldn’t want, doesn’t matter if…if it makes sense or if it’s right. It just is. Said those that experience it are lucky. Cause sometimes, for some people, somethin’ like that never happens at all.”

You stare at him in the reflection of the mirror, pupils blown wide and filled with the same intensity he feels. A shared understanding. 

A shared devotion.

When you reach for him and your fingertips snag against the shiny, new hardware on the ring finger of his left hand, you immediately notice it. Can feel the difference, the change from what’s normal.

He smiles as you turn in his embrace, holding his hand up in the space between you. Your brows furrow the smallest bit, and Tommy feels his gut twist with nerves as you closely examine the simple gold band. Thin but masculine, with a single pearl stone set in its center. Twin to the pendant around your neck, one more shared thing between you. Something tangible, something physical that will remain even after the weekend is over.

“They’re the same,” you say. “Like us.”

His heart pinches in his chest at the softness in your voice. “Yeah, darlin’,” he mutters. “Jus’ like us.”

You turn his big hand in yours and press it to the side of your face, and his thumb instinctively caresses the delicate curve of your cheekbone.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said last night,” he whispers. “About…about how mad they’d be if they found out. Now, my brother, he’ll hate me for this. I think we both know that.” Tommy swallows hard. “But I…the risk一to me, anyway…it would be…it would be worth it. You…you are worth it.”

The words come out stumbling over one another. Tommy’s not used to this, to laying the truth of his heart out in the open for someone else to see. But he reminds himself that it’s not just someone he’s letting in. It’s you.

And you’re everything.

He can feel your pulse beneath his palm. Steady and unafraid, a direct contrast to the way his heart thrums against his sternum. “Are you saying you want to tell them?”

“I’m saying that I’ll do whatever you want,” Tommy explains, hearing the surrender in his own voice. “If you want to tell them, we’ll tell them. If you wanna keep carryin’ on the way we’ve been, just these stolen moments when no one else is lookin’, then we’ll do that, too. An’ if…if one day you find someone else, then I’ll step back. Won’t blame you, won’t hold you to nothin’ cause I know this一this ain’t the way it’s supposed to go.”

The thought alone leaves him feeling hollow, but he means it. You squeeze his hand a little tighter, no doubt seeing the flicker of disquiet in his eyes.

“What I’m sayin’ is that I’m yours, darlin’,” Tommy explains. “As long as you’ll have me. After that, even.”

For the rest of his disappointing, god forsaken life, all things good about Tommy Miller belong to you.

“I’m all in,” he says. “An’ I mean it. You just gotta say the word, darlin’.”

You stand there, staring up at him, wide eyed and grinning like you’d just won some prize. And he wants you to say it一wants you to tell him that you’re ready to risk it all. To step outside of what’s comfortable and damn every last consequence.

And you want it, too. Just as badly. He can fucking see it.

But then something flickers across your face. The reality of it hits. You remember who exactly it would hurt in the process.

And Tommy knows the decision you make before you speak. Watches you silently take all that temptation and bury it deep. His sweet, selfless girl.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you lean into his touch. “I love you,” you say, and he knows you mean it. But you love them, too. Just as much.

He gets it. Reminds himself you still have the weekend. You still have now.

You press a kiss to the pad of his thumb, lips velvet soft. With that smirk on your face, you say, “All this cause I wanted a facial.”

Tommy laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m kidding,” you say, but the intensity of the moment has passed. Replaced with something lighter yet filled with just as much love. More, even, because this is the kind of airiness that only ever exists when you’re together. The feeling he’s come to crave.

“Drive me fuckin’ insane,” Tommy tells you, but there’s no salt to his words. They’re filled with affection instead. His joy persists, even as he shakes his head and says,  “Spillin’ my guts an’ you gotta make it about that damn pearl necklace. Oughta teach you to respect your elders.”

Your giggles bubble out of you, a familiar sound that eases all of his ache. But once your laughter begins to die down, you take him by the jaw. “Hey.” You tilt his face down so he’s staring right at you. Into you. “You are my home, Tommy Miller,” you say with such finality it makes his ears ring. “Don’t ever doubt that. Not for a day in your fucking life.”

He smiles wide. Lets himself soak up the heat of this moment in case he never gets to experience it again. His hands find your skin, sliding easily beneath your top, stroking just beneath your ribs. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy when you get all bossy,” he says. “You know that?”

“Bossy?” You scoff. “I do not get bossy.”

The lie bleeds through, and Tommy thinks about giving you examples from the consultation and the phone call from this morning, but he’s got something a little different on his mind. A matter that’s a little more pressing. “Mmhm,” he hums, leaning down to kiss the exposed junction of your shoulder. “Sure. Right.” 

You shiver beneath the warmth of his tongue, the sharpness of his teeth against your skin. “We’re supposed to be going out,” you say, but you tilt your head back anyway. Giving him more access. “You keep this up and we won’t make it two feet out the door.”

“We will, baby,” he promises. “We will. Wanna show you the city lights. But just…” Tommy kisses a trail down your chest, lips hot and heavy. And then he hooks an arm around your waist, lifting you up and sitting you on the porcelain edge of the sink. “I just gotta take care of somethin’ first.”

He squeezes the supple flesh of your thighs, spreading your legs to make room for the width of his hips. His fingers are careful, moving with the kind of familiarity that only he could ever possess. “Take care of what?”

“Of you.” Tommy smirks. “Look so fuckin’ pretty.” He unfastens the button of your jeans and slides down the zipper to find you bare beneath一and there’s something about it that sets him off. Makes him a little more desperate for you. The knowing, maybe. The realization that you’d planned for this, that you’d gotten all dressed up with the expectation to be dressed down by his rough hands.

He sinks to his knees before you, head positioned perfectly between your knees. “But I never have enough energy after,” you whine, but you arch into his touch as he slides a hand beneath your top and palms your breast anyway. Not an ounce of resistance to be had. “If we fuck now, I’m just going to want to stay here and do nothing else for the rest of the night.”

“Who said anything about fucking?” Tommy hooks his fingers in the waist band of your jeans and pulls them down. “Said I’m gonna take care of you. Just wanna eat it before we go, baby. S’that alright with you?”

A flush crawls up your neck, and Tommy would bet that if he pressed his fingers to your cheek that they’d be full of sweet, summertime warmth. He wants to feel it, to taste it. But then you press your teeth into your bottom lip and nod, giving him the green light, and Tommy returns to his trajectory. “Be fast,” you say, a teasing lilt to your tone.

Tommy takes it as a challenge. Pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and hands it to you. “Five minutes,” he says, mirroring the silly smile you wear. “Go ‘head. Tell me when you start it.”

You shake your head in disbelief but settle in anyway, leaning back against the mirror. You put in the passcode to his phone, set the timer for exactly five minutes, and lay it on the sink beside your thigh. Your finger hovers over the start button. “You’re a little confident,” you say. “There a reason for that?”

He turns his head and bites the inside of your thigh, flicking his tongue over the hurt the moment your breath catches in your throat. “S’cause I know you, sweetheart,” Tommy explains. “Got you memorized. Know your favorite color, your favorite song.” He moves closer, sucking bruises into your thighs in the shape of his mouth. “Know how you like to be touched.”

Your knees drift further apart, breath coming fast. Anticipating what’s to come.

“Start the damn timer,” Tommy demands. And the moment you do, he’s leaning forward and getting his fix. He pushes your thighs apart and lays wet, open mouthed kisses against your clit. Circles it with a pointed tongue that works you up with precision.

He revels in the broken moans that you let slip, in the way your fingers tangle in his curls. You’re so wet, so responsive, so needy. But this is more for him than it is for you; a controlled release, a hit to tie him over while you’re out. 

It’s damn near over when he slides two fingers inside of you. Your body accepts him so naturally, greedy in a way only he understands. Your fingers curl around the sink’s edge, blanching as you try to fight release.

But Uncle Tommy does have you memorized. Presses his fingers against that spot inside that has you gasping, flicks his tongue just right. 

In the end, it only takes him two minutes and twenty-eight seconds before your pussy pulses around his fingers. Your spine bends and your clit throbs beneath his soft tongue, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Tommy doesn’t stop until your thighs shake. Doesn’t come up for air until his lips are swollen and his chin glistens with your arousal.

But when he does, you wear this sweet smile. And even though his cock throbs painfully in his jeans, Tommy feels satiated at the sight of it. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, helps you back into your jeans, and zips them up all before the timer goes off.

And when the two of you finally leave the hotel room, you lace your fingers through his and cling to him with that sweet smile still on your face. Safe and satisfied and happy.

You cling to him as he leads you through the busy streets of Stratford. Leaning into him, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. It’s such a small, intimate thing, but it pleases him. He likes knowing that if anyone were to look in your direction they wouldn’t assume there was anything wrong about the way he holds you.

Not once do you question where he leads you. You just trust him. Fully and without any reservation. No one has ever trusted him like you do, Tommy thinks. Not any of his friends, not any of the women he’s been with, not even his own brother. 

He gets high on it. On your faith. You know him better than anyone and are fully aware that he’s an impulsive man, that he follows his heart without giving the consequences much thought. And yet, still, you trust him fully. To be good to you, to be good for you.

Thoughts of the potential tomorrow he could have with you persist once more, begging to be acknowledged. He tries to stay grounded in the moment. Holds your hand a little tighter, inhales the sweet scent of perfume that clings to your skin. The sun sets in the distance, just now dusk, still bright. Still day. Still time.

When you round the last corner and Tommy steps into the short line at the entrance, you look at him with an expression that’s a little lighter. Bright eyed and curious. “A casino?”

He grins. “What kinda uncle would I be if I didn’t introduce you to some bad ideas of my own every now and again?”

You turn to the bouncer and present him your shiny new ID; the horizontal one that’d come in the mail not too long ago. They wave you through, and Tommy follows suit.

It’s darker inside. Busy, too. Filled with people of all kinds; some in jeans and work boots, not dissimilar to Tommy. Others in three piece suits and cocktail dresses.

The air smells like smoke and booze and the lingering scent of pine cleaner. Colorful lights cascade over the space, over your soft skin. Hues of blues and yellows and greens. He can hear the faint electrical whirring of slot machines in the distance, mixed with sighs of defeat and the clink of coins and gasps of celebrations. All mixed together, a low thrum that slithers through him, the energy alight and buzzing.

The lights reflect beautifully in your eyes, and Tommy can’t help but get a little lost in it. In you. The prettiest girl he’s ever seen. He wishes he had the words to explain it, to make you understand that you’ve uprooted his entire life.

Tommy realizes then that he’d been right all along. In the beginning, knowing that the moment he touched you everything would change. That he would change. Red to blue, green to yellow. He’d known it then and had indulged in you anyway. Completely, lucidly aware that nothing would ever be the same for him.

And if he had a chance to redo it all, if he could go back to that night at the warehouse party, Tommy knows with certainty that he’d do it all over again.

Even if you never say the word. Even if you tire of him and find someone your own age who you don’t have to kiss behind closed doors or ten hours away from everyone you know.

Even then, the time you’ve given to him has been worth it. 

You extend your hand, palm out and open. “Drinks first?”

He slides his rough fingers through yours. “Drinks first.”

Tommy leads you to the bar, orders two whiskeys, and pays with his own card. While you wait for the bartender to finish pouring, he hands you a hundred dollars in cash and says, “Now, the trick is to go slow. I know it’s real exciting, ‘specially when you get the hang of it and start winning. But you gotta keep yourself in check. Yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Slow and steady. Easy does it.”

“A hundred bucks each,” he explains. “An’ once you’re out, you’re out. We’re here to have fun, not start any new bad habits.”

You jut out your bottom lip, forming a pout. “Damn. And here I was, thinking we were gonna remortgage the house and sell your truck.”

Tommy snorts, shaking his head. He thanks the bartender when he sets the two whiskeys in front of you and you clink the edges of the crystal glasses together. “We’ll start wherever you wanna go,” he says. “Lead the way, baby.”

It takes you a while to decide. You walk around the carpeted casino floor hand in hand, sipping whiskey and asking a million questions. Sometimes, you linger at some of the tables.

“What’s that one?”

“Baccarat,” Tommy tells you, watching the dealer shuffle the cards in a dramatic fan. “Sometimes you win, sometimes your opponent wins, sometimes the banker wins. Kinda complicated.”

You walk further, past the slot machines and to another small crowd of players. You point to the spinning wheel attached to the table, striped black and red and numbered. “Roulette,” you say. “Right?”

“Supposed to be about math.” Tommy tuts. “Mostly just about luck.”

When you reach the poker tables near the back of the game floor, you move a little slower.

You don’t say anything, but Tommy knows you. So he takes your hand and leads you to the dealer. Buys twenty dollars in poker chips and takes a seat at the table. You do the same, sitting right beside him.

There’s an older gentleman at his other side, graying and drenched in the heady smell of cigar smoke. Beside him sits a woman a little older than you, wearing a sequined dress that casts rainbows over the green table.

The dealer looks to you, and you place the minimum bet in the center of the table. Two blue chips.

Tommy goes next. Adds a red chip to the pool.

The old man places his, and then the woman. And when the dealer places two cards in front of each player, Tommy lifts just the corners of his up and nearly laughs. He’s got an ace of spades and a seven of hearts.

Tommy’s got shit for luck. Always has.

He turns to you, tries to read the look on your face. You just smile at him, maybe a little smug. But he can’t tell if it’s because you’ve got a winning hand or if it’s the excitement of it all.

The dealer discards the card on the top of the deck. Lays it face down off to the side. And then he flips three cards into the center of the table; three of spades, five of diamonds, seven of clubs.

“Bets,” the dealer says.

You lean forward, stacking another blue chip onto the steadily growing pool. “Raise.”

Tommy tries to keep a straight face, but he can’t. The amusement bleeds through, his mouth pulling up at the corners. “Call.” He places the same bet, another blue chip beside yours.

The man beside him folds, and Tommy thinks he must have an even worse hand than the one sitting in front of him.

The woman calls, too. Matches your bet.

The dealer places another card in the center of the table. Six of hearts.

He sees your leg twitch beneath the table. The only tell he’s noticed since the beginning of the game. 

“Bets?”

“Raise,” you say again, putting in two red chips now. Worth more. Nearly doubling the pot.

Tommy shakes his head, rubbing the stubble along his jaw. “Fold,” he says, pushing his cards face down across the table to the dealer. It’s just you and the woman at the end of the table now. 

And it seems she’s got a hell of a poker face, too. Because Tommy can’t pick up on a single cue between either one of you.

The old man beside him nudges Tommy with an elbow. “Guess we got shown up, huh?”

He laughs. “Guess so.”

Just beneath the table, he holds a five dollar bill between two of his fingers. “Got five bucks on my daughter,” he says. It surprises Tommy at first. But as he looks a little closer, he sees the resemblance there; they share the same blue eyes, the same aquiline nose. “How much you got on your wife?”

It’s stupid, he knows.

But Tommy can’t help himself. Not when it comes to you.

He pulls the remaining cash out of his wallet. “Got eighty bucks in my pocket,” he says, his confidence coming out more arrogant than he initially intended. “On her?” He clicks his tongue. “I’m all in.”

The man holds out his hand, a glimmer of excitement in his pale eyes. “Deal’s a deal.”

Tommy grins. Shakes his hand with a firm grip. “Deal’s a deal.”

When he returns his attention to the game, Tommy sees the dealer lay another card on the table. Six of hearts.

You raise again, adding one more blue chip, leaving you almost empty.

The woman at the end of the table hesitates. Just for a moment, but Tommy sees it. She calls, matching your bet.

The dealer lays the final card on the table, face down. He waits, lets the anticipation simmer. And then he flips it with a quick flick of his wrist. Practiced, meticulous. Eight of diamonds.

The woman lays her hand down first. She’s got an eight of hearts and eight of clubs. And with the eight of diamonds on the table, she’s got three of a kind. A win.

Tommy’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Starts to wonder how the fuck he’s going to explain that he’s lost every last dime before the first game’s even finished.

But then you reveal your hand.

Two of diamonds, four of diamonds.

Four of a kind, and a seven card straight.

“Aw, hell.” Tommy’s eyes go wide and it takes everything in him not to jump to his feet. Still, the excitement spills out of him. Won’t stay contained no matter how hard he fights it. He takes your face in his hands and presses his mouth to yours, needing to touch you, to feel you, to taste you. “Now that’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ about, baby!”

Your giggles are girlish and blithe, filled with so much joy you’re damn near swimming in it. You lean in and gather the chips on the table, pulling them toward you. As you stack them neatly at your side, you sip the whiskey from your crystal glass. “Another game?”

“You bet your sweet fuckin’ ass we’re playin’ another,” Tommy says.

The old man at his side claps him on the back, forks over eighty bucks worth of poker chips, and says, “Ya’ lucked out on her, kid.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. They’re said so casually, but they give him pause.

Because they’re fucking right.

He’s lived his entire life in the wrong places and the wrong times. Has never been dealt a good hand and if he has, he fucks it up in a minute.

But he did luck out on you.

Was in the right place, at just the right time. Said just the right words, did just the right things.

He fell hard and fast. But you did, too, and Tommy knows it’s the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to him.

And this old man who doesn’t even know your name can see it just as clearly.

Tommy nods. Swallows hard. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I did.”

The man and his daughter both step away from the table, and two others take their place, leaving Tommy to reassess the way he’s viewed his entire life up until this point.

Because maybe all those mistakes prior to the day he met you were worth it, meant to bring him here. To Joel’s that first evening, to the warehouse party, to the crowded bar on Sixth Street, to that diner in the middle of nowhere, to the poker table you sit at now.

He thinks about the jewelers take on a spiritual connection. How it only happens once in a lifetime or sometimes not at all. 

He thinks about the words you’d whispered to him last night. Surrounded by chlorinated water and sandstone walls, safe enough in his arms to ask the one selfish question he’s ever heard uttered from your lips.

What if it wasn’t my mom and Joel who were meant to meet. What if it was us?

All that bad luck for all those years because he was saving it for you.

The dealer shuffles the cards, fanning them across the table.

You sit there for five more games, all of which you win. You came to the table with twenty dollars in poker chips and leave with over two hundred一up higher than Tommy’s ever been himself.

You ask to take a break after the last win. Tell him you want to try something else, to see if you’re any good at the slot machines or blackjack. But the moment you’re away from the table, you’re throwing away that facade you’ve mastered in the last hour and looping your arms around his neck, smiling wide. “Can you believe that? I did good, didn’t I? Six games in a row!”

Tommy laughs and holds you tight against him. “You did so good, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s see who else’s pockets you can run.”

The slots are a let down. An experience, for sure—but not a single round do you or Tommy win more than a single dollar. Yet, still, you sit beside one another and stick coins into the machines and cross your fingers and hope for the best.

Once, you try to mimic the mechanical whirring sound of one of the penny slots, and it’s so accurate that you have Tommy laughing hard enough his side aches.

You go through more drinks—another round of whiskey and you share a frozen, lime flavored margarita tower that’s nearly as tall as you are.

Tommy wins twice at blackjack, and you lose so badly that you’re back down to the same hundred you walked in with. He wants to try another round, but you call it quits and sit in his lap while he plays.

It’s a hell of a lot more difficult to focus with you so close.

He’s supposed to be counting up the value of his hand, but all he can think about is the curve of your shoulder when you pull your hair back and expose it to him.

Tommy presses a kiss beneath your jaw, trying to curb the craving to taste the salt of your skin. 

He watches goosebumps rise on the back of your neck in response, watches you press your lips together to keep that troublesome smirk from forming on your face. You take his hand that rests gently on your hip and slide it just a little higher, beneath the satin hem of your top. 

It’s different than when you’d done it in the hotel room. Less about feeling him and more about being touched.

You shift in his lap, rolling your hips forward, spreading your legs a little wider to make room for the thick plane of his thigh. It’s the smallest change, barely there一but Tommy sees it. Feels it. The warmth, the need.

There’s six other players at the table. The one on your left is close enough that you could touch your elbow to the fabric of his black suit if you leaned over just a bit more.

Filthy, shameless girl.

You shift your hips over his thigh again. More intentional, more obvious.

Tommy’s hand tightens at your side in warning.

That smirk of yours is on full display now as you glance at him over your shoulder, eyes filled with equal amounts of challenge and devilry.

The other players around him show their hands. One by one. And when it’s Tommy’s turn, he lays his cards down to reveal the winning numbers. A ten of hearts and a ten of spades.

He leans forward to collect the chips in the center of the table, and slides his hand a little higher on your waist in the process. Feels your soft skin beneath his calloused fingertips, pressing into the divots between your ribs.

Tommy always feels that gravitational pull towards you, but it’s different knowing what the end of the night holds. He’s less guarded, less careful. He touches you without shame.

There’s nothing hesitant about it. No guilt. Tommy likes it more this way, he thinks. It makes him feel impossibly closer to you. Makes him feel free. Weightless.

His subtle touches are a little different for the remainder of the night. Heavier, full of intent. His hand at the small of your back as you try a rounds of pool, his forefinger beneath your chin, forcing you to look up at him when you ask for another whiskey.

But there’s no rush, no race to get home to feed your desires before the moment passes.

You’re gifted a round of shots from a girl you make quick friends with in the restroom, and the luck of it convinces you to go back to the poker tables. They’re busier now, the night in full swing.

But it makes no difference. You still wipe the floor with the other players every damn game, Tommy included. Even the ones where you’re dealt a losing hand, you’ve got such a winning streak that he finds himself folding out of intimidation.

A little before eleven, the two of you step out onto the balcony to share a cigarette that Tommy lights with the chrome zippo that lives permanently in the front pocket of his Levi’s. You leave the poker table with nearly five hundred dollars worth of chips in your pockets and a carefree smile on your face. 

You lean back against the railing on the balcony, smoke swirling around you in an angelic halo. “I can see why people get addicted to this,” you say, lighthearted.

Tommy laughs. “Yeah, well. Let’s keep that little confession to ourselves. You develop a gamblin’ addiction an’ Joel finds out it was ‘cause of me, he’ll have my ass.”

With the roll of your eyes you say, “Oh, please. If I’m going to develop any addictions it’s not gonna be something lame as hell like gambling.”

He gives you a crooked smirk. “Booze, then?”

“Was thinking heroin,” you joke, passing the half-smoked cigarette back to him.

“Fuckin’ ridiculous,” he says with a shake of his head, but his wide smile only grows. He takes a long drag, letting the nicotine dull the alcohol head buzz that’s well and truly set in by now.

You giggle softly, always happy to present him with that crude humor. But as he exhales slowly, your smile begins to fall. Just a little, as if you’re unsure of exactly how you’re feeling. Caught between one emotion and the next. 

Tommy reaches out his hand. Strokes his knuckles gently across your cheek. “Tell me, baby.”

You cast your eyes away, nudging a small pebble beneath the tip of your sneaker, resigned. And then you admit, “I don’t want to go home tomorrow.”

It pulls that anxiety that’s been building in his chest all day to the forefront of his mind. The fear that this feeling won’t last, that it’s coming to a rapid close. That this high has gone on for too long and the come down is like a slab of concrete rushing up to greet him from below.

Tommy wishes he had the answers for you. Wishes he could carry the weight of it all just to grant you peace. He’d do it without complaint if it meant you didn’t have to feel this emptiness, too.

”C’mere.” He opens his arm and you fit yourself naturally beneath it. “My sweet girl,” he murmurs, lying his cheek on the top of your head, holding you as close as his anatomy will allow. His grip is firm, unrelenting, squeezing tight like his body could grow roots into yours if only he could get close enough.

With a long exhale, you say, “I wish we could stay here forever. The pretending gets so tiring. You go home after dinner every night and it’s the worst part of the day. I just…I miss you. All the time.”

His stomach twists and his throat gets tight in the way it always does when his emotions start to choke him. “I’m right here, darlin’,” he whispers. “Not goin’ anywhere. An’ you never have to pretend. Not with me.”

Tommy keeps you close until your shoulders relax and the cigarette burns to cinders between his fingers. And when you finally pull away, you stare at him hard. Like you’re searching for something hidden in his eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak. To remind you that whatever turmoil’s swirling around inside that pretty head of yours is his to shoulder, too.

But then you let out a dramatic groan. Loud enough to attract the attention of the other smokers out on the patio. You pay them no mind, though, and neither does he. You throw up your hands in surrender and say, “You know what? No. No. Fuck it.”

Tommy thinks the rapid shift in energy may just give him whiplash. He’s got no clue about the silent conversation you’ve had with yourself, but he knows that he loves you. Knows that he’s never had a bad day if you were at his side. Knows that as long as you’re together, he’d do anything. 

Anything. 

A short, clipped laugh escapes him, and then Tommy throws his hands up, too. “Fuck it.”

You grab his hand and lead him back inside. There’s a newfound determination in the way you move, and it frightens him and makes him feel alive simultaneously.

The roulette table is still just as busy as it was in the beginning of the night. Bustling with players and onlookers alike. Tommy stops you just before you start pushing your way through the crowd. 

He wants to know what’s changed. Has the faintest hope that you’re being selfish for once. But he can’t be certain. Not with this.

And so he says, “Hey, wait. Hang on. What, exactly, are we fucking?”

“Each other,” you answer with the happiest smile on your face. “I mean, Christ. I’m not…I’m not doing this anymore. I love you, and I’m tired of feeling bad about it.”

Tommy blinks in surprise. His heart hammers behind his ribcage.

With a sigh, you say, “Look, I don’t一I don’t know a thing about this, alright? I know fuck all about soul connections or how any of this is supposed to go or how it’s supposed to look. What I do know is that Joel’s gonna be pissed and my mom’s gonna think I’m having a crisis. But, like…fuck it, right?”

He couldn’t fight his face splitting grin if he tried. You’ve always been close. Always understood each other in ways no one else could possibly comprehend. But this is something else entirely, like coming home after a long day. Like taking a fresh breath of air. “Fuck it,” Tommy echoes.

Your eyes glitter, neon lights reflected in them as you dig out all of your casino chips from the pockets of your jeans. “We’ll tell them tomorrow,” you say. “The second we get home. I’m all in, Uncle Tommy. Are you?”

You already know the fucking answer. 

And Tommy Miller, impulsive and obsessed man he is, adds the chips in his pockets to the pile in your hands. He says, “Put it all on red, baby,” and you do.

Pushing your way through the crowd, you set every last casino chip on the table. The other players raise their eyebrows in concern or see the opportunity and sport a wolfish smile, but you hardly notice. All your poker earnings, all of his from blackjack, sit in a messy pile on the green game table. You look at the dealer and say, “All in on red.”

“Bold,” the woman says with a nod of approval. “Number?”

You glance back at Tommy over your shoulder. “Twenty-one,” he answers. “For your birthday.”

You quickly stack your chips on the table over the red circle with the number twenty-one written on the inside, hands moving with precision.

The dealer spins the wheel, colors blurring and shifting together. She waits one second, two seconds一and then she drops the ivory-coated ball into the wooden bowl and everyone around the table goes silent. Waiting with bated breath, listening to the steady tick, tick, tick of the dial. 

You and Tommy walk back to the hotel with empty pockets. No casino chips to be found, not a single dollar to either of your names.

But it doesn't matter. Not really. Because you’re laughing and the stars are bright beneath the night black sky and his heart has never been so full. 

He put it all on red. High risk, high reward. Lost every damn dime and still walked away from that roulette table the luckiest man alive.

You race down the side of the busy city streets, sharing rushed and messy kisses that leave him feeling intoxicated in a whole new way. Tommy gets high on you, on your sweet affection, on the unrestrained version of your love.

Once you’re tucked safely back behind the hotel room door, you can’t get each other’s clothes off fast enough. He struggles to untie the satin fabric at the back of your neck, so you resort to pulling it over your head instead.

And when you shove him back against the crisp, white sheets, Tommy’s t-shirt is on the floor but he’s only got a single boot kicked off. You have time now, he knows. Could take things slow, could savor it.

But you don’t have to. You can rush into it tonight because there’s always tomorrow.

The word clings around in his head. Tomorrow. With you. Something he’d always hoped for but never quite let himself believe was possible until you’d said those two pretty words. All in.

Tommy thinks he’s been all in with you from that very first night in Joel’s kitchen. Had placed his bets before he lifted that bottle to your mouth, before that whiskey ever touched your tongue.

When you kick your jeans off onto the floor, Tommy shifts further up the mattress. Leans back against the headboard as you crawl in his lap wearing nothing now but that pearl pendant around your smooth neck.

His cock rests against his stomach, thick and heavy, and his lips part as you situate yourself just above it and slide him through the syrupy wetness that’s gathered between your legs.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, baby.” Tommy presses his fingers into the softness of your hips, letting you set the pace. He matches your rhythm and helps guide you. “And I—Christ. I’m so god damn in love with you.”

You smile wide, lighthearted laughter filling the space. And you’re so perfect above him—so happy, that it has warmth spreading through his veins. Not just the hot, needy sort of desire he’s used to, but something warmer. Something that only ever exists when he’s with you.

Tommy knows it’s irrational, the idea of soulmates. Knows that people aren’t cosmic matter wrapped up in human skin. But, fuck. He doesn’t care that it’s senseless and illogical—you are the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to him.

He lifts his hips, angling them just right so when you roll yourself against him again he slides right in. You sigh in tandem, basking in the sweet, aching relief of finally being close enough.

With your hands braced on his shoulders, you begin to move slowly at first, working up to it, accommodating to the size of him. A steady but incessant rocking, thighs bracketing his waist. Gentle but desperate all the same.

“You got it,” Tommy encourages softly. “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Made for me, weren’t you? Hm? Made real special, just for Uncle Tommy.”

He can never get enough of you. Feels drunk on the way you look on top of him when you start to quicken your pace. Feels high on the way you breathe out his name and the way your nails dig into the strong muscle of his back.

You feel so fucking good—messy and wet and so warm it makes his head spin. Tommy lifts his hips in sync with you, getting that much deeper. His cock throbs and twitches with each pass of your sweet pussy, arousal making a mess of the thick curls at his base. “Squeezin’ me so tight,” he says. “Look so pretty ridin’ it.”

The sounds you make are pornographic. Sexy and sultry and mouthwatering.

But Tommy can see that little wrinkle of frustration as it forms between your brows. Knows you need a little more, always just a little more, his pretty, desperate girl. “How’s it feel, baby? Talk to me.”

“Good, so一so good, but…I can’t, hm一please一”

He knows. Of course he knows.

“You need my help? S’that it, huh?” You nod frantically, chest heaving with each ragged breath. And Tommy gets it. He understands.

So he surges forward, bracketing his arm around the center of your waist. He holds you close, your breasts pressed flush against his chest. He lifts you just enough to make room for himself below you, and the new angle has him craning his neck to look you in those pretty, starry eyes.

And then he’s thrusting hard, fucking up into you, reaching deeper than you could get alone.

A sharp gasp leaves your throat, a wrecked sort of sound, and his lips curl up into a crooked smirk. “There she is,” he whispers against your collarbone. He does it again, rolling his hips, sinking in deep. “My favorite girl.”

“Oh god一” You loop your arms around his neck, holding tight. The most intimate embrace he’s ever been a part of, a merging of souls.

He finds a good, steady rhythm. Full of longing and love and promise. He lays wet, open mouthed kisses over every part of you he can reach; the curve of your shoulder, the column of your throat, the arch beneath your jaw bone. “Wanna spend the rest of my life with you,” he says, breathing hard as he feels your walls squeeze tight around him. “Build you a big ol’ house and fuck you to sleep every night in it. Jus’ like this. Put a fuckin’ rock on that finger an’ make you a real Miller, baby. Through and through.” 

“Tommy, please,” you whimper. “You’re gonna make me cum一”

“Nuh-uh, not yet.” He slows his hips just enough to keep you there, right on the edge.

You toss your head back and he can feel you pulse around him, can hear the wet sounds from between your thighs with each thrust. “But I’m so close.”

“I know, sweetheart, but you got it,” he says tenderly. “Just a little longer, hm? Be good. Be good for me.”

And you do, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing your sweat-dotted forehead to his. Resisting, fighting it hard. His perfect, filthy girl.

His release gnaws at him. An intense heat that builds low in his belly, flames licking at his insides, growing and growing until it becomes an inferno. Tommy snakes his free hand down his middle and presses the pad of his middle finger against your swollen clit. “Could put a fuckin’ baby in you,” he grunts out, words feral and breathless. 

“Fuck, please, please, I can’t一” 

Tommy’s vision goes blurry with the way you squeeze him like a vice, but he only doubles down. It’s vulgar and depraved and disgusting, but he loves it. And he knows you do, too一you’re one in the god damn same. “Ain’t nothin’ they could do about it then. Be mad all they want, but it’ll be my baby in your belly. Fill you up ‘til it sticks.”

He knows you’ve lost control before you even say it. Can feel the way you pulse around him, can feel the rush of liquid that trickles down his cock, coating him.

“Shit, baby,” he hisses, fucking you through it, pressing his rough fingers into the soft flesh of your side. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy. Deserve to feel so good. My favorite girl.” 

You slide your hands into his hair and crush your mouth to his in a bruising kiss. It’s hot and messy, a clashing of tongues and lips and teeth, desperate in its own right. You say, “I want everything with you, love you so much.”

And your raw adoration is his unravelling. The way it always is.

Tommy spills himself deep inside you, doesn’t stop until you’re both a mess of trembling limbs and satisfied laughter.

You fall back into the sheets, laying on your side, facing one another, fingers threaded together. Tommy kisses the tip of your nose while he tries to catch his breath. Swipes away the strands of hair that stick to your forehead.

He feels faint with the amount of love that fills him in this moment because there’s no reason for him to fight it. No use in worrying about what happens tomorrow, because it’ll be you, and it’ll be him, and not much else on God’s green earth truly matters.

You’re nearly asleep, eyes closed and breath shallow, when he asks, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“Everything,” he clarifies. “Do you really want it all? Marriage and kids and everythin’ else. You want that? With…with me?”

You don’t open your eyes, but you begin to trace the curves of his face with gentle fingertips. The arch of his brow, the slope of his nose, the shape of his mouth. He doesn’t flinch, not even once, because you move like it’s muscle memory.

The thought crosses Tommy’s mind that no one has ever truly loved him before. Not like this. Not like you have.

“Sometimes I think about things that happened before I met you,” you tell him. “Parties I went to, bars I snuck into with my fake ID, vacations and my graduation and road trips. And all I can think now is how much I wish you’d been there, too. I don’t want to have to do that anymore. The wishing.”

He smiles, and when you feel it beneath your touch you smile, too.

Through a sleepy voice, you say, “Everything is better with you.”

Tommy has never slept so peacefully in his life.

Has never been so happy to wake up to his alarm at the ass crack of dawn.

You spend the ten hour drive back to Austin talking. The radio hums low in the background and the air is just warm enough to have the windows down. You put your bare feet in his lap while he drives and you talk about everything the future holds for the two of you.

It’s going to be hard, you both know. Laying out your worst grievances on Joel’s kitchen table. But it’ll be worth it, too.

And after, once things have settled down, and the job in Stratford is complete, you talk about buying a plot of land not unlike the one you’d viewed during the consultation. A couple of acres just outside of town. You talk about getting a dog and raising chickens and painting the kitchen cabinets navy blue and adorning them with brass hardware.

You show him pictures on your phone that you find on Pinterest of cute little farmhouses with big windows above the sink and wood flooring and wrap around porches.

When he asks about marriage and kids, it doesn’t feel weird at all. It feels easy. You tell him you want to wait until you’re twenty five but insist on having at least two.

It feels like the shortest ten hours of his life.

And when you pull into Joel’s driveway, Tommy’s stomach twists and his mouth goes dry. 

But then you grab his hand and kiss his cheek and whisper, “All in.”

And Tommy’s ready. He is. To tell his brother, to deal with the mean right hook that’s likely coming, to start his life. Because it had never really had much meaning until he’d met you.

Your mom and Joel greet you on the front porch. He’s got his arm draped over her shoulders and there’s this look on his face一happy. Elated, even. No scowl to be found.

Tommy thinks there must be good news and feels the smallest bit of guilt, knowing that whatever it is, he’s about to ruin his big brother’s joyful mood.

You don’t make it two steps into the house before your mom takes your hands in hers. She’s nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet, sporting a face splitting grin and bright eyes not unlike your own.

She looks at you, and then at Joel. “I can’t wait. I can’t! It’s killing me.”

Joel laughs. “Alright, then. Go on, tell her.”

Something dark swirls in Tommy’s stomach.

And then your mom holds out her left hand. Nails manicured and painted pale blue and一there. Right there on her finger lays a silver band with a small diamond set in its center. “We’re getting married!”

Your hand jolts back behind you, searching for him, fingers finding the hem of Tommy’s t-shirt and squeezing tight.

For what it’s worth, you put that poker face to good use.

You hug your mom and gush about the ring and tell her how happy you are for her. Joel embraces you and kisses the top of your head and holds you in this fatherly sort of embrace.

But Tommy knows you. Sees right through it. Picks up on every last one of your tells. 

Can hear the shake in your voice, sees the tremble of your bottom lip, notices the way you try to touch him every chance you get, reaching out for safety. A brush of your knuckles, a press of your arm against his, scrambling to pick up the pieces of the security you’d just found.

He and Joel share a drink in celebration in the kitchen and Tommy claps him on the back. Congratulates him while trying hard not to lose his footing, to fight off the dizziness.

They offer to take everyone out to dinner. Your mom says, “Sarah will be home soon. She already knows, but we can all go out to that Mexican place to celebrate. How’s that sound?”

Tommy’s the one who answers. Lies and says the drive has exhausted him. That all he really wants is a nap.

Your mom and Joel are understanding, of course. Promise a rain check. Next weekend, maybe.

The ringing in his ears doesn’t stop until he’s back in his apartment. Empty and silent and smothering in the worst ways.

And it’s right then and there that Tommy Miller knows his luck’s run out.

note: hi hello i just want to say thank you to everyone who's been so unbelievably supportive of this fic it makes me so happy to hear everyone's thoughts and to share my excitement with you :') i also want to thank all of you who've recommended this little series of mine over on tiktok in the comments of tommy edits i see u and i love u and i would die for u <3 and if you're interested in some edits inspired by uncle tommy, @feelherlove has made some really beautiful ones so be sure to go check those out!! also, i've made a playlist over on spotify for this series as well and have been slowly adding to it for anyone who's interested in that!! or if you have any recommendations let me know!! ok bye love u so much <3

@theretrofuturista @chuutu @gabymalikk @nana90azevedo @alidiggory92 @marisemonteiroo @ivyinthesun @hollowgracie @moyavsemoya @feliciahardysgf @polkadotsocks1993 @malewifejoelmiller @mmmunson @ssssc0m @skye-44 @tateypots @joelscowgirl69 @dbs5647 @cuntyhunty22 @thaliagracesgf @whossbunny @jamespotterismydaddy @whatdoyoumeanhesnapped @rainydayathogwarts @urfavhanna @subconsciouscollapse @worhols @joyridinginzombieland @emmaaas-posts @millers-girl @strawberrytreecake @atjlovverr @magicxmiller @reidswifeyyyyyy @avaluna @joelsslutt @krystal---meth @bbhfilms @virginesquee @njdluvr @royaltyinlife @bunniacula @gojosanna @streamermattsgf @emmasveinyahhdih @yslgreen @dissentientss @rubyscooby @thisisajdesing @millersdoll @pattwtf @zoeyjadetice2010

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[popcornpoppypop]

At The End Of The Day

Summary: Kit and Robby deal with having a newborn in the house. Robby notices changes with Kit. He'll keep her from drowning, no matter what.

Warnings: Postpartum depression, intrusive thoughts, bad moms, talks of birth

A/N: I have never had a baby nor postpartum. I did a lot of research for this one. I feel like there are a lot of fics that just end with the happy family and wanted to sprinkle a little reality in there. This is The Pitt after all.

The moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the bed and its inhabitants. The Robinavitch house was quiet; everyone was sleeping soundly. Michael and Kit were tangled in each other’s arms, Hawkeye snoring at their feet.

A cry crackles through the baby monitor on the nightstand.

The two stirred, Michael sitting up out of instinct and practically still unconscious. Kit groaned as she rolled over, pushing herself up.

“I got her.” Robby murmured.

“She needs to be fed.” Kit groaned.

“We have bottles in the fridge. Sleep.” He cleared his throat.

“And let my tits leak all over myself for no goddamn reason? Brilliant.” Kit snapped as she padded out of the room. Robby felt like he had whiplash, unsure what had just happened.

She’s tired, he thought. They both were. It had been only a week since they had brought Abby home. For the most part, they had adjusted. It was, however, evident that Kit was starting to feel the toll of their new responsibilities more than he was.

He got up and went to the nursery. He stood silent in the doorway, watching Kit. She sat in the rocking chair, the baby held to her breast. The shadows hid her face, the silhouette was still enough to take Robby’s breath away. He never would get used to the sight, something so intimate and beautiful about it. He had to choke back tears every time he saw her feed their baby.

The sound of sniffling made him tip his head in confusion.

He cleared his throat, a small warning that there was another person near, as he walked toward her.

Kit was in her own world, the baby suckling and her head bowed. She didn’t care that Robby was there.

He knelt in front of her, her face clearer, as were the tears falling down her cheeks. It took him by surprise.

“Kit?” His voice soft, afraid of startling her.

“Don’t.” She whispered. “I can’t do this right now.” Her voice was small and fragile.

“Alright. I’ll sit here then, that okay?” Robby put his hands on her knees. She nodded. They sat together in the moonlight as the baby finished feeding. Kit put Abby back in her crib, the baby settling back down.

Robby came up behind her, running his hands up and down her arms. The feeling had always calmed Kit, it was a small gesture that had saved her time and time again. Not this time. In this moment, it was closer to a cheese grater against her skin.

“Stop.” She bit and stomped off, back to the bedroom.

Robby stood staring at the doorway that Kit had just left through, a strange, dejected feeling washing over him.

The sun was streaming through the window, it beat against Kit’s eyelids. She groaned as she sat up. She looked over to see that Robby had woken up already.

The smell of coffee and food felt like a warm hug as she walked into the kitchen. Robby stood over the stove, the baby in her rocker on the floor near him. He looked up at the sound of Kit entering.

“Decaf is ready when you want it.” He smiled

“Great.” Kit forced a smile, he could tell.

“Do you want some eggs? I know they are hit or miss for you.” He observed her as she made her coffee. It was clinical more than romantic.

“That’s fine.” She shrugged.

“I can make something else, if you want.”

“That’s dumb, you’re already doing eggs, just make the damn eggs.” She sighed as she walked over to the table and set her mug down.

“O-kay.” Robby felt himself getting frustrated and did his best to stamp it out.

“When did she eat last?” Kit sipped her coffee.

“About an hour ago. She’s okay.” He smiled down at the baby as she gurgled in her rocker.

“Did you change her?”

“Yes. Honey, I’ve got her taken care of. Don’t worry about her right now.” He put the plate of eggs in front of her.

“Don’t be so patronizing. I’m just checking on my daughter.” Kit snapped.

“That’s not fair.” Robby looked down at her, his annoyance evident.

“Whatever.” She sighed. The baby started crying in her rocker. Kit moved to get up but Robby gestured for her to sit down. He gathered the baby up in his arms and cooed for her to settle.

“We’re going to go and play in the living room so you can have your breakfast.” Robby sighed as he walked off.

The day went on and Kit couldn’t shake the cloud over her head. Robby did his best to keep everything light.

Kit was sitting on the couch, watching some nonsense on the TV, Abby was lying on Robby’s chest. She watched as he rubbed gentle circles on her back. A thought flashed across her mind. It was terrifying and came out of nowhere.

He’s going to take her from you and you won’t care.

Kit shook her head, the tears burning her eyes.

He’s going to take her and you won’t see her again and you’ll be relieved.

She felt her chest tighten.

He’s going to take her because he knows what a bad mother you are, what a bad person you are.

She sat up straight in her seat, her hands rubbing up and down her thighs and breath picking up.

You’ll be so relieved when they aren’t here and you’ll get the confirmation that you’re no better than your mother.

Kit jumped up and rushed over to them.

“Give her to me.” She said, her voice panicked and shaky. She pried the baby off his chest.

“Kit, what the hell?” Robby looked up at her furious and confused.

“She’s my baby too. I’m allowed to hold her.” She snapped as she rushed out of the room. It was the first time Robby didn’t recognize his wife.

The tensions only grew worse over the next few weeks. Robby did his best to be understanding. He tried to give her space and let her work through whatever was going on.

“Can you just clean up after yourself, honestly!” Kit snapped as she tossed Robby’s coffee mug into the dishwasher that he had left in the sink.

“Kit, I put it down for a second. I was going back for it.” His shoulders were tensed.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Kit scoffed.

“I’m tired of this. Can you tell me what I can do right?” Robby snapped.

“Don’t yell at me.”

“You don’t stop yelling at me and I have no idea what is happening!” Robby through his hands in the air.

“Just leave me alone, right now.” Kit hissed.

“Right. I’ll just go spend every waking moment with our baby that can’t hold a conversation yet. Fine.” He knew he shouldn’t have said it. But he did it anyway.

“If you don’t want to spend time with your daughter, why did you knock me up then!?” Kit barked.

“I’m not doing this.” Robby turned and stomped off.

Robby was at his wits end. He was trying so hard to help her. Any time he broached the subject, Kit brushed him off or bit his head off.

Kit could feel herself slipping away. She felt herself turning into something different. It was dark and heavy and she couldn’t figure out how to fight it. She knew that this wasn’t rare, but she didn’t think it would happen to her.

The late nights and early mornings were getting to her. She just needed some sleep, she told herself.

She stood rocking the baby in the living room, standing by the window to get some sunlight. Abby was cooing and wriggling in her arms. Kit watched her face scrunch up and test it’s flexibility. She should be enthralled, Kit thought. But she was indifferent.

Robby walked into the room, watching her stare down at Abby. The look on her face was disconcerting. He walked up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“She’s getting so animated with her face.” He hummed.

“She’s supposed to by now.” Kit’s voice was monotone.

“It’s fun to watch it happen, though.” Robby rubbed her shoulder.

“I need a shower.” Kit passed the baby off to him.  

“Kit?” Robby called after her.

“What?” She snapped.

“I know it’s hard. But you’re doing really well.” Robby smiled. Kit watched him for a long, silent moment. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She shook her head and left.

The baby monitor crackled with soft sounds that lulled Robby awake. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked over to find himself alone in the bed. He was going to roll over and sleep when he heard the sounds again. It was soft, but the sobs of his wife had him up and out of the bedroom quick.

He walked into the nursery to find Kit in her rocking chair, the baby nursing in her arms. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

“Kitty, what’s wrong?” Robby fumbled his way over to her. “Is it painful? I can get that massage thing.” He moved to get up but Kit grabbed his wrist.

“I can’t do this, Michael.” She sobbed.

“What are you talking about?” Robby knelt down in front of her.

“I can’t…it’s too much. I might…I might hate her. I don’t want to hate her.” Kit sobbed. Robby’s heart stopped in his chest. The pain she’d been keeping to herself to spare them was breaking her.

“Honey. When…when did this start?” He brushed a stray hair from her face.

“I don’t know. I just keep having these thoughts, horrible thoughts. I hate who I am. It’s miserable.” Kit sobbed. The baby finished feeding and Robby took her and settled her in her crib.

“It’s okay. This happens. Everyone has scary thoughts, it doesn’t mean you hate her.” Robby put his hands on her knees.

“I-I’m turning into my mother.” Kit cried. Robby wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her head.

“You are not your mother. You’re not. We’re going to get through this. You just need some help. We’ll figure this out.” He promised and Kit sobbed, her hands clawing at his shirt, desperate for escape.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” her voice was raw. She wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to at this point. Maybe Robby, maybe the baby or perhaps herself.

“Shhh. You’re okay. You don’t need to apologize.” Robby held her tight to his chest. “Let’s go to bed. You need some sleep.” He pulled her to her feet, guiding her back to their bed. Her emotions taking their toll caused her to pass out the second her head hit the pillow.

Robby sat up all night looking up the best ways to help and the best therapists in Pittsburgh. He sent emails, pulling on every favor owed to him to get her in somewhere.

Dr. Robinavitch,

I’m sorry to hear of your wife’s struggles. This is very common and, unfortunately, rarely discussed. I want to ease some potential grief that you’re feeling and let you know that it’s hard to differentiate the signs of postpartum from exhaustion; you didn’t miss anything.

I would be more than willing to see Katherine this week. I understand the urgency this case has for you. I have personally dealt with postpartum myself and can understand how quickly it can escalate. If she is willing to come on Thursday, I have an opening at 1pm. I will tentatively schedule it for her.

Please let her know that this isn’t a failure or defect in her. That’s the most important thing you can do for her.

Sincerely,

Dr. Joanna Groff.

The morning light was harsh, unwelcome this morning. It felt nagging. Kit rolled over to find the bed empty. She groaned as she got up, her tits hurt, her head hurt, her body ached. She thought she would start to feel better once Abby was born, but she felt worse than ever.

She walked to the nursery, pulling her robe close to her to fight the cool air. She stood in the doorway, watching Robby hold their daughter. His big arms enveloped her tiny body. She looked so small in his embrace.

“Mama is so good to you. We just need to help her a little. We’re going to take care of her just like she takes care of us.” He hummed to the baby, bringing her close and kissing her soft hair.

Kit’s chest tightened and twisted. She felt so much from those words. She wanted to revel in the beauty of them. She wanted to be comforted by his care. But she couldn’t fight the feeling of failure. She couldn’t stop her mind from spiraling and her mother’s words ringing in her head.

“You think you can do better? Please! You’re no better than me, you’re just like me.”

She couldn’t stifle the sob. It echoed into the nursery. Robby whipped around, surprised to see her and the tears streaming down her face. He put the baby down and gathered her up in his arms.

“You’re okay.” He murmured into her hair.

“I’m just like her.” She whispered.

“Nope, not even a little. Come here,” Robby pulled her to the living room and sat her on the couch. He knelt in front of her, holding her face in his hands.

“She told me that I was no better than her, the day Abby was born. I fought her, but maybe she was right.” Kit shook her head.

“No, she’s never been right about you. Kitty, you are so much more than your mother could ever be.” Robby brushed the tears from her cheeks.

“I know you think you’re failing right now, but you’re not. Your mother would never be this upset; she wouldn’t care the way you do. You care so much, it’s too much for you right now. That’s okay. I’m not letting you drown.” He told her, holding her shaking hands in his.

“What if I can’t get out of this?” She couldn’t look at him.

“I’m not letting that happen. I pulled some favors, I got you in with Dr. Groff. She’s the best in the state. She’s gone through this too, she’s going to help us. I’m getting you whatever you need, okay?”

“Okay. Okay.” She shook her head; her body couldn’t stop shaking.

“I love you so much.” He wrapped her up in his arms, Kit clung on to him for dear life.

Kit hadn’t realized it until she was in the parking lot of Dr. Groff’s office, but that was the first time she had left the house for herself since Abby was born. The world felt foreign, scarier. Her hands shook as she opened the car door and made her way inside.

“Hello, how can I help you?” The receptionist’s bright smile didn’t help Kit’s nerves.

“I have an appointment at 1 pm with Dr. Groff. Should be under Robinavitch.” She cleared her throat.

“Of Course. She’s finishing up with her last appointment. I’ll let you know when she’s ready.” Kit nodded and sat in the plastic cushioned chair. The waiting room was sterile. The pictures on the wall were stock photos of plants. The magazines on the side table taunted her with headlines like; How to relearn self-love, 6 ways to a happier mindset, You steer the ship: how to take control of your decisions.

“Mrs. Robinavitch, she’s ready.” The Receptionist smiled. She got up and walked into the office. She was shocked to see how different Dr. Groff’s office was from the waiting room. There was a colorful rug on the floor, the furniture was soft and pillowy, and the walls were covered in beautiful art. There was a warmth to it.

“Mrs. Robinavtich, have a seat.” The woman was in her mid-fifties, her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. Her clothes were loose and airy. Her top was an earthy green and her pants a deep maroon. Her glasses sat on the tip of her nose, just above a kind smile.

“It’s Dr. Robinavitch, actually.” Kit cleared her throat as she sat on the couch.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were both doctors. I’ll make a note of that in your file.” She nodded as she scribbled something on her notebook.

“It gets confusing. Katherine is fine.” Her body was tense, and she was trying to make herself as small as possible.

“I bet. What is your specialty?”

“EM, like Michael. Same department at PTMC. I just go by Dr. R and he’s Dr. Robby. Still causes some confusion with the med students.”

“Well, it’s not hard to confuse them.” Groff chuckled.

“True.”

“Shall we get down to it?” Groff gave a soft smile, trying to encourage Kit.

“I guess. I’m not sure where to start?” Kit gave a nervous laugh.

“Wherever feels most comfortable for now.”

“Right.” Kit bit at her nails. “I guess, I started having these…thoughts about a week after Abby was born.”

“Abby is your daughter?”

“Yes. Abigail.”

“That’s a nice name. After anyone?”

“Michael’s grandmother. She raised him, it meant a lot to him.”

“What a wonderful memorial. How old is Abby?”

“She’s five weeks.”

“How long is your maternity leave?”

“Eleven weeks. Michael’s paternity leave is only eight.”

“So, he’ll be going back soon. That’s scary.”

“I guess. It’ll be different.”

“Do you want to tell me about your thoughts?”

“Want to? No. But I have to, I think.”

“Why do you have to?”

“Because they’re eating me alive and I feel like Michael just can’t understand. He tries, believe me. He’s a man at the end of the day.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well…he didn’t go through all of it, physically. I had carried her, I was so sick. The worst morning sickness, almost had to be hospitalized. But I never cared. I loved her so much from the moment I found out I was pregnant. Then I went through labor and birth, it was so hard.”

“Was it a traumatic birth?”

“No. Not any more than usual.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“All birth is trauma. It’s your insides being ripped apart. It’s your body changing violently against your will. It’s your child being ripped from you. It’s pain and fear and violence and too many emotions.”

“Some women find it to be beautiful. You don’t feel that way?”

“No. I don’t. There were moments during labor, at least. Michael holding me and keeping me safe. It was nice when we talked about the future. But once it reached a point when it was relentless, it wasn’t beautiful.”

“What about when you saw her for the first time?”

“I was scared.”

“Why?”

“Well, she didn’t cry at first. The doctor and nurses had to help her and she wasn’t on my chest like all the other mothers talked about. I thought something was wrong. I couldn’t move to help; I was in so much pain. But I was too scared to move.”

“That would be terrifying. But she was okay.”

“Yeah, it only lasted 20 seconds. They put her in my arms, and she was so beautiful. I loved her so much. But…” Kit couldn’t get the words out.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

“I’ve never even told Michael this.” Her hands were shaking again.

“I’m not Michael. Everything you say to me stays with me.”

“I know. It’s a lot to say out loud.”

“I think you need to say it out loud.”

“When they put her in my arms, after a minute, I wasn’t interested in her at all. I wanted to push her off of me.” Kit couldn’t stop the sobs. Groff handed her a box of tissues.

“Katherine. It’s normal. Everything you’re feeling is normal.”

“I faked it. Every time someone came in the room, I plastered a smile on my face and pretended like I was beside myself with joy. But I was drowning and couldn’t find the words.”

“We’re going to find the words here, together.”

“I love her. I know I do. But I might hate her too.”

“Why do you think you hate her?”

“She cries and my body just gets so tense it hurts. I hold her and look at her, and half my brain thinks she is so beautiful, and the other half is annoyed at her presence. Sometimes, it’s just disinterest.”

“Katherine, what you’re feeling is just normal emotions. Do you have violent thoughts?”

“No. But…Michael was holding her once, and I thought how much better he was at this than me. How he was going to realize I’m a bad mother and leave, and I’d be relieved.”

“I see.”

“I’m crazy.”

“No one is crazy. You are exceptionally normal, I’m afraid.”

“I get it from my mother.”

“Tell me about your mother?”

“She hates me. She’s told me. She had kids because she thought she had to, not because she wanted to. Every time we talk, she tells me how disappointed in me she is. She doesn’t like my life.”

“How did your mother react when you told her you were pregnant?”

“She laughed at me, told me that I wasn’t mother material.”

“That must have hurt.”

“Yeah, but I’m used to it.”

“What do you do when your mother says these things to you?”

“I tell Michael. He counters her, talks me off the figurative ledge. Most of the time, her words just annoy me. I don’t hold much importance to them.”

“Okay. I want you to try something for me this week. When you have these thoughts that upset you, that feel bad, I want you to tell them to Michael like it’s your mother saying them. Take those thoughts and put them into your mother’s voice. Take the importance away from them, like you do with your mother. Do you think we can try that?”

“I can try.”

“You took a big step today, Katherine. It was a lot, you’re going to be tired. It’s okay. You need rest. Let yourself rest. Be kind to yourself as we figure this out. Healing is not linear; there will be good days and bad days. I want us to meet once a week for now. I’m going to keep this time for you.”

“Okay. Thank you. Thank you.” Kit wiped the tears from her face.

“I’m here if you need me. I’ll see you next week.” Groff smiled.

Kit sat in the driveway for a while. She lost track of time. Her mind felt lighter than it had in weeks, months, even. She took a deep breath before she moved to go into the house.

Michael was cooking, humming to the soft music playing, Abby strapped to his chest. He hadn’t heard her come in yet. She stood in the doorway, letting the sight sink in.

“You look good like that.” She smiled. Michael jumped, looking at her and softening as he saw how relaxed she looked, how she looked more like herself.

“Back at you.” He hummed. Kit walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around him and the baby.

“Thank you.” She kissed his shoulder.

“You don’t have to thank me for doing what’s needed.” He said as he stirred the pasta sauce.

“I know. But some men would have just let me drown. You didn’t. You took care of me, even when I didn’t make it easy.” She buried her face in his back.

“I’ll do whatever you need, Kitty. You are the love of my life. You’re my wife. You and Abby are all that matter.” He turned around and held her face in his hands.

“You’re all that matters.”  She pulled him down into a deep kiss. Abby started fussing between them.

“Valid, we were squishing you. Sorry, Babygirl.” He laughed and kissed her little head.

“After dinner, I need to tell you some things about therapy.”

“Big things?”

“Heavy, yeah.”

“Alright. Food, then feelings.” He kissed her cheek.

[thesylenttreatment01]

Broke Sylus??!!?

Okay, so this is a literal weird shower thought I got while listening to Elton Johns "Your Song" but like... what if Sylus, our known Mr. Rich-don't-look-at-the-price-tags, got his assets frozen?

Something happened, someone got a tip, several forces teamed up together, he forgot his banking information, but for some reason or another Sylus can't access a large portion of his funds and can't use any of his many bases. He has no money or very little-- nothing but the stylish shirts on his back and his ingenuity.

I think that this idea could be wonderfully delicious because while he is trying to fix the issue to regain control of his fortune- Sylus needs to live frugal.

AND who is the only trusted poor person he knows who lives in a small shoe box apartment in Linkon? Ah, its you.

He tries to hide it at first I think-- phrasing it like he just misses you sweetie, and does he really need an excuse to come see you?

But then one night turns into two, then three, and so on. Its been a week or two and he still hasn't gone home. And, its not that you don't like having Sylus around, on the contrary, its kinda nice to have his stupid body heat curled up to you at night.

But he just seems out of place and uncomfortable... Definitely irritated.

That cabinet that hit him? Its back with a vengeance.

Your kitchen? Apparently inspires claustrophobia.

Your Plushies? Always in graphicly morbid or obscene positions when you get home.

That was another thing, Sylus seems to be going stir crazy in your apartment. While he tries to busy himself with figuring out how to get his fortune back, it can only fill so much time in a day. Every time you got home? Sylus was on you. Physically almost suffocating you sometimes with touches, hugs, kisses, and literally just laying his entire weight on you (not the worst way to go you reckon).

But anytime he wasn't physically connected to you, he was doing something. Making food, cleaning the apartment, trying to make repairs around the house (key word trying: this man assembled an entire crow mechanically, and has built and created multiple types of advanced weapons... but that goddamn Ikea table that wabbles. He swears to god, as soon as he gets his fortune back he will be refurbishing your apartment )

It wasn't bad per say, You appreciated him. But this was a far cry away from the man who would sit and read. Who's apathetic smirks and smug expressions were instead laced with a level of hyperactivity that was making YOU itchy for him.

Finally you sit him down and ask him about it. You ask him why he isn't at his many bases, why he wasn't insisting that YOU come to the N109 zone like he always had.

He deflects, getting irritated as to why you had so many questions. Weren't you the one always complaining about the commute sweetie? He was simply returning the favor. Did you not want him there?

You feel irritation as he starts to lash out at you. But you know Sylus. You know the man you've been literally bound to. He wouldn't be this angry if there wasn't something going on and you remind him of such.

He grows quiet. Too quiet. You can see the adam's apple in his throat start to bob as he clears his throat. He can't look at you. Not in the eyes.

Finally, he scoffs, “Your cabinet hit me again this morning. I think it’s developing a vendetta.”

His coin falls into his palm as he mindlessly starts flipping coin tricks as if by instinct.

“And your plumbing,” he continues, as if giving a battlefield report. “ -- it makes this sound at exactly 2:47 am every night that I can only assume is a call to arms , or possibly a mating call. I'm still waiting to hear if the sink reports back"

He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. “The refrigerator bulb flickers like it's trying to communicate in Morse code. I believe its saying 'Miss. Hunter, please put me out of my misery' And your thermostat? I’ve seen war zones with better climate control.”

His voice is dry, but there’s something strange underneath it-- some tightness. Like he’s actively trying to keep something from slipping from his lips.

“It’s been weeks, and I still can’t tell if your oven is broken or just rebelling.”

Then, with a humorless smile, “But no--sweetie I'm fine. Everything’s just charming.”

You open your mouth to retort, getting sick of hearing about how screwed up your house was, but he talks right through it.

“I can’t access my funds,” he says, casually, like he’s noting a change in the weather. “Every account, every asset, frozen. My bases flagged. My name redacted from half the databases I built myself.”

He turns to face you finally, but still won’t meet your eyes.

“So unless your couch has a pension plan I’m unaware of, I’m currently surviving on your instant ramen and the slow erosion of my dignity.”

And there it was. The bombshell. The pin that finally dropped to the floor as the grenade was cast across the room. Finally it all made sense. The frantic nature, the endless sleep over, and the bitter remarks and irritability. Sylus wasn't irritated. He was scared. Maybe for the first time in his life, control had been taken from the man who controlled it all.

You tried to meet his eyes, but he still refused to meet your gaze. The silence stretched out, with three seconds feeling like hour. Finally, after a moment of respect. You don't say a word. Sylus starts to feel the tension burn in his chest, like was about to explode in anger, in shame, in fear, in regret and --

the sound of your heels thumped against the wood floor. Suddenly, a rush of pressured wrapped around around his shoulders as you hung from him, embracing him. You knew there wasn't anything you could say to make Sylus feel better. In fact, you were pretty sure words would only irritate him. But now you knew. You knew this secret that he had been probably carrying around for weeks alone. The pain and the fear that he had probably felt for the first time in a long time. So you don't say anything. You don't fill the room with empty words and apologies. You just embrace him you pull him down slightly to your level as you try and rest his chin on your shoulder and you run your fingers through his hair.

Sylus stiffened under the sudden pressure. He wasn't sure what he was expecting from you. In fact frankly, he half expected you to start yelling at him. Maybe an apology or two. But this.

This was just what he needed. He needed you.

He slowly relaxed as he bent down further into your arms and nuzzled into your shoulder. He could try for the rest of his life, but he didn't know if he could ever really express to you how much he needed that hug. You stand there together for a few moments. Time froze as the unspoken words that he dared not to say were finally voiced, and that fear of the unknown, the endless possibilities of your reaction: rejection? Of anger? Of fear? all moot while he was in your arms.

From that point forward, you decide to help Sylus learn to live more on the cheaper side of things. Sylus, now learns that to him, your just Miss. Hunter. But to others? You are known as Miss. Bargain Hunter

First rule of living cheap: Brand names are off the table. Any time you can find Honey Nut Loops instead of Cheerios is a good day. ("sweetie, I'm broke, not dead... but I'm certain anything that calls itself a loop will kill me")

Second rule of living cheap: Just because something is on sale, doesn't mean its cheap!!!! ("SYLUS?!!?? YOU CANNOT BUY A 300 DOLLAR JACKET!" "Kitten, aren't you always telling me I have to look for bargains everywhere? Use my opportunistic nature? This was originally a thousand dollars, that's basically as predatory as it gets. Besides, you needed a new coat" *proceeds to bonk some sense into the crow*)

Third rule of living cheap: If you craving something to eat? Keep your Crimson eyes headed towards the door. Anything they can make in a restaurant, we probably have at home (this one Sylus doesn't seem to protest as much. Sylus actually popular to the contrary enjoys cooking meals especially if you two do it together)

Despite the challenges, Sylus adapts fairly well even though he bitches the entire way along. With a little more penny pinching, a lot more coffee, and endless nights spent trying to break his way back into his own bank account, Sylus might come out of this yet.

However, despite the fact that Sylus was no longer hemorrhage cash, he was still bleeding pretty badly from what he would tell you. So one night you pull open an spreadsheet and have him pull open his credit card reports to go through his spending habits to see how you could fix it.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of your tiny apartment, surrounded by receipts, statements, and a near-empty bottle of wine sitting between two glasses. Sylus is sprawled on the couch, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he uses a neon yellow highlighter to mark one-time expenses

“Okay,” you say, tapping through the PDF print outs. “We’ve got your emergency backup account, which has… wow, just under $11,000. Honestly better than I thought. You’re doing great.”

He grunts, seemingly unconvinced.

“But there’s a recurring expense. Thousand bucks a month. You didn’t mention that. What’s it for?”

Silence.

You glance back to the couch from your laptop. Sylus seems to be reinvigorated and suddenly very interested in highlighting different things (totally not drawing you as a kitten yelling at him).

“Sylus,” you say flatly.

“It’s nothing important, Sweetie” he mutters.

“You’re bleeding money, Sy. If it’s not important, we need to cut it.”

“No.” The word snaps out sharper, final, much more commanding than he means it to. “It stays.”

You blink. “You’re literally broke and you’re protecting a thousand-dollar line item?”

He exhales slowly, hand dragging down his face. “…It’s for Luke and Kieran”

You pause, staring back at him.

“They’ve got a small place. I’ve been covering it since this mess started.” He finally meets your eyes, expression unreadable. “I sent them to check on a threat to one of our investment facilities. I told them I was working off-grid and not to contact me unless it was urgent. They think I’m fine. I want it to stay that way.”

You stare at him a moment longer, heart twisting.

“So while you’ve been sleeping on my couch, eating dollar ramen and trying to murder my cabinet… you’ve been making sure they were okay?”

He shrugs, too casual. “Well, Kitten, as glamours as your lifestyle maybe, I didn’t think you had room for three freeloaders.”

You had wondered about the twins. You feared to ask, Sylus has been extremely secretive about this entire incident and you feared that asking too many questions might cause Sylus to shut you out again. Since Onychinus still seemed to be up and working, you had figured that the twins were okay, probably still employed but working for someone or somewhere else. You figured it was a touchy subject.

But you had no idea how touchy it had been.

The realization washes over you. No, it doesn't wash over you, it crashes over you like a tidal wave as his words settle on you. Sylus, the biggest and baddest criminal almost in the world-- he always took care of everyone else.

Here he was, cutting back on expenses, buying off-brand oatmeal (you couldn't convince him the cereal was safe), swallowing his pride, sacrificing his privacy and comfort and did all of this silently. He was sitting here worried about his finances and growing tired with stress but held it all together that the people he cared about, and dare I say loved, wouldn't worry.

And that realization coils low in your stomach, heat curling around your spine with unsettling precision.

Because, of course.

Of course he would still be taking care of someone else.

You close your laptop and push it gently aside as you shift toward him. You climb into his lap without hesitation, your knees bracketing his hips, sliding your arms around his neck.

He looks up at you, slightly startled, until your lips graze his with a feather-light touch.

“You’re insane,” you whisper against his mouth.

Before he can counter with some dry or snarky, you press a kiss to his lips--slow and deep, like you’re trying to memorize the shape of his mouth all over again.

His body melts slightly as he leans into your touch, exhaling into it, hands already finding your waist, grounding himself in the only thing he doesn’t feel like he’s losing.

As you break for just a moment of air, your teeth grazing the bottom of his lips you gently push back with your finger over his lips

“I'll let you keep your monthly expense,” you say firmly. “ But only under one condition. And you won't argue with me about it. Because I will win.”

His lips curl up into an amused smirk. “Kitten-"

“Half, Sylus.”

You meet his gaze dead-on. “If you're keeping them housed, I'm paying half. You don’t get to carry the world alone anymore.”

Silence. Then that familiar twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll start sending the money directly to Luke and Kieran myself, and let them know why.”

He groans, grabbing your hand and pulling you flush against his chest, “Emotional blackmail. You’re learning the ropes quickly Sweetie”

“You maybe a great teacher,” you murmur, leaning in pressing a small kiss to his lips. “But I'm a better student”

You decide that you had done enough budgeting for the night as you both find... some completely free activities to engage in that evening. You even tease Sylus reminding him that some of the most fun a person can have can be free.

It took time, frankly more time than Sylus expected, but he eventually recovered access to his funds. Bit by bit, the pieces of his life were restored--falling back into place piece by piece: his accounts reopened, his assets unfrozen, and his name returned to the networks that once again feared to whisper it.

He never said much about how he pulled it off, and you didn’t press. Whatever strings he had to pull, cut, dislocate, or blow up....those were his business.

But something had changed.

He still grumbled every time you dragged him to discount stores and held up two nearly identical sweaters asking which was cheaper. He still looked personally insulted by off-brand anything.

But, despite his looks, his groans, and little sarcastic comments.

Sylus never forgot that strange, cramped season of his life, when the world stopped listening to him, but you never stopped holding him.

And if he ever hadn’t gotten it all back?

Well.

He figures he would’ve been just fine. He is adaptable. But more importantly, it was because even in a shoebox apartment with store-brand cereal and flickering lightbulbs, he’d had something money couldn’t buy.

You

The fierce protection of Miss. Bargain Hunter

This was fun!!! Idk why, but I really love the change in dynamics and the idea of Sylus having to learn to live like a commoner XD XD but yeah XD have a good day

[sweetpeaaquarius]

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

His to Lose

Pairing: Azriel x Mate f!reader

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

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

Word count: 11,440

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

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

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

He searched. He waited. He hoped.

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

He couldn’t keep doing it.

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

False hope, dressed in sweat and shadow.

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

Had he done something to deserve this?

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

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

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

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

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

Someone who didn’t flinch at the silence. 

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

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

He told himself he deserved this.

The silence.

The cold bed.

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

Not him. Never him.

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

Until he met her.

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

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

Then he saw her.

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

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

Her gaze softened. Her head tilted, just slightly.

She felt it too.

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

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

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

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

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

Azriel didn’t respond right away.

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

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

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

So he followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped and turned.

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

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

He faltered. His voice roughened.

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

She didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t stop, but she slowed.

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped.

The forest held still.

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

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

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

Azriel’s heart splintered a little more.

“No talking,” he promised.

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

He gathered her gently, lifting her without a word.

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

Not of him.

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t respond.

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

He held her a little closer.

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

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

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

“Thank you,” she said, voice thin. 

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

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

She began to ramble. Not nervously, not exactly.

Just fast.

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

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

She noticed.

Her voice slowed. Her brow creased.

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

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

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

He didn’t deny it.

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

She stepped in close again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re almost there,” Azriel whispered.

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

He felt it, the moment her breath caught.

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

She said nothing.

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

Not at first.

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

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

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

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

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

Then came footsteps.

She tensed beside him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassian smirked. “Hello, beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

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

A silent request.

Come with me.

He followed without hesitation.

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

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

“Please,” he said, gesturing.

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

Rhys waited patiently.

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

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

He was watching her.

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

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

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

Brilliant. Unafraid.

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

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

She answered before he could finish. Eager.

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

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

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

Azriel blinked. “Memory?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azriel nearly smiled, nearly reached for her.

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

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

She was brilliant. 

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

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

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

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

A comfort he didn’t deserve.

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

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

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

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

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

She exhaled, just slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said quietly.

She exhaled slowly, tension slipping just slightly from her frame. 

“Thank you, Rhys,” she said quietly, stepping closer to Azriel without even realising it.

He opened the door and let her slip through. But before he followed, he caught Rhysand’s gaze. One glance. A look that said, “Be careful,” more than anything else.

The hallway was quiet, washed in soft golden light. Faelight drifted lazily overhead, glowing gently along the polished stone.

They walked in silence. She stayed beside him, shoulder to shoulder, her steps steady but uncertain, like someone testing the depth of still water before diving in.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. His presence was all he could offer her, and even that seemed excessive. The bond softly pulsed, quiet but steady. He tried not to notice it. Not to want.

When he looked at her, he saw the exhaustion deep in her eyes, not just tiredness but years of shrinking herself, contained, as if safety was always conditional.

The House opened a door near the end of the hall.

“Your room,” he said softly. “Mine’s down the hall. If you need anything...” He cleared his throat. “Just knock. Dinner will be ready soon. I can walk you down.”

She paused in the doorway, eyes fixed on the candlelit room, then turned to him.

“Stay?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

Azriel’s heart hammered in his chest.

“Of course,” he said.

The room was quiet and peaceful. A breeze lifted the gauzy curtains at the balcony doors. She walked slowly, her fingers brushing the wood and velvet, then sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap.

Azriel hovered near the doorway, wings folded close. His shadows were steady now, circling his ankles like guards protecting him from the fear of rejection.

“I don’t mean to keep you,” she said, her voice careful. Hesitant.

“You’re not,” Azriel replied, gentler than before. “I wouldn’t have stayed otherwise.”

She nodded, but he saw the flicker in her hands, the nervous curl of her fingers.

A pause.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He nodded.

“You’re the spymaster. The shadowsinger.” Her brow furrowed. “I’ve heard stories, but what does that actually mean?”

He exhaled slowly, stepped into the room, and settled into the chair across from her.

“It means I hear things others don’t. I see what people try to hide. I go where I’m needed, even when no one wants to admit the need is there.”

She watched him closely.

“It sounds lonely,” she said.

Azriel looked away, jaw tightening, his heart pounding harder in his chest.

“It is,” he admitted. “But it’s the only place I’ve ever fit. Sometimes it’s easier to be the ghost in the room than the one trying to be seen. They understand that I need the shadows to feel like I belong.”

“Like Rhysand.”

Azriel nodded. “And Cassian. Feyre. Mor. They’re my family.” 

His eyes drifted back to her. The question caught in his throat, clumsy and uncertain, but he asked anyway, “You avoided looking at Rhys tonight. Was it him or his power?”

She paused.

“Both,” she whispered. “He reminded me of what I’ve tried to forget. That sort of power isn’t always kind.”

Azriel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Rhysand is many things, but cruel isn’t one of them. Still, I understand. Power has teeth. Even when it means well.”

She nodded slowly, then was quiet for a moment, her gaze falling to the floor. 

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible, and she seemed to be considering her words carefully before she spoke. 

“Are you angry with the Mother?”

Azriel blinked, his normally carefully neutral expression shifting, confusion, then concern softening his features.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his chest tightening with each breath.

“That I’m your mate,” she said, still watching her feet swing gently from the edge of the bed. “A stranger.”

Silence followed the end of her sentence. 

A sharp, sudden fury flared in Azriel’s chest. Not at her, but at the thought that she believed she was unworthy of him.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, a cold sound that made her lift her head, startled, meeting his eyes at last.

“I have prayed to the Mother for my mate for centuries,” he said, voice rough, almost trembling. “And now that I’ve met you, I want to fall to my knees and thank her. The Cauldron. The Mother. You.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came, just a stillness.

“You’re not a stranger,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’re mine.”

The bond shimmered between them, an invisible tether, but undeniable like a heartbeat echoing through them both.

“I don’t need time to believe that,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll give you as much of it as you need.”

Her eyes were wide and glassy, something fragile and unspoken flickering within them. “Thank you,” she whispered.

A soft bell chimed through the quiet room.

“Dinner’s ready,” Azriel said, reluctantly breaking the moment.

“Should I change?” she asked, glancing down at the fitted robes that clung to her like a second skin.

Azriel’s eyes followed her movement. His shadows curled tighter around him, as if they too noticed how easily she’d settled into his space. How quickly she’d become the only thing in it.

“No,” he said, eyes snapping back to hers. “You look beautiful.”

Her lips parted again, surprise, maybe, or something deeper. Then she turned, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity’s mirror and froze.

A horrified sound escaped her throat. “You were going to let me meet the inner circle looking like this?”

Azriel blinked. “Like what?”

She spun toward the bathing chamber, hands flying to the wind-tossed braids tangled atop her head. “Like a half-blown thistle in the middle of a storm,” she muttered. “Cauldron boil me—”

He followed, lingering in the doorway as she fumbled at the intricate, now-messy braids. Her hair, a rich, silky brown, had loosened into chaotic waves that still somehow managed to look radiant, and still, she scowled at it.

“Azriel,” she said, and his name on her lips felt like a blessing. He straightened. Every nerve ending alive.

“Help me.”

It wasn’t a request; it was a command. Clear. Firm. Completely unfazed by the fact that they were barely more than strangers.

He stepped behind her as she leaned forward over the marble vanity. His hands, glowing faintly with blue siphon light, reached toward her hair.

The strands slid between his gloved fingers like silk. He tried to focus on the knots, the soft, silky feel of the strands, anything but the way her scent now surrounded him, soft, wild, and maddeningly sweet, like wildflowers after a storm.

She stilled beneath his touch. Slowly, unknowingly, she began to lean into it.

He worked with delicate precision, fingers grazing the nape of her neck as he unravelled each braid. Her breath hitched once so softly it could’ve been imagined, but then she bit her lip, as if catching a sound before it could escape.

His jaw tightened.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Instead, she sighed softly, reluctant, as his fingers brushed through the last few strands.

He lingered.

Just a moment too long.

Then she stepped back, lifting her hood, hair now cascading in soft waves down to her waist. She studied her reflection in the mirror, satisfied.

Azriel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She shifted slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror, and there it was again, that quiet, unspoken look, as if she’d already lived inside his bones long before they’d met.

His voice was low, reverent. “You’re… breathtaking.”

She said nothing, but her eyes softened, like maybe she would’ve said the same.

Somehow, it seemed like they’d done this a hundred times before, stood like this. Touched like this. As if the bond had always been there, waiting.

As if this moment had been written into the lines of their skin.

The walk to the dining room was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Azriel stayed close, not touching, but near enough that his presence felt like armour.

The House lit the halls in warm gold, shadows trailing them like whispers. He could feel her tension, the faint stiffness in her shoulders.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She glanced up, wide eyes flicking to his face. There was a question on her lips, but before she could ask, they crossed the threshold into the dining room.

Voices. Laughter. The clink of silverware and glass.

Then silence.

Eight pairs of eyes turned to her.

She paled.

Azriel instinctively shifted, placing himself slightly in front of her, not shielding, but ready. A silent message: she’s not a curiosity.

Before he could speak, Mor stood and crossed the room, all warmth and velvet.

“I’m Morrigan,” she said, her voice all velvet and strength. “Call me Mor.”

“Y/N,” his mate replied. Soft. Controlled.

Azriel noted the tension in her posture, but she didn’t shy away.

Mor led her into the room gently, introducing her to the others, and Azriel watched his shadows trail after her, drawn not by command but by instinct.

Across the table, Rhys and Cassian shared grins, knowing and teasing. He ignored them and headed for the wine decanter. He poured two glasses, one for himself, one for her.

She was already seated between Mor and Amren when he came back, her hood down, face revealed. Her fingers fiddled with the stem of her robes.

She glanced up at him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Azriel’s fingers briefly brushed her shoulder, grounding her or maybe him. Then he took his seat opposite her, next to Feyre and Rhys, who were watching him like they didn’t recognise him.

Conversation resumed, cautiously at first. Mor and Amren flanked her like shields, sunlight and steel. To his surprise, Elain leaned forward, asking a soft question about her robes. 

She responded calmly about her role in the temple, explaining how she’d be staying to study the mountain’s wards and ancient script. Her voice remained steady, but Azriel could sense the frayed edge through the bond. She was coping, but just.

“I mentioned to Nesta,” Rhys said casually, “that you might be interested in Valkyrie training.”

Across the table, Nesta, who had barely spared a glance at her until now, perked up, eyes narrowing not with scepticism, but something closer to interest.

“Oh?” Nesta leaned forward slightly, wine glass in hand. “You’ve trained before?”

“Some,” his mate replied, lips curving just a bit. “I don’t want to intrude… but I wouldn’t mind learning more.”

Nesta’s eyes brightened, not mocking or challenging, but engaged. Azriel blinked, surprised by how warm Nesta’s tone was, how different this was from the usual ice she wore like armour.

“Well,” Nesta said, voice edged with something almost like approval, “we train every morning. You’re welcome to join us.”

Azriel lifted a brow. Cassian did too. Neither of them missed it, Nesta Archeron being friendly on a first meeting.

His mate hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I’d like that,” she said softly.

Nesta gave a single approving nod and turned back to her water.

Azriel leaned back, trying not to stare, but Cassian was already smirking behind his glass.

What in the Mother’s name was happening tonight?

Then she glanced toward Azriel. Just a flick of her eyes, but he saw the tension behind them, the subtle wear, the quiet strain.

He gave her what he could. Not a touch, not a word, just his shadows, curling beneath the table and brushing lightly against her fingers.

She welcomed them.

Let them twine through her fingers like silk. Her eyes dropped to them briefly, as if she could see them, feel them in some deeper way. She twirled her fingers, letting the threads of darkness dance between them.

Then, she smiled. Maybe at something Mor had said, but her gaze always found his again, as it always did.

As if it needed to.

As if he needed her to look at him that way.

Azriel leaned forward and silently refilled her glass before his own, ignoring the stares and smirks it earned him. When new dishes were passed around, he reached for them first, sliding them closer to her, gesturing with just his eyes to the ones she might want.

She responded in kind: subtle glances, small nods or shakes of her head. A private language they hadn’t learned, but already knew.

As the evening wore on and conversation turned mellow with wine-sweetened fatigue, chairs scraped softly against the stone floor. Laughter grew quieter, warmer. Slowly, the others drifted deeper into the House of Wind.

Azriel stood, glancing once at Cassian, who was smirking.

He crossed to her, where she sat beside Mor with the last sip of wine cradled in her hand. He brushed a finger over her shoulder.

Her head turned, cheeks flushed. “More wine, or...?”

“I think I need rest,” she said softly, rising.

Mor leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Azriel didn’t catch the words, but he saw the flush in her cheeks and how she didn’t look at him after.

Together, they gave their thank-yous and slipped from the room, the whispers and curious glances following behind them.

Azriel stayed close beside her. Not touching, but near enough that their hands brushed now and then.

“I think they like you,” he said.

She huffed a soft laugh. “I think I survived.”

“You did more than that. Nesta invited you to train. That’s her version of a love letter.”

Her laugh came again, softer this time, unguarded. God, that sound he’d memorise if he could.

They reached her room. The door opened quietly, candlelight flickering inside already. His shadows moved with her now, as if she called to them.

She paused in the doorway, turning slowly. Hesitation flickered in her eyes, and he could almost see the thoughts shifting behind them, quiet and uncertain.

Azriel tilted his head, voice low. “Tell me. I can feel it, you want to say something.”

Her eyes flicked to his, uncertain. “I just…” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to be this. For you. A mate.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how not to mess it up.”

His heart fluttered, not out of fear, but recognition. He’d felt that way before, too, like he might mess it up before it even started.

“You’re not messing anything up,” he said, stepping closer. “There’s no version of you I was waiting for. You’re it. Already.”

She looked up, eyes wide and wary. “But you’re Azriel, The Spymaster. The Shadowsinger.” 

She paused before continuing. “I don’t know who I am without the Temple, without the priestesses. I don’t know if that’s enough for someone like you.”

He didn’t answer right away. How could he explain that most days, he still felt like he was trying to earn his place? Even now, standing here with her, he doubted himself.

“I don’t expect you to have answers,” he said gently. “I’m still learning too.”

The bond between them thrummed, soft and steady, like it was listening.

“If you need time,” he added, quieter now, “I’ll wait. If you need space, I’ll give it. But if you ever need to leave…” His voice caught. “Just tell me first.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with everything unsaid.

“I’m not going to leave,” she whispered.

His eyes didn’t waver. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

She nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting to a near smile. 

“Goodnight, Azriel.”

He hesitated. His shadows curled tighter at his feet. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her, gently, final. Still, the bond tugged at him through the wood. Faint. Present.

He lingered a moment longer, hand clenched at his side, as if letting go of her entirely might unravel something inside him. 

He turned, and there Rhysand stood at the end of the hall, cloaked in darkness. 

Azriel expected him, walked towards him, and stopped a few paces away.

“You waited,” Azriel said flatly.

Rhys crossed his arms. “Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d let that dinner end without a conversation?”

Azriel said nothing.

They walked away from her door, into the hush of the House.

Rhys glanced sideways at him, all High Lord calm and brotherly patience. “So?”

Azriel didn’t look away. “She’s my mate.”

The words rang out like a vow. As if speaking them made them real, permanent.

Rhys nodded slowly. No surprise. Only understanding in his eyes.

“I figured,” he said.

Azriel exhaled. “It snapped into place like lightning, and now it hums in my bones. Like I’ve known her forever.”

“And her?”

“She’s scared,” Azriel said. “But I think she trusts me.”

Rhys studied him for a long moment. Then a small smile curved his mouth.

“She’ll be good for you. That dinner—” he shook his head. “It’s the most alive I’ve seen you in years. I hope she stays.”

Azriel nodded, voice quiet. “I hope so, too.”

A moment went by before Rhys slapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Get some rest, brother. You’ve waited a long time for this.”

Azriel gave a tight nod and turned to leave, but he already knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not with every thread of the bond still humming with her name.

The sunrise over Vallaris painted the sky in soft gold and muted lavender. He stood at his window, arms crossed, shadows curling at his feet. Sleep had evaded him for days, but with her now under this roof, he doubted it would return anytime soon.

He’d risen early, earlier than usual. Arranged for the twins to deliver breakfast to her room: fresh pastries, fruits, strong coffee, and a selection of books he thought she might like. He didn’t expect her to join them for training, not yet. He wanted her to rest. To settle in. To feel safe.

So when Nesta asked where she was, voice sharp with expectation, Azriel’s only answer had been, “She needs time.”

Cassian gave Nesta a pointed look, and the subject was dropped.

The training ring filled slowly. Gwyn arrived first, followed by Roslin, Ilana, Deirdre, and Ananke. Then Emerie, quiet and focused, took her place beside Nesta.

They greeted him politely. Soft smiles. Gwyn gave him the same warm look she always did. Once, that smile might have meant something. Now, he could barely hold it.

He hardly noticed any of them, because in his mind, she was still curled in bed, maybe reading or sleeping. He hoped she was resting. Hoped she liked the books. Hoped she knew he was thinking of her, always.

He didn’t expect the sound of footsteps behind him. Didn’t expect the soft scent of her, flowers and something warmer, carried on the wind. Then she was beside him.

Dressed in flowing midnight-blue Night Court robes, the hem brushing the training mat. Her hair was half-pinned, half-tousled from sleep. A steaming mug of coffee in her hands.

She didn’t speak right away, just sipped her coffee and looked out over the ring like she’d been there all her life.

“You didn’t wake me,” she said, eyes finally meeting his.

“I didn’t want to rush you,” he replied, voice quiet.

There was a pause. Something gentle flickered between them.

“I liked the books,” she said, a little softer.

“I hoped you would.”

She sat on the bench just beside him, her shoulder brushing his thigh for the briefest moment. Across the ring, Nesta offered a short wave. She returned it with a warm smile that looked far too familiar for someone who’d only met them the day before.

Cassian glanced at Azriel from across the mats. Said nothing, just offered him a knowing look.

Azriel didn’t return it. He couldn’t. Not when she was sitting beside him like this, as though her presence hadn’t tilted the ground he stood on.

He turned slightly, just enough that his shadows shifted between them, reaching, gently. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her hand, still wrapped around the mug, brushed against them like she welcomed them. She welcomed him.

For a moment, Azriel thought, if this was what mornings would look like with her, even just sometimes, it might undo him in a way nothing else ever had.

She didn’t move for a while. Just sat beside him, warm coffee in hand, her gaze calm as she watched the priestesses begin their stretches. There was no tension in her posture, but Azriel noticed how her eyes lingered, quietly studying Nesta’s form, the way Emerie adjusted her stance, how Gwyn corrected Deirdre’s alignment with a subtle gesture.

She was watching closely. Not idly.

After a few minutes, she leaned down and opened the small cloth bag she’d brought with her. Inside, a worn book rested between a notebook and a pen, one of the texts he’d asked the twins to bring from the library. Something on ancient wardings. She balanced it easily in her lap, thumbing the corner of a page before looking up again.

“I didn’t want to get in the way,” she said softly, sensing his attention. “But I thought I’d at least observe.”

“You’re never in the way,” Azriel replied without hesitation, barely above a whisper.

She gave him a quiet look at that. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise. Just something softer, and she nodded once, accepting the words like they were a promise.

Azriel turned back to the ring, but he didn’t stop noticing her, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how she absently underlined phrases in her notebook with graceful, practised strokes, how her attention flickered now and then to the footwork being demonstrated in the ring. Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words she read. Every so often, her brow furrowed in thought, and she’d scribble something in the margin.

He couldn’t help himself.

Between giving instructions, correcting Nesta’s balance, and helping Gwyn adjust her grip, his gaze always drifted back to her. Sitting quietly, not demanding space or attention, and yet commanding it all the same.

At one point, Gwyn stumbled, distracted by something Roslin said, and Azriel stepped forward to catch her arm before she could fall. She laughed, flushed, thanking him.

From the edge of the ring, he felt it: a flicker of emotion. Subtle. So small.

His mate’s shoulders had tensed ever so slightly, and the page she’d been turning froze beneath her fingers. A blink later, she resumed reading, her expression the picture of serenity.

He knew her already. Felt her through the bond, and what he sensed now was something sharp and subtle, pressed down beneath that gentle exterior.

Jealousy.

It was faint and fleeting. Not born of possessiveness, but of uncertainty. Of not knowing yet where she stood, of watching others smile at him and wondering if they had smiled like that before.

He didn’t comment or draw attention.

Instead, as the rotation changed and the priestesses paired off, Azriel stepped out of the ring and moved toward her. She didn’t look up immediately, but he knelt in front of the bench, hands resting lightly on his thighs, careful not to crowd her.

“I can train you if you want,” he asked softly.

Her eyes lifted slowly. She studied him, not guarded, but thoughtful. “Tomorrow,” she said after a pause. “I want to watch a little more today.”

He nodded and stood to go, but just before he turned, her fingers grazed his. A light touch, brief. Intentional.

That was enough. Enough to steady him, enough to make his heart pound and for the bond to sing. 

Later, during the drills, he caught glimpses of her watching intently, brows furrowed, her gaze flicking between him and the priestesses. She absently chewed on the end of her pen, scribbling something in the margins of her book. 

Then, suddenly, she stood up. The book still in one hand, her mug left on the bench. She walked up the stairs silently.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. A sharp, unwelcome rush of panic surged through him. 

Had she misunderstood something? 

Was he already too much for her to handle, or not enough?

Was it jealousy after all? Discomfort? Regret?

The questions arrived in waves, quick and relentless. Doubts crept up from the dark corners of his mind, dragging with them that old, gnawing fear that he wasn’t what she needed. That he had never been. That he would never be enough.

Still, he moved through the motions: correcting stances, guiding rhythm, catching missteps, but a part of him remained anchored to that bench. To the place where her mug sat cooling in the morning sun. To the space she’d just left behind.

When the training finally finished, the priestesses and others stretched and chuckled, lingering in their small groups, but Azriel didn’t hang around. He quickly muttered a goodbye and headed inside without looking back.

He found one of the twins in the corridor, who smiled knowingly and pointed towards the library.

Azriel slowed as he reached the open door, his shadows curling out before him, brushing the corners of the room.

She sat curled in one of the velvet armchairs, the book open across her knees, lips moving silently as she read. Her pen hovered above the page, pausing now and then to scribble something in the margins.

Relief spilled through him like water over parched stone.

He stepped inside.

“You found something,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

She looked up, startled, before nodding. The book rested open on her lap, her finger still holding her place.

“Yes. It’s old, but fascinating.” She hesitated, then held it up slightly, more to herself than him. “Some of the texts Rhysand keeps in here reference protective rituals, symbols I’ve never seen before.”

She shook her head. “I think some were meant to shield more than just the body. The soul, maybe.”

A soft smile tugged at the edge of her mouth, dry and a little sharp. “That’s why I left. Not because of the priestesses sending you flirty smiles… though that was educational.”

His lips parted slightly, caught off guard.

“You noticed,” he said after a beat, eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with fear.

“I notice everything,” she murmured, turning another page with a gentle flick. “Especially when people look at you like they’ve done it before.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. The shadows behind him shifted slightly, unsettled, but he didn’t speak.

She didn’t meet his gaze again. Just said, “I didn’t leave because I was jealous. I left because I’m not ready to figure out what it means to sit there while people touch you like they have permission.”

Azriel stood still for a long moment, reading between her words, what she was saying and what she wasn’t. Then he moved closer, slowly, and sank into the chair across from her, his hands resting on his thighs.

“You don’t have to figure it out right away,” he said quietly. “I’m not expecting anything from you.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing playful or soft in them, just wary quiet, a storm that hadn’t made landfall yet.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s still hard to watch.”

That truth sat between them, raw and unpolished. He didn’t try to smooth it over.

After a long silence, she added, “I found some of the symbols again, similar to ones etched on a stone at my temple. I don’t know how they connect yet, but there’s something here. Something old and forgotten.”

His throat worked. “You want help?”

She hesitated, then she slowly closed the book and set it beside her. “Maybe. When I know more.”

He nodded, accepting the boundary, not pushing. Not yet.

“If you want to train tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “I’ll be on the mats at dawn.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in mock consideration. “You’ll have to wake me,” she said, voice light but edged with challenge. “And I expect the pastries and coffee again.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Noted.”

A moment passed between them. Quiet. Comfortable. Then he nodded toward the book beside her.

“I’ll let you read,” he said, voice softer now. “Come find me if you need anything. I’ll be somewhere in the House, and if I leave, I’ll come say goodbye.”

Her gaze lifted again, catching his in that steady, unreadable way she had. She didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Just watched as he turned and walked away, and he felt the weight of her eyes on his back until the library doors closed behind him.

A few hours passed.

He’d spent them in the sitting room, trying, and failing, not to listen to Morrigan and Cassian go on about her.

“She’s perfect for you, Azriel,” Mor was saying, practically glowing with delight. “Truly. After everything, you deserve this. She’s strong, clever and just soft enough to make you loosen up a little.”

Cassian let out a low laugh, feet kicked up on the table as he nursed his drink. “You’ve been brooding for centuries, brother. She smiles at you once, and you hand her the moon.”

Azriel said nothing, merely sat, stone-faced, twirling his glass. It didn’t stop them; in fact, his silence seemed to encourage them.

“I mean, do you remember the way you passed her that platter last night at dinner?” Mor said, mimicking his deep, solemn voice with exaggerated dramatics. “Take this, my mate, the love of my soul—”

Cassian cut in with a laugh, clutching his chest. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve waited through centuries of pain and shadows just for this moment—”

Azriel gave them both a deadpan look. “Are you finished?”

They weren’t. Of course, they weren’t. They had been waiting for this just as long as he had.

Cassian launched into some unsolicited advice about wooing, which quickly derailed into an entirely too vivid recounting of his and Nesta’s two-week-long frenzy, complete with gesturing and far too much detail about positions Azriel never wanted associated with his brother-in-arms.

A quiet laugh, unmistakably divine, echoed from the doorway.

Azriel’s heart seized.

He turned sharply, shadows coiling at his back, and there she was. Leaning against the doorframe, books cradled in her arms, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said dryly, voice full of poorly-concealed laughter, “for those beautiful images of you and Nesta, Cassian. Truly. I can’t wait to ask her how she feels about you sharing that particular position.”

Cassian paled on the spot. Mor nearly choked on her drink.

She strode toward them slowly, unhurried, graceful despite the smirk still curling her lips. Azriel remained frozen on the couch, spine straight, hands clasped too tightly in his lap. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not when every word felt like it might come out too raw.

Then, with a quiet certainty that undid him more than any sharp remark ever could, she perched on the armrest beside him. Close enough for her scent to wrap around him like something intimate, familiar.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Light, tentative, almost nothing, but it was enough to make his chest ache.

Something inside him eased, slowly and warily, but it eased. Every tightly-wound nerve tensed with the contact. That strange, fragile hope, the one that had been quietly growing in the corners of his chest every hour since they met, stirred again.

She didn’t look at him directly. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere ahead, as if she hadn’t just broken down the walls around him with nothing more than a few steps and a featherlight touch.

If anything, he leaned into it, just slightly, instinctively, drawn to her warmth without meaning to or knowing how to pull back.

He must not have been as discreet as he thought. Across the room, Mor and Cassian were both watching with matching expressions: Cassian, smug; Mor, practically glowing.

Their eyes darted to her hand, still resting lightly on his shoulder, and to the way his shoulder now pressed slightly against her hip. 

Azriel ignored them and didn’t care. 

He’d take any touch from her that he could.

The Next Morning

Azriel stood in the doorway of her room, balancing a tray in one hand. The smell of fresh coffee wafted up, mixing with the warmth of honey-glazed pastries and the faintest hint of cinnamon. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

She was still curled in bed, tangled in sheets, with her hair a soft riot around her face, as the early morning light sliced through the curtains in gold bands. He allowed himself a quick look, just a moment longer than he should have.

He cleared his throat, quiet but firm. 

“You said I’d have to wake you.” She stirred, a sleepy noise slipping from her lips. Her eyes blinked open slowly, still foggy with sleep, then focused on him and the tray in his hands.

A lazy, satisfied smile curled at her lips. “You actually brought the coffee.”

“And the pastries,” he said, crossing the room to set the tray beside her. 

She propped herself up on one elbow, accepting the mug he offered. Their fingers brushed. He tried not to dwell on it, but the bond bloomed in his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“I remembered.”

She arched a brow at that but said nothing more. Instead, she sipped her coffee and reached for a piece of pastry, her expression unreadable and still soft with sleep.

After a few bites, she glanced at him over the rim of her mug. “You really expect me to train before sunrise?”

“You said you wanted to,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “But if you’ve changed your mind—”

“I didn’t say that,” she interrupted, already tossing the sheets aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Azriel’s breath caught as she sat there, slowly finishing the pastry, dressed in a navy silk camisole edged with lace, with the matching shorts riding high on her thighs from sleep. He looked away before his gaze could linger, instead fixing it on the early light stretching across the window, though the image of her remained in his mind. 

When she appeared again a few minutes later, dressed in tight Illyrian leathers, boots half-laced, and hair pulled back, it nearly took his breath away. The leathers hugged her like a second skin, every line and curve clearly visible in the dim morning light. She held her mug with both hands, cradling it for warmth, her cheeks still flushed from sleep, but her eyes sharper now.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. His cheeks flushed with heat, and from the small, amused twist of her lips, he knew she saw it.

The bond stirred, low and steady like a distant drumbeat, always there, just under the surface.

He didn’t speak. He simply knelt in front of her, his gloved hands moving without thought as he tied her bootlaces with quiet care.

As he finished, fingers brushing the leather, something shifted.

Her hand slid into his hair, light, uncertain, instinctive.

He froze.

The touch was so gentle he might’ve imagined it, but then it lingered, her fingers threading slowly through the strands like it was second nature.

She stilled, maybe realising what she’d done.

“I—sorry,” she mumbled, hand starting to pull away.

His voice came quickly, quiet but sure. “Don’t be.”

He looked up at her, still kneeling, with the morning sun behind her like a soft halo, as if she were the goddess who answered his prayers. 

His voice dropped, steady now. “I like it. When you touch me.”

Her lips parted, a flush rising to her cheeks, and still, she didn’t step back.

“I like having my hair played with,” she admitted, almost shyly, like it was a secret she hadn’t meant to tell.

Then, more slowly this time, she reached again, fingers slipping into his hair with greater intent. She tugged gently, testing. Azriel exhaled, barely a sound, but it made her smile.

When she finally let him go, the warmth of her touch stayed like an echo on his skin. He rose slowly, not rushing the moment or looking away. She held her mug close to her chest now, but her eyes searched his, uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, as if afraid she’d gone too far.

Azriel shook his head once. “You don’t have to be. You’re here. You’re trying.”

A moment passed between them.

He met her eyes. “Ready?”

She nodded.

Together, they stepped into the quiet hallway, toward the sparring ring, the early light painting soft gold across the floor. Their shoulders brushed, just barely.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy or awkward; it was theirs.

The morning air was crisp as they stepped onto the training ring, the stone beneath their feet cool from the night. Dawn had only just broken, casting soft gold light over the courtyard. It was quiet, no Cassian, no priestesses, just the two of them and the hush that came with early hours.

Azriel watched her roll her shoulders, stretching out her limbs with ease. The leathers hugged her frame, each movement revealing toned strength beneath soft curves. His eyes traced her without permission, heat coiling low in his gut before he forced himself to look away, guilt creeping in quickly behind the desire.

She bent low into a stretch, hips rolling, body fluid, and he realised, a little too late, that looking away wasn’t helping much either.

“You’ve done this before,” he said, watching her fold into a stretch.

She glanced up, eyes wide like he’d caught her red-handed. “A little. I’m just copying what the priestesses did yesterday.”

Azriel’s brow lifted. “Right,” he said dryly, because the priestesses certainly didn’t do that hip roll.

When she stood, her eyes sparkled with something sharp. He narrowed his gaze. “Get into stance,” he said.

She did.

Immediately, his suspicion sharpened, perfect foot placement, relaxed shoulders, and a steady, precise centre of balance.

“You’ve trained in the Day Court,” he murmured, stepping toward her.

She smirked but said nothing, just watched him, steady and calm.

“I know that stance,” he continued. “I have a contact in Day who moves exactly like that. If I’m right, your next move is—”

He lunged.

She ducked low, wrapping an arm around his forearm and spinning inward. Her fist stopped just millimetres from his face, close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin.

He smirked, looking from her first at his nose to those dark eyes staring at him with a false innocence. 

“I should have known,” he said as she released him, stepping back.

“What, that I’m from Day? That I haven’t just been a priestess.” she teased, a lazy grin on her face as they started to circle each other. “Or that I could give you a good knock on the arse?"

His eyes narrowed, that smirk turning into a grin as he whispered, “both.” 

They moved instantly. Their sparring became quick, smooth, with strikes, dodges, and counters flowing like a dance, one neither had choreographed, but both instinctively knew. Each punch was faster than the last, testing, probing.

Azriel ducked a roundhouse and moved in close, gripping her wrist and twisting her arm softly behind her. But before he could pin her, she drove her elbow back into his ribs and broke free. Her laugh was low, breathless, buzzing with excitement.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he growled, circling again.

“I was being polite,” she shot back, panting slightly now. Sweat glistened at her temples.

He moved in again, silent, steady, a predator’s grace. Close enough to feel the rush of her breath against his cheek, to smell the heat rising off her skin: sweat, salt, something sweet and wild that drove him mad.

She blocked him, forearms crossing fast, colliding with his chest in a clash of controlled force. The contact rang through them both like a strike of lightning. Their bodies met with a thud, chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing hard from the momentum.

Neither of them moved.

Her eyes locked on his. Her breath hitched. His hands were still on her arms, tight enough to feel the tension beneath her skin. The space between them thinned until it wasn’t space at all, just heat and thunder and tension strung tight enough to snap.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Azriel felt the shift deep in his chest, like gravity, like inevitability.

“I thought this was sparring,” she breathed, voice gone soft and smoky, like it had been scraped raw by restraint.

“It was,” he murmured, his voice nearly hoarse.

A heartbeat passed.

Then she fisted his leather and dragged him down to her.

The kiss wasn’t a question; it was devotion.

It was molten. Desperate. Their mouths collided in a tangled mess of teeth and tongue, breath and desire. Her back pressed softly against the training ring wall, but she didn’t stop; she welcomed the force. Welcomed him.

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer and anchoring her there. Her hands were everywhere, slipping beneath his leathers and spreading across the heat of his bare back. Her nails dug in just enough to make him growl into her mouth.

“Azriel—” she gasped, breaking for air as his mouth found the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. His breath scorched her skin, lips dragging with reverence, with hunger.

His restraint shattered. In a flash of movement, he spun her to the mat, his body following hers like gravity, like fate. One hand grabbed her wrists above her head, the other slid beneath her leathers to spread wide over her waist, possessive, claiming.

She laughed beneath him, breathless and wild, eyes full of heat. Her legs wrapped around his hips like instinct.

“You like this?” she murmured, brushing her mouth over his. “Me on my back while you pretend you’re still in control?”

He huffed a dark, amused sound against her jaw. “You’ve been in control since the moment I met you.”

Her teeth grazed his earlobe. “I knew it.”

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, kissing her again, deeper this time, demanding. His body rocked into hers, their hips grinding in time, and she gasped into his mouth.

“You like it when I fight you,” she breathed.

“I like it when you lose,” he shot back, biting her lip until she moaned.

Her fingers had already found the buckles of his leathers, fevered and sure, undoing them with trembling hands. His own hand slipped beneath her waistband, his fingers grazing soft skin, heat gathering where they made contact. She arched into him, her mouth open and wanting.

Every sound she made was etched into him.

His name was whispered like a secret.

The gasp when he kissed just below her navel.

The whisper of “Don’t stop,” as she rolled her hips, her body pliant beneath his, every inch begging for more.

His shadows wrapped around them protectively, dark silk brushing her wrists, her thighs, making her shiver in his grasp. There was no one else in the world, only this. Her. Them.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, voice frayed and reverent, kissing down her throat, across her collarbone.

She dragged him closer with a whimper, one leg hooking around him tighter. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling, anchoring.

He was lost in her, utterly, blissfully lost.

His shadows slid around her wrists again, not binding, but holding. Cradling. As if they, too, didn’t want to let go.

Azriel whispered against her lips, “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her legs tightening around his waist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again, then down, down her neck, across the delicate skin beneath her jaw, the edge of her collarbone. Each touch was a vow. His hand, warm and calloused, slipped beneath her shirt again, sliding higher this time, until she arched into his palm with a gasp.

She was fire beneath him, burning, beautiful, real.

Her hands moved too, pushing his leathers down his shoulders, dragging fingertips along the planes of his chest, learning him like a map. Her touch made him shiver, his restraint unravelling thread by thread.

There was no distance now. No armour. No roles.

Only Azriel and his mate, the woman who had undone him completely.

Their breaths mingled, their limbs tangled. Clothing became an afterthought, pulled aside, pushed down, discarded in silence and gasps and hurried touches. He worshipped every inch of her skin he revealed, every sound she made etched into his soul.

When he finally pushed inside her, it was slow, careful.

They both gasped, then stilled.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails biting in, and his forehead dropped to hers, eyes squeezed shut, as though even this was too much, too perfect.

“You’re okay?” he breathed.

She nodded, whispering, “Yes. Azriel…”

Her voice broke on his name.

He moved then, rhythm building in a slow, devastating tempo that left her trembling beneath him. Their bodies moved together, not frantic, but with a deep anchoring. Their eyes never strayed. Every thrust, every moan, every whispered name was soaked in meaning.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a surrender.

It was two souls who had spent too long alone, finally finding their match in the dark.

His shadows curled around their joined hands, a silent echo of everything they weren’t saying aloud.

When she came undone, it was quiet, her back arched, her mouth parting in a gasp that was only his. Azriel followed with a broken sound against her skin, his grip tightening like he was afraid she might vanish, but she didn’t.

When the world finally stilled, he lay there above her, inside her, his forehead resting against hers.

Their breathing slowed. Her fingers traced lazy shapes across his spine.

Then, the creak of a door.

A dramatic, drawn-out whistle.

“Well, well, well,” came Cassian’s unmistakable voice, thick with amusement. “Here I was, thinking you two would eventually get around to it, but on the training mat, Az? Really?”

Azriel froze, chest heaving, his wing immediately wrapping them in a cocoon of darkness, shielding her naked body from Cassian’s eyes.

Her head thunked back against the mat with a groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Azriel didn’t move, still half-draped over her, both of them very much naked.

Cassian stepped further into the ring, arms crossed, grin wicked. “You know, I always suspected you were a little filthy under all that brooding, brother. But this? This is a new level.”

Azriel exhaled a slow, murderous breath. “Cassian…”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Cassian said cheerfully, already turning back toward the exit. “Rhys is going to die when he hears about this.”

The door shut behind him with a final click.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then her soft, stunned laughter broke the stillness.

Azriel dropped his forehead to her collarbone and groaned.

“We are never living this down,” she whispered, breath still short, cheeks flushed.

“No,” he muttered. “We are not.”

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered on her lips.

Azriel hadn’t moved; his forehead still rested on her collarbone, his breath ghosting across her skin, steadying. She could feel the war waging in him. Embarrassment. Restraint. A flicker of uncertainty.

She lifted her hand, brushing fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, slow and gentle. “It’s just Cassian,” she whispered. “He’ll forget it by breakfast.”

Azriel huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a groan. “No, he won’t. He’ll tell everyone by breakfast.”

Her smile curved against his cheek. “Let him.”

He pulled back enough to see her face, and the moment he did, the heat returned, low and aching. Her eyes were still heavy with need. Her lips, still parted, kiss-bruised and soft. Her body, still curled around his, craving him.

Still wanting.

God, so did he.

Still, neither of them moved, because she was still beneath him, still burning, still wanting, and so was he.

“Where were we?” she said, lifting her hips in a not-so-subtle reminder.

Azriel growled, mouth returning to hers. “Right here.”

The rest of the world disappeared again.