#the lighting!!! it's so warm and inviting and magical | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solxamber · 7 months ago

Text

The Fairest of Them All || Vil Schoenheit

You've chosen Vil!

Navigating the chaos of Night Raven College, you somehow end up stealing the heart of Pomefiore’s untouchable Housewarden.

w.c: 5.3k

1k Masterlist ; Prologue

It’s the night of the opera, and you’re anxiously adjusting your outfit for what feels like the hundredth time. Vil had invited you—Vil Schoenheit, the epitome of elegance and poise—and you’d spent hours ensuring you looked halfway decent next to someone so effortlessly perfect.

When the knock at the door comes, you barely manage to keep yourself from sprinting to open it. And there he is.

Vil stands on your doorstep, dressed in formal wear that could kill a victorian child, his golden hair tied back with precision that seems almost unfair to the rest of humanity. A soft scent of bergamot and cedar follows him, making your brain stutter.

Your jaw goes slack, and you freeze, blatantly staring like a deer caught in headlights. You’re trying to say something, anything, but the only thing leaving your mouth is the sound of air escaping your lungs.

Vil’s lips twitch into the faintest smirk. “Good evening,” he says smoothly, clearly noticing your state. His eyes sweep over your outfit, and he nods in approval. “You’ve done well. You look rather lovely tonight.”

“Uh-huh,” you manage to squeak, still staring. Internally, you’re screaming: What do you mean rather? Lovely?? Have you looked in a mirror recently?!!

He gestures toward the waiting car. “Shall we?”

You nod dumbly, closing the door behind you before following him to the sleek black vehicle parked outside.

The interior of the car is as polished as Vil himself, the soft leather seats and faint glow of the dashboard making it feel like you’ve stepped into another world. You try to focus on the excitement of the opera, but the quiet presence of Vil next to you is making that exceedingly difficult.

As the car glides through the city, your hands brush accidentally, a fleeting touch that sends a little jolt through you. You glance at him, expecting him to pull away or comment, but he doesn’t even blink. If anything, his expression softens, his gaze fixed out the window.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage, and slowly slip your hand into his.

Vil raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, but his grip tightens around yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “Excited, are we?” he murmurs, the corners of his lips tugging upward in that signature, knowing smirk of his.

You nod quickly, your heart pounding. “Yeah! I mean, it’s my first opera. I don’t want to miss a second of it.”

“Good,” he says, his voice a touch softer. “You’ll appreciate it more than most.” He pauses, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “And… it’s refreshing to share it with someone who isn’t afraid to show their enthusiasm.”

You smile at that, feeling a little less nervous and a lot more giddy.

The grand opera house is breathtaking, its towering marble columns and gilded details glowing under the warm lights. You almost trip on the stairs trying to take it all in. Vil’s hand at your elbow steadies you.

“Careful,” he says lightly, his lips quirking in amusement. “I’d rather not have our evening interrupted by a sprained ankle.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, your face heating up as you let him guide you to your seats.

The opera begins, and it’s as magical as you imagined. The singers’ voices soar, weaving a story so full of emotion you feel like you’re holding your breath half the time. But despite the beauty on stage, you find your attention drifting.

To him.

Vil sits beside you, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the stage lights. He’s transfixed, his violet eyes glittering as they follow the performers. He’s utterly ethereal, and you’re entirely doomed.

When he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, your gaze snaps back to the stage so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. But you can still feel him looking at you, and when you sneak another glance, you catch the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

Your heart does a little flip.

It's time for the intermission and you slowly stretch out your legs.

“Let’s take a walk,” Vil suggests as the lights come up. You nod, following him out of the auditorium and into the grand halls of the opera house.

The murals lining the walls are stunning, vivid depictions of myth and music that seem almost alive under the flickering chandeliers. Vil walks beside you, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back to guide you through the crowd.

It’s subtle, effortless, and completely unfair. You’re hyper-aware of the warmth of his touch, the gentle pressure that somehow manages to make your brain short-circuit.

“Relax,” he murmurs, leaning closer so only you can hear. His breath brushes against your ear, and you nearly trip over your own feet. “You’re walking like you’re in a dream.”

“I feel like I am in a dream,” you blurt, before immediately regretting it.

Vil chuckles, a soft, genuine sound that makes your stomach flutter. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He pauses in front of one particularly grand mural, his hand lingering at your back as he studies it. You glance up at him, catching the way his eyes soften as he takes in the artwork.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the mural.

“It is,” he agrees, his gaze flickering down to meet yours. “Though not nearly as much as some things.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and judging by the amused glint in his eyes, he’s thoroughly enjoying your reaction.

The show ends, and you’re still buzzing from the experience as you climb into the car. You hum the aria under your breath, the melody still fresh in your mind.

Vil sits beside you, one arm resting casually against the window as he watches you with quiet amusement.

“You enjoyed it, then?” he asks, though it’s clear he already knows the answer.

“Are you kidding? That was amazing!” you say, turning to him with a wide grin. “I mean, the costumes, the singing, the—”

You stop mid-sentence as Vil leans in, his face so close you can feel the warmth of his skin.

Your heart skips a beat. “W-What are you—?”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. “You’re a mess,” he says, though his tone is far too fond for the words to carry any bite.

He leans back, smirking at your flustered expression. You can practically feel the heat radiating off your face as you bury it in your hands.

Vil walks you to your doorstep, the moonlight casting a soft glow over his features. He looks so effortlessly regal, so infuriatingly perfect, and you know you’re going to be replaying this night in your head for weeks.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say, turning to him with a smile. “I had a great time.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he replies, his voice smooth as ever.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you take his hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Goodnight, Vil.”

You dart inside before you can see his reaction, but as you peek through the curtains, you catch him standing there, a small, genuine smile on his lips.

And just like that, your night feels even more magical.

The evening starts peacefully at Ramshackle, with you sitting on the couch, Grim sprawled on your lap, and a carton of apple juice in hand. The tranquility is shattered by what sounds like a battering ram hitting the door.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“HENCHUMAN!” Grim screeches, bolting upright and scrambling toward the door. “Somebody’s tryin’ ta demolish our house!”

“Calm down, Grim!” you shout, rushing to the door. As you open it, you find Epel standing there, out of breath, his hair disheveled like he’s been running for his life.

“EP—”

“I NEED SANCTUARY!” Epel cries, practically diving inside before slamming the door behind him. “Please, hide me! Don’t let him find me!”

You blink at him, baffled. “What—who—huh?”

Grim squints up at Epel, unimpressed. “What’d ya do this time, farm boy?”

“I didn’t do nothin’! Vil’s gone mad again! He wants me to do some eight-step skincare ritual with somethin’ called snail mucin!” Epel flops onto the couch dramatically. “SNAILS, Prefect. SNAILS. I don’t wanna look like no slimy critter!”

You try to keep a straight face, but it’s impossible. “Epel, you know he’s just trying to help, right?”

Epel grabs a carton of apple juice from the table and downs some of it like it's vodka. “Help? Help turn me into a snail, maybe!”

Grim nods sagely. “Yeah, I dunno what a ‘mucin’ is, but it sounds slimy.”

The atmosphere is almost cozy again as the three of you sit around, sipping juice and joking around. But then it happens.

Knock. Knock. KNOCK.

This knock isn’t like Epel’s desperate pounding. This knock is sharp, precise, and terrifyingly composed.

Grim lets out a dramatic gasp. “IT’S HIM!”

Epel pales. “Don’t open it. Please don’t open it!”

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you cautiously crack the door open. Sure enough, there stands Vil Schoenheit, looking like he just stepped out of a photoshoot, his expression as serene as a summer lake—but with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Good evening,” Vil greets you with a polite smile. “Would you kindly return my wayward dorm member?”

You glance over your shoulder at Epel, who is shaking his head violently and mouthing, “Don’t you dare!”

“Uh,” you begin, already feeling trapped. “I mean… what if—what if he just stayed here for tonight?”

Vil raises an elegant brow. “I see. Is that how it’s going to be?” He steps inside with the grace of a cat, his gaze shifting from you to Epel. “I’m sure you think you’re very clever.”

“Lemme be free,” Epel whines, hiding behind the couch. “I ain’t ready for snails on my face!”

Vil’s smile turns sharp. “Snail mucin is a highly effective hydrator, but if you insist on being dramatic…” He turns to you, his eyes narrowing in thought. “You. Are you willing to try the skincare regimen in his place?”

“Me?” You blink, startled.

Epel perks up from behind the couch. “YES. TAKE THEM!”

Vil tilts his head. “If you’re willing, I’m confident I can achieve better results from a subject who isn’t fighting me at every turn.”

You shrug. “Sure, why not?”

Before you can fully comprehend what’s happening, Vil has looped an arm through yours, gracefully pulling you out the door. “Perfect. Let’s go.”

Epel waves dramatically from the window. “Bless ya, Prefect! I owe ya big time!”

Grim just yells after you, “DON’T LET HIM TURN YA INTO A SNAIL!”

Pomefiore is somehow both intimidating and gorgeous at night, much like Vil himself. He leads you to a lavishly decorated room that smells faintly of lavender and something you can’t quite place but know costs more than your monthly groceries.

Vil gestures for you to sit, and you do, feeling slightly like a sacrificial lamb.

“This won’t hurt,” he says smoothly, rolling up his sleeves. “Now, sit still.”

You expect him to just slap some moisturizer on your face and call it a day, but no. Vil moves with precision and care, his fingers brushing gently over your skin as he applies cleanser, toner, and a series of serums that feel more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned.

“This feels… nice,” you mumble, your eyelids growing heavier.

Vil hums, clearly pleased with himself. “Of course it does. Skincare is an art.”

Somewhere between step five and six, you lose the battle against sleep, dozing off in the chair.

You stir awake to find Vil leaning over you, his gaze soft and almost… fond. He’s saying something about your skin glowing, but you’re too distracted by the feeling of being watched so intently.

“Vil?” you murmur groggily.

“Yes?” he replies, his voice softer than usual.

Your eyes narrow slightly as you sit up, noticing something on your cheek. “Uh… did you kiss me?”

Vil freezes for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. His usual composure slips, and he hurriedly swipes at your cheek with a handkerchief. “Don’t be absurd,” he says, but his tone is unusually flustered.

Except.

You glance at his lips, where the faintest smudge of lipstick is visible. “Riiiiiight.”

Vil notices where your gaze has landed and turns away, busying himself with the jars on the counter. “You’re imagining things.”

You smile, a teasing glint in your eye. “If you say so.”

But as he ushers you out of Pomefiore with a distracted wave and a faint blush dusting his cheeks, you know you’ve won this round.

The morning starts off with a buzz of activity at the botanical gardens. Vil, ever the professional, has arranged an elaborate photoshoot in the serene greenery. Props were meticulously placed, outfits were prepared, and lighting setups were already stationed. Vil even allowed himself to feel something akin to satisfaction.

That is, until afternoon rolls around.

Unbeknownst to Vil, the chaos trio (Ace, Deuce, Grim) and Jack had wandered into the gardens earlier for what they dubbed “a little harmless fun.” What they actually managed to do was:

Accidentally tip over a giant fountain while trying to see if Grim could swim (spoiler alert: he can’t).

Start a “friendly” game of tag that ended with Ace tripping over a prop table, sending vases and floral arrangements flying like shrapnel.

Release a flock of doves intended for Vil’s grand finale by opening the wrong cage ("I wanted to see if they could do tricks!" Ace insists as Deuce facepalms).

Grim, somehow, set a bush on fire. Jack put it out, but the smell of burnt shrubbery lingers ominously in the air.

By the time Vil arrives, the scene looks like a tornado hit. The once-pristine gardens are a disaster zone. Props are broken, flowers are trampled, and there's a trail of muddy footprints leading in every direction.

Vil steps into the carnage, his designer boots squelching in mud. His expression is eerily calm at first, but the sharp inhale he takes speaks volumes. He surveys the devastation with a look that could wilt the few surviving flowers.

“My vision,” he whispers, his voice tight with suppressed rage.

You stand beside him, trying not to laugh because you’ve never seen him this close to a meltdown.

“Vil,” you say cautiously, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s not that bad—”

“Not that bad?!” he snaps, whirling on you. “Look around! This isn’t a photoshoot location; it’s a war zone!”

From the corner of your eye, you spot Cater peeking in, phone out, clearly recording the unfolding drama. You make a mental note to confiscate it later.

Vil pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself, “I should have known better. Trusting anything to others. Utter folly.”

“You’re gonna burst a blood vessel,” you warn him, earning a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Alright, alright,” you say, rolling up your sleeves. “Stop sulking and help me salvage this.”

Vil blinks at you, incredulous. “Salvage? You can’t possibly—”

“Watch me.”

With that, you march into the chaos. You grab what props can be salvaged, rearrange a few backdrops, and even craft makeshift decorations out of the remaining flowers and ribbons.

Vil watches in stunned silence as you hustle, barking orders at a very confused Sebek, who you dragged out of the equestrian club to help.

“Sebek, I need that saddle cleaned now!” you shout.

Sebek grumbles, muttering something about “desecrating noble horse equipment for frivolity,” but obeys when you glare at him.

Within the hour, you’ve transformed a patch of ruined garden into a new set: a rustic, equestrian-inspired photoshoot featuring horses. Vil looks around, stunned, as you pat one of the horses on the neck.

“Well?” you say, wiping sweat from your brow. “It’s not the flower themed you started off with, but it’ll work, right?”

Vil stares at you, a strange softness in his eyes. “...It’s perfect.”

The photoshoot goes off without a hitch. Vil looks flawless as ever, draped elegantly across a horse in one shot and holding its reins with regal authority in another. You even manage to convince Sebek to lend Vil his equestrian jacket for a dramatic flair.

As you predicted, the photos break the internet. The combination of Vil Schoenheit and majestic horses sends fans into a frenzy. “A SUPERMODEL AND HORSES??? THE WORLD ISN’T READY FOR THIS!” one comment reads.

But what really goes viral isn’t the official photos. It’s a video Cater secretly took of Vil watching you as you worked to save the shoot.

In the video, Vil stands in the background, holding a bouquet prop. His usual composed expression is nowhere to be seen—he’s looking at you with undisguised fondness, like you’re the only person in the world. The caption?

“The real shoot is happening behind the scenes #VilSmittenheit”

When you show Vil the video later, he groans and buries his face in his hands. “Of course Cater would...”

But you just smile, because even Vil can’t deny the truth caught on camera.

The potionology exam looms like a thundercloud, and you’ve made the questionable decision to study with the first-year gang. It feels like babysitting a tornado of chaos.

You’ve got your notebook out, ready to tackle the mysteries of potion ratios and ingredient compatibility. Then you look up.

Ace, Deuce, and Grim are locked in a heated debate over whether it’s morally acceptable to substitute powdered phoenix feather with breadcrumbs.

“Grim, breadcrumbs aren’t even magical!” Jack groans, rubbing his temples.

Grim huffs, waving a paw dismissively. “It’s got crunch! Everything’s better with crunch!”

“Breadcrumbs in a potion?!” Sebek barks, slamming his fist on the table. “Such idiocy would never occur in Lord Malleus’s presence! Do you know the kind of potions he could make? Far superior to this nonsense!”

Epel, slouched in his chair, mutters, “What’s the point of potionology when you can just punch your problems or fly away?”

“Guys,” Jack says, his patience clearly thinning. “We need to focus! We’re all going to fail if we don’t—”

“I’M NOT FAILING!” Sebek bellows.

“Then stop talking about Malleus for five minutes!” Ace snaps.

You close your notebook. You know when to admit defeat. You’re getting nothing done here.

Plan B: The Vil Schoenheit Method

You march straight to Vil in Pomefiore. He’s seated in his lavish lounge, sipping tea and reading a book on advanced alchemical techniques that makes your brain hurt just by looking at it.

“Vil, help me,” you say, dropping dramatically to your knees like you’re auditioning for a tragedy. “I’m going to flunk potionology, and I can’t rely on Ace, Deuce, or Grim because they’ve got the collective intelligence of a soggy paper towel.”

Vil arches an eyebrow, clearly amused. “And why should I help you?”

“Because you’re the best potionologist I know,” you plead. “And because I’ll owe you one. A big one. I’ll even—” You pause for dramatic effect. “—tell you where Epel is when he runs away.”

Vil narrows his eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere, but your desperation is mildly entertaining. Fine. But I won’t go easy on you.”

You gulp.

Vil is intense. He doesn’t just teach you potionology; he micromanages your existence.

“Back straight,” he snaps, tapping your spine with a ruler. “You’re hunched over like a gremlin. And stop stirring like you’re mixing pancake batter. Precision is key!”

You mutter something about gremlins under your breath, but Vil hears it. “I can make this more difficult if you’d like,” he says with a sweet yet menacing smile.

He quizzes you relentlessly, correcting every little mistake with the sharpness of a dagger. “If you confuse Mandrake extract with Mandragora root one more time, I’ll have Rook carry you back to Ramshackle while reciting a poem about your incompetence.”

But by the end of it, you’ve actually learned. You’re tired, your hands smell like sulfur, and your posture is permanently straightened, but you’ve learned.

You ace the exam. You don’t just pass; you get one of the highest scores in the class.

“THAT’S MY HENCHHUMAN!” Grim crows, puffing his chest out like he took the test himself. “We’re unstoppable!”

Ace and Deuce, however, are staring at you like you’ve just revealed you’re a double agent.

“You went to Vil for help?!” Ace squawks. “That’s betrayal! Treason! You’re a traitor to the First-Year Study Group™!”

“You think you know someone,” Deuce adds solemnly, shaking his head.

“It’s not my fault you two were trying to use breadcrumbs in a potion!” you fire back.

“That’s not the point!”

Ignoring their melodrama, you bolt to Pomefiore to thank Vil.

Vil is sitting by the window, gazing out at the gardens with a cup of tea in hand. He looks up as you burst in, all smiles and gratitude.

“Vil!” you exclaim, practically skipping toward him. “I passed! Thank you so much!”

He raises an elegant eyebrow. “Of course you did. I wasn’t about to waste my time on a lost cause.”

You throw your arms around him in a quick, impulsive hug. “You’re amazing, seriously. I’ll thank you properly later, but for now—” You lean up and kiss him on the cheek. “You’re the best.”

Before Vil can react, you’re already sprinting out the door, leaving him sitting there with a stunned expression.

Moments later, Rook appears, materializing like the cryptid he is. “Ah, Roi du Poison,” he coos, his smile wicked. “You’re absolutely smitten, aren’t you?”

Vil sighs, shaking his head, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Be quiet, Rook.”

“Ah, silence is the language of love!” Rook declares dramatically. “But your face says it all! Mon dieu, how adorable.”

Vil doesn’t even bother denying it. He simply takes another sip of tea, thinking of your smile.

It’s 4 a.m. The witching hour. You’re blissfully cocooned in your blankets, dreaming of peaceful, non-chaotic things, when a sharp tap tap tap jolts you from your slumber. At first, you think it’s your imagination, but the tapping persists, growing louder and more insistent. You crack open one groggy eye, then the other. You blink at the sound’s source.

Your window.

“Window?” you mumble in confusion, still half-asleep. Then you see him. Rook Hunt. Perched precariously on the ledge like some kind of medieval gargoyle but with better fashion sense. He’s waving at you with such enthusiasm you’d think he were auditioning for a cheerleading squad.

Your brain, still booting up, goes: Of course. This is perfectly normal.

Then, a second later: WAIT A MINUTE—WHAT?!

“Rook?” you hiss-whisper, stumbling to the window. “Why are you—” You stop mid-sentence because his face is a mask of sheer panic. “What’s wrong?”

He places a dramatic hand on his chest, his voice trembling with urgency. “Mon amie! It is an emergency of the highest order!”

Heart pounding, you throw open the window. “What happened?! Is someone hurt?! Did something explode?! Is Vil—”

Rook nods gravely. “It is Roi du Poison.”

Your stomach plummets. He doesn’t have to say anything more. If something’s wrong with Vil, you’re going to help. You’re his friend, his confidant, his designated earplug during Rook’s poetic soliloquies.

You don’t hesitate; you grab your coat and shoes and sprint out the door, trailing after Rook, who somehow manages to make a full-on run look like a choreographed ballet.

The journey to Pomefiore is a blur of panic and adrenaline. You’re preparing yourself for the worst. Was Vil poisoned? Did he collapse during some over-the-top skincare ritual? Is it gasp the end of his perfect reign? By the time you burst into Vil’s room, you’re practically on the verge of tears.

“Vil!” you cry, rushing to his bedside. “Are you okay? What’s happening?!”

Vil, propped up against a mountain of silk covered pillows, looks up from his tissue box, pale but undeniably still Vil. His expression is unimpressed, though there’s a faint red tinge to his nose that he’d probably die before admitting to.

“I have a cold,” he says flatly, voice slightly nasal.

You blink. Once. Twice. You slowly turn to look at Rook, who is leaning dramatically against the doorway, one hand over his heart like he’s auditioning for Hamlet.

“A cold?” you echo.

Rook nods solemnly. “Oui! But what is a mere cold to a shining star like Vil? Even the smallest ailment feels like a tragedy!”

Without breaking eye contact, you grab a tissue from Vil’s nightstand and throw it at Rook’s head. He catches it mid-air with a flourish.

“I thought he was dying!” you snap, your voice somewhere between exhausted and hysterical.

Vil sighs deeply, like you’re all inconveniencing him. “Well, I feel like I’m dying,” he mutters, reaching for another tissue with the elegance of a dying swan.

Despite wanting to throttle both Vil and Rook, you stay. Because deep down, you care about Vil (and because Rook is lurking in the shadows, making escape impossible). Armed with tissues, herbal tea, and the resolve of a saint, you declare yourself Vil’s official nurse.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, pulling a blanket higher up his shoulders.

Vil sniffs. “I need… another pillow. This one is too flat.”

You grab another pillow and fluff it to perfection. “Better?”

“No, this one is too fluffy.”

You fight the urge to scream. But you adjust the pillow again. And again. And again.

Moments later:

“This tea is too hot.” You cool it.

“This tea is too cold.” You reheat it.

“This lighting is too harsh.” You dim it.

“This lighting is too dim.” You—wait, what??

For hours, you cater to his every whim with the patience of a saint. Vil complains about the temperature, his blanket, the angle of his tissue box. He’s fussy, demanding, and dramatic, but you take it all in stride.

Why? Because deep down, you know he’d never ask for help unless he really needed it. And because Vil, even at his most irritating, is still someone you care about. Maybe even have a crush on but that's a problem for future you.

Rook occasionally pops in to offer poetic encouragement. You ignore him.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Vil falls asleep, his perfect features soft and peaceful. You, however, collapse on the couch in the corner of the room, absolutely spent.

The next morning, Vil wakes up feeling… better. His fever has broken, his headache has subsided, and for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel like his body is actively rebelling against him. He sits up and looks around, finding you passed out on the couch, still clutching a crumpled tissue in one hand.

He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the way you’re curled up in an awkward position, the slight shiver in your frame from not having a blanket. And for the first time, Vil feels something unfamiliar. Guilt. And a deep affection.

As the morning light filters into the room, he glances at you one last time, his expression softening. “Once I recover,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible, “I’ll tell you.”

And with that, Vil Schoenheit makes a silent vow. The next time you nurse him through anything, it will be with him as your devoted partner—and not because of a misunderstanding orchestrated by a certain overdramatic huntsman.

It hits you like a truck in the middle of class: you’re in love with Vil Schoenheit.

Not a crush, not admiration—you’re down horrendous. Butterflies are doing pirouettes in your stomach every time he talks to you, and his slightest smile makes you feel like you’ve been hit by a blinding spotlight.

You try denial. (“It’s just his aura. He does this to everyone!”) You try avoidance. (“If I don’t look at him, I can’t fall harder, right?”) But none of it works. Every time he critiques your posture or gives you that sly smirk, it’s game over.

Finally, you give in. “Okay, fine! I’ll confess!” you announce to Grim, who’s lounging on the couch.

“Good luck,” Grim snickers. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

“I am about to be sick!” you shriek. “This is Vil! What if he laughs? What if he just… stares at me in that terrifying way he does when Epel says something stupid?”

“Then I’ll eat your dinner as consolation,” Grim says, ever supportive.

You prepare like your life depends on it.

Step One: Flowers. You pick out the most gorgeous bouquet, ones that practically scream, I’m hopelessly in love with you, please don’t let me die of embarrassment.

Step Two: A handwritten card. You pour your heart onto the paper with the eloquence of a poet. “You’re incredible,” you write. “Not just because you’re beautiful, but because of your strength, your kindness, and the way you inspire everyone around you. I… I love you.” You almost combust just writing it.

Step Three: Look your best. You pick an outfit that’s just shy of trying too hard and hope it’s enough to make you look like someone worthy of confessing to Vil Schoenheit.

“Alright,” you say, holding your bouquet like it’s a shield. “Here goes nothing.”

“Don’t trip and fall on your face!” Grim calls after you.

You’re halfway to Pomefiore, sweating bullets and trying to remember how to breathe, when you see him.

Vil is walking toward you, dressed impeccably as always, carrying… a bouquet of his own?

Your heart skips several beats, and you’re suddenly extremely nervous—the kind of nervous that makes your palms sweat, your knees weak, and your brain do somersaults. You feel like a malfunctioning automaton.

“Oh,” Vil says, his gaze locking onto you. He stops a few feet away, his eyes flickering between you and the bouquet in your hands. “Out for a stroll?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stammer, gripping your flowers tighter.

Vil tilts his head slightly, and you swear he looks… annoyed? “And the flowers?” he asks, his tone calm but sharp, like a scalpel. “A gift for someone special, perhaps?”

You freeze. “Uh—”

Before you can answer, Vil’s gaze shifts to the card sticking out of your bouquet. He reaches out and plucks it before you can stop him. Your soul briefly leaves your body.

He reads it silently, his face betraying nothing, until—

“Oh.”

His tone is quiet, and you’re horrified to see a flicker of heartbreak in his expression. “I see.”

“Wait! It’s not what it looks like!” you blurt, waving your hand like a maniac. “The flowers are for you! The card is for you! I just… forgot to sign it.”

Vil blinks, his lips parting slightly in surprise. Then, to your immense relief, he chuckles—a soft, melodic sound that sends your heart into a frenzy. “You forgot to sign it?” he repeats, amused.

You nod vigorously, clutching the bouquet like your life depends on it. “I was too busy panicking, okay?!”

Vil shakes his head, his smile widening. “Of course. Only you would confess in such a manner.” He steps closer, his own bouquet now visible. “It seems we had the same idea today.”

Your eyes widen as you realize what he means. “Wait… those flowers…?”

“For you,” Vil says simply. “Though I’ll admit, for a moment, I thought they might be unnecessary.”

You stare at each other, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. Then, Vil takes your bouquet from your trembling hands and replaces it with his own.

“They suit you better,” he murmurs.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans in and presses his lips softly against yours.

The world seems to blur around you, and all you can feel is Vil—his warmth, his scent, the tenderness of his touch. When he pulls back, he’s smiling at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

“Let’s not wait so long to be honest with each other next time,” he says softly.

You nod, dazed and giddy. “Y-Yeah, totally.”

As he intertwines his fingers with yours, leading you back toward Ramshackle, you realize one thing: The first year gang is never going to let you live this down.

But to be honest, you really don’t care. Not when Vil Schoenheit is looking at you like you're the only ones left on the planet.

1k Masterlist ; Main Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit x you #vil schoenheit #vil #1k event

756 notes · View notes

loganficsonly · 8 days ago

Note

hello!!! hope you're have a great day so far!! I was wondering if could you write something with Logan and an easily flustered! reader?? like they get bashful when he does anything sweet and super embarrassed when he's being flirty or touchy with them?? maybe they're a little insecure that he might still have feelings for Jean or think that he could do way better??

thank you for writing in! this is super cute but i think i ended up writing something so fucking debauched, i'm so sorry. this is just straight up porn lmao

i hope you don't mind me taking jean out of the equation too!

first time writing patch!logan >:)

beneath the mask

patch!logan x f!reader, 3.4k WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI please this is nothing but filthy smut!!!, flirting?, patch is a warning, reader has hair and is able-bodied, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), piv, riding, unprotected sex (please be responsible), pet names, not proofread or edited AUTHOR'S NOTE: writing sexy shit is hard eh. anyway, reader is a singer who looks like she can eat a man up and picks her teeth with his bones but is actually super easily flustered. i think i lost the plot towards the end but at least reader and logan get to bang!

Cherry lips croon from behind the silver microphone. Each syllable forms like the slow drip of nectar, lush and perfect and full of promises for those in the audience who have a thirst to quench.

And indeed one could say you’re a tall glass of water, standing on the stage with your hair framing your face like a painting, delicate nails stroking the mic. But with that deep red dress that shines every time you move under the light, it would be more accurate to call you a tall glass of Madripoor’s finest wine.

Coveted. Delicious. Expensive.

The spotlights are blinding, reducing the faces staring up at you into shadowed outlines.

That’s good. Between that darkness and the buzz of a warm drink you had just before the start of your set, nervousness has no place here.

You feel a curl of a smile on your lips. Melancholy melodies from the piano resound beneath your voice. The plucks of a double bass from the back of the stage, in time with soft shuffles of a drum set. The music is slow and languid, and you feel yourself sinking into it as you sing.

There was a boy

A very strange enchanted boy

They said he wandered very far

Very far

Over land and sea…

A figure in white cuts through the bar. There’s no need for words—a drink is placed in front of him swiftly, the caramel-colored liquid refracting in the light, ice clinking against the chilled glass. He sits, facing towards the stage.

One eye trained on you.

Business held him up more than he’d like. He settles down after a burning sip of whiskey, sufficiently satisfied with how he dealt with the problems that caused him to be late for this.

He’d call it a win-win situation. They paid the price. His suit remains crisp, unsullied. You are still singing. Your last song, evidently—Nature Boy is always your closer—but at least he got to hear you and that beautiful voice.

A little shy and sad of eye

But very wise was he

From behind the rim of his glass, he drinks in your figure.

Stunning. The dress betrays your curves, hugging them like second skin. He sees the sinful slit on the side of your thigh, only visible when you move enough. Your hair is down tonight, he notices—a different impression compared to that of your usual updo. Relaxed. Free. No doubt inviting visions of what you would look like with your head on a pillow, hair splayed as you sigh a sultrier tune…

You look like you were destined to doom good men.

Lucky for him, he isn’t a good man.

And then one day

One magic day he passed my way

And we spoke of many things

Fools and kings

This he said to me

Something pulls your eye to the bar, the only illuminated spot in the crowd.

He’s here.

There’s a subtle shiver—your skin reacting to the sight of him. White suit, black bowtie. Always the same colors, always here, watching. The many stares you earn from others don’t stand a chance to the smolder of his single eye. Unlike the rest, you can’t tell what’s on his mind. Maybe that’s why his presence at poker tables is considered a curse.

You thought he wouldn’t show, seeing as he missed almost the entirety of your set. But now that he’s fifty feet away, strong hand wrapped around a glass, you find butterflies in your stomach.

Your eyes meet.

The greatest thing

You’ll ever learn

Is just to love

And be loved in return

A thunderous applause and fifteen minutes later, he finds you on the other end of the bar, surrounded by admirers. They stand a little too close for his liking, but it’s almost part of your job to smile and laugh at them.

He watches as your fingers move up to fix a gentleman’s tie, half-lidded eyes focused on your task. The man tenses in a way that looks all too familiar. You move smoothly to hug an older woman, lips puckered for an air kiss on her cheek. There’s a hand on your jaw, thumb stroking affectionately, and you lean in, basking in the attention.

A hand on your arm. Fingers brushing against yours as they hand you your drink. And eyes, god, eyes that roam over you, barely veiling the wicked thoughts behind them.

You merely give them a small smile. The kind that tells them you know, and that you like it.

If he weren’t any better, he’d be seething, but really he’s the same as they are. Hungry for a drop of you.

But he isn’t angry, or jealous. Can’t be. Not when you catch his eye and cordially murmur your thanks and ‘excuse me’s before parting the crowd, moving towards his seat at the end of the bar.

Of course, knowing who he is, they don’t pursue you.

He stands as you arrive in front of him, eye locked on yours while he brings your knuckles up to his lips. He notices your painted nails, elegant and manicured to resemble little claws that remind him of cats. He smiles.

The brush on your skin feels innocent, but the shudder you try to suppress is anything but.

“You look beautiful as always.”

Maybe it’s your proclivity for music that makes you so sensitive to his voice. It’s deep and rumbly, awakening a longing for you to place your hand on his chest to feel it.

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” you reply back softly. He places a hand on your lower back, guiding you to walk with him, likely to one of the private lounges he has access to. Your stride is in time with his as you walk side by side into the velvet-covered hallway.

You can see a slight quirk on his lips, ornamental sconces bathing dim light on his handsome face as he murmurs words only for you to hear.

“How could I ever miss your show, honey?”

It’s always like this with Patch.

A big bouquet of red roses, as if you just made your debut when you’ve in fact done this a hundred times over. They’re placed in a nice vase before he pampers you with the kind of dinner you used to have once every year for a birthday celebration. The conversation that ensues with him is quiet but easy, despite each word hanging heavily with the hidden prospect for more.

Before he leaves, he’d ask you to drink with him. A small amount of something heavy and chilled. Keeping him company. So far you’ve never denied his request—not because you’re intimidated, but because you’re interested.

Tonight is no different, except the two of you are standing, and he’s so close.

He’s as striking as a portrait, white suit cutting a clear silhouette against the dark mahogany walls of the room. Low lights and a thick door grant a sense of isolation while you’re, in fact, still in a public place. He has a hand on your cheek, thumb stroking your skin, and you know the heat that gathers under his touch is not because of the alcohol.

“You know I’m a patient man, don’t you, honey?” he rasps, hungry eyes taking in your face. God, you’re even more perfect up close.

He feels you nod, the gesture a little timid. Something in his chest blooms at the look in your eyes—when it was steady before, cool under the hot spotlights, he can feel a slight change swirling in it. It’s been there, brewing since he closes the door to this room. Blooming when he pays all of his attention to you while you eat.

Nervous. Just from being with him.

He takes a step forward, slowly cornering you into the wall. Your eyes widen slightly as you look up at him. He sees you swallow, breath hitched, a hand on his chest ready to push him away.

When you don’t, his blood sings.

“Patch—”

“It’s just us, sweet thing,” he purrs, correcting you. You exhale a little shakily.

“...Logan.”

He hums, pleased at the sound of your voice calling his name. What he’d do to make you sing it louder, like you’re begging for him—he’s had plenty of dreams where you haunt him with just your voice, cooing, coaxing him to unravel you, to take you—

“Not sure I can be so patient anymore,” he says, his body brushing against yours. A hand rests on your waist, pulling you close. The other that’s on your cheek slides down to your jaw before nestling at the back of your neck, craning your head so you’re looking directly up at him.

“What do you mean?” you whisper, staring at his chin instead. If you looked into his eyes right now, you’d wither.

Lips press against your ear. The touch is undemanding, but firm, warm breath eliciting a gasp from you. Your hand on his chest catches him tensing at the sound.

“Means I want you. Now,” he answers, voice low. His hand on your waist slides down to your hip, tugging you until your breath stops—he’s hard. Your chest heaves.

Pulling away, he looks at you. You wonder what you look like. You feel feverish.

“Will you let me have you?”

A warm, calloused hand slips onto your naked thigh through the slit of your dress, and your knees are so close to buckling. Heels knock into the wall behind you, but there’s nowhere to run.

…do you even want to?

Madripoor is filth dressed up as a gemstone. The city’s deceitfulness is something Logan is accustomed to. He has seen and studied all the ways people lie.

Except for yours. The moment he takes you to the penthouse of the hotel, kissing you senseless against the locked door before carrying you to the bedroom, he feels it. The unraveling of your own brand of trickery.

Senses it through the way you slot your lips against his, how your hands glide softly down his back. He’s been with enough women to know exactly how different you are just by having you like this, under him on his bed while his mouth devours yours.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t see the woman on stage. There’s no surety in your half-lidded eyes, already glazed with desire, and certainly not in the way they avoid his own gaze, looking away over his shoulder.

Hazel eye rakes down your body. Your dress rides up, slit revealing your leg in its entirety. The cowl neck of your outfit reveals a hint of your breasts as you heave with each labored breath.

You are a seductress, just not the kind people think you are.

While you put on your mask, you feed their imaginations with easy smiles and affectionate touches. The picture-perfect illusion of a siren, dangerously alluring.

That same person is crumbling underneath him only after a few deep kisses. Averting your gaze, eyelids fluttering. Blushing.

It drives him wild.

His mouth waters as he hovers above you, still dressed. An animal wearing human clothes. His deception. He uses his hand, directing your gaze at him, smirking at the lost look on your face.

“So fucking pretty for me.”

A palm presses against your breast, lips latching onto your neck as he gets you out of the dress. As gorgeous as you look with it on, he needs to see you bare. He is slow with it, letting the straps fall first, marking the skin of your shoulders, preening as he feels your hands on his back guiding him close.

Then Logan tugs the silky fabric down, revealing your breasts. You move your arms to cover it. He doesn’t let you, grabbing them and pinning your wrists with one hand to keep you still.

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, twisting your body away from him, but that only makes you look more delicious, tits bouncing.

“Oh, honey,” he hums. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you try to shrink.

Makes him want to ruin you even more.

“I’d do whatever you ask me to, but that’s just impossible.”

He leans down, tongue lapping up a hardened peak before he uses his free hand to grab your flesh and sucks. You cry out, writhing beneath him, looking like you’re close to tears. Pleasure floods his veins, making him impatient. Where he was restrained before, he’s all relentless lust now—teeth, tongue, and lips working together to coax more of those gorgeous sounds out of you. He moves to your other breast. God, your moans…

“Logan,” you cry out, and he just about loses it.

“Fuck, you sing amazing, but that sounds even better,” he laughs, letting go of your hands so he can provoke you with both of his. The sight of your tits under his palms, slick with the attention he’s given you, nipples hard… Logan wonders whether this is a special type of heaven.

“Give me more, baby.”

You find yourself doing as you’re told, all kinds of lewd noises escaping your lips. He makes you, playing your body like some kind of instrument he’s long mastered, despite having you for the first time. When the dress comes off you entirely, you squeeze your thighs together, vaguely aware of the sopping mess that’s coalesced in your center.

Logan’s hand parts you, growling.

“No hiding.” He yanks the side of your underwear down, slipping it down your legs before tossing it. Where it lands, he couldn’t care less.

He smells you before he sees you, and his cock twitches. His good eye focuses on the glisten at the apex of your thighs, visible even in the dim light of the bedroom.

“She’s so wet already, honey,” he smiles, zeroing in at your pussy as two fingers come up to play with your folds. You arch your back, groaning. “Just from playing with your tits?”

“A-ah…”

Your thighs clamp together, but his other hand interferes just as quickly, gripping your knee to keep you spread. Fuck, he’s still fully dressed—

“So it’s all just an act? The sensual songstress,” he breathes heavily, slipping his middle finger in, watching you writhe at the sensation. He almost laughs, not out of humor, but from the way your walls clench onto his digit like you don’t want him to ever leave. “Soaked for me—”

“No, it’s not—”

“When was the last time you had a man, then, honey?” he grits, his middle finger all the way inside of you. His cock strains underneath the tent in his pants, eager to have you.

“I d-don’t remember,” you reply, your voice thin and airy.

Ideas flood his head then and there. All the ways he can make you feel good, how loud he can make you scream for him, how he’ll change you, make you want more, make you greedy—

“You’ll remember me after we’re done,” he rumbles, sliding down until your legs bracket his shoulders, head between them.

When his tongue slides up your cunt, you part your lips in a silent scream, before whines slip past your throat. He’s almost conceited in the way he eats you out, so sure, and he’s not wrong to be. Lips tease and kiss until you’re certain your lungs are short on air, all while his finger stretches your insides, reaching a part so deep you’re sure it hasn’t been touched in a long time.

Then one finger becomes two and they pump, slick sounds of your leaking cunt echoing in the room. Your hand flies to his hair, tugging needily. He moans against you, vibrations racking your body with goosebumps.

As he closes his mouth around your clit, fingers ruining you, you sob his name, cum soaking his digits.

That’s only the first one.

Logan sinks his fingers into your pussy, two fingers scissoring you. He hovers over you, mouth against your ear saying all kinds of obscenities while he stretches you in preparation for the real thing.

“Pussy so tight, baby, relax for me,” he growls, feeling you drench his fingers. The slapping sounds of his hand against you grow louder. You moan as he curls inside of you, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “Wanna make sure my dick fits inside her, yeah?”

“Fuck,” you cry weakly. He grins.

“It’s just my fingers, honey. My cock’s going to fucking ruin you, I know it. Gonna make you feel so fucking good, you won’t even look at any other guy. That right?”

Your response is an unintelligible mewl. A familiar wave crests, the knot at the bottom of your gut tightening.

“Come on, pretty girl, cum for me.”

How on earth he does it, you’re not sure. Your body obeys his command as if he has some kind of control over it, spine arching high as your hips sway, greedy for his digits, and when his thumb flicks that bundle of nerves you collapse. There’s a long drawn-out moan of his name as you spasm and shake, music to his ears.

He doesn’t waste time entering you, jacket shed, pants hanging low on his thighs—far too desperate at this point. Soon, you’re leaking all over his cock. His hand gently directs your gaze to where your bodies join, holding your chin as he feeds you his inches.

“Fuck, honey, look at that. Taking me so well.”

He moves.

A common sense of decency, the songs you sang in the set earlier, the taste of the drink he poured you—all of these things are forgotten, your mind a clean slate with each thrust of his length inside you. The way he moves is designed to make you fall apart quickly, relieving the ache in your core while making you want more, and you feel that sensation build within you again. Hands grip his biceps as you pant, eyelids fluttering up at him, drinking his expression while he spews filth at you.

“Feels so good, baby, you’re so fucking hot.” His hips snap, a squelching sound between your legs. “Hear that? So wet for me. Want more?”

You mewl a ‘yes, Logan, please’ and he grins in delight, a renewed vigor in his already ruthless pace.

“God, fuck, you’re so tight. Gonna cum on my cock?”

Nodding, you bury your face in his neck, letting out little gasps every time he sinks into you. You feel so full, like he’s all the way in your stomach—

“Tell me. Use your words, baby.”

“I-I’m so close, Logan,” you cry.

“That’s right, let go, sweet thing, let me take care of you.”

The third time your orgasm hits, you’re hit by the reality of everything, your senses honing in to register only him. The way his length drags your walls—fuck, he hasn’t stopped—, his breath on your temple, the rumble of his voice as he praises you—“good girl, doing so good,”—the world stops.

It’s just you, him, and how good it feels.

As the last waves of release begin to simmer down your limbs, electrifying your legs and fingertips, you pant, catching your breath. A gentle hand cups the fat of your cheek. You open your eyes.

Logan looks down at you, studying your utterly ruined countenance. Lips parted, cheeks burning, hair messily splayed on his pillow—the same way he imagined it would when he saw you sing just an hour ago.

That expensive lipstick hasn’t budged, though. He already knows one way he wants to ruin it.

The world spins and you let out a surprised noise as Logan flips the two of you, him on the bed and you sitting on his abs. You whine, feeling the slick smearing his shirt. He all but rips the fabric down the center, yanking it off his skin like it offended him, revealing his bare and hairy chest to you.

Hands are on your hips now, positioning you on top of his length. Your eyes widen. He’s still hard.

Once again, his cock sinks into your heat, and you melt on top of him, hands bracing on his chest, head tilted back.

“Oh my god—”

“Didn’t think I was done with you, huh, honey?” he groans, bottoming out, hand pressing on your stomach. Then his eye snaps up at you, pleased at the hazy look on your face.

“Come on, ride. Gonna fuck the shyness outta you.”

#logan x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #x men #logan howlett #wolverine x you #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine smut #logan howlett smut

299 notes · View notes

unabashegirl · 1 month ago

Text

Love Island - part 1

AU. Based on the TV show.

Author's note: Hello everyone, I've been meaning to post this on Tumblr. I hope you like this 10 part series as much as my Patreon followers did. This initial chapter is very short but it's on purpose.

⭐️ Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the Love Island villa. Laughter and splashing echoed as the Islanders basked in the afternoon heat, their spirits high. Y/N lounged on a sunbed, half-listening to Tom, her current partner, as he animatedly recounted his latest gym achievements. She forced a smile, nodding occasionally, but her mind drifted. Each day felt like a mirror of the last, a cycle of sunbathing and surface-level conversations that left her craving something deeper.

Then, a sudden commotion pulled her from her thoughts. Georgia, the self-appointed drama queen of the group, leaped up, her phone held high in the air. “I’ve got a text!”

The excitement was palpable as everyone converged around her, eager to hear the news. Y/N's heart raced with anticipation; a new arrival could break the monotony and shake things up in the villa.

With a flourish, Georgia read aloud: “Islanders, get ready to welcome a new boy! Please head to the front of the villa to greet him. #NewBoyAlert”

Cheers erupted, and the Islanders surged toward the entrance, Y/N caught up in the tide of enthusiasm. As they gathered at the door, playful jabs and speculation flew about the new contestant, each guess more outrageous than the last.

When the door swung open, a wave of heat rolled through the villa. In walked Harry, tall and confident, with tousled dark curls that framed his face and tattoos peeking out from under his arms. He was clad only in dark swimming trunks, showcasing his fit physique. The moment he stepped in, it felt as if the air shifted—a palpable energy filled the space.

“Hey, everyone!” he called, his voice warm and inviting. “I’m Harry. I’m 26, a travel photographer, and I’m here looking for someone special.”

As the group responded with cheers and applause, Y/N felt a jolt of excitement at his casual charm. He seemed so at ease, as if he belonged there, and she found herself drawn to his confidence.

“Travel photographer?” Zara chimed in, her tone flirty. “Sounds glamorous! What’s your favorite place you’ve been?”

“Honestly? It’s tough to pick,” he replied, flashing a charming smile that made Y/N’s stomach flip. “But I’d say Greece has its magic. The sunsets there are something else”, He glanced at Y/N as he said this, and for a moment, their eyes locked, sparking an unexpected connection.

As introductions continued, Harry moved down the line, exchanging light banter and laughter. When he reached Y/N, his gaze lingered, a genuine curiosity dancing in his green eyes.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked, his tone sincere.

“Y/N,” she replied, feeling her heart race under his attention. “Nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Great to meet you, too, Y/N,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

As the evening wore on, the villa transformed into a cozy gathering spot under the twinkling lights. Y/N found herself outside by the pool, trying to catch her breath from the whirlwind of introductions. The water shimmered invitingly, but her thoughts were consumed by Harry—the way he carried himself, how he seemed genuinely interested in everyone, and that spark in his eyes when they’d connected.

To her surprise, Harry sauntered over, casually lowering himself onto the lounge chair next to her. The warmth of his presence felt comforting, like a breath of fresh air.

“Mind if I join?” he asked, his tone light, but there was a deeper warmth in his voice that made her heart flutter.

“Not at all,” Y/N replied, a smile breaking across her face.

Harry stretched out on the chair, his relaxed posture revealing a confidence that made her feel at ease. “So, what do you make of all this?” he asked, glancing around the villa.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted, glancing up at the stars. “But it can get a bit repetitive. I mean, we’re all here looking for something, but sometimes it feels like we’re just... drifting.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I get that. what’s kept you in here so long?”

She looked up, surprised by his directness. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t strike me as the type who’d settle for just anyone. So, I was curious why you’re still here.”

She smirked, crossing her arms. “You get all that just from looking?”

“Maybe,” he replied casually. “Or maybe I’m just observant. Part of the job, you know.”

Their conversation deepened, revealing snippets of their lives. Y/N found herself sharing stories about her childhood, her passion for art, and how she’d dreamed of traveling but had never found the right person to explore with. Harry listened intently, nodding along, his gaze fixed on her as if she were the only person in the world.

“What about you? What made you want to come on the show?” Y/N asked, genuinely curious.

He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “Honestly? I wanted to step out of my comfort zone.” He paused, a soft smile forming. “So far. I am very interested”.

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up at his compliment, her heart racing.

As the evening wore on, they exchanged teasing remarks, laughter bubbling between them. With each shared moment, Y/N felt a connection growing—a sense of camaraderie and understanding that she hadn’t felt in a while.

“Well,” Harry said after a while, pushing himself up from the chair, “I guess I’ll see you around”.

“Definitely,” she replied, her smile lingering as he walked away, a sense of excitement coursing through her.

The sun rises on another day in the villa, and it’s not just the temperature heating things up after last night’s new arrival. Our Islanders may have started with some clear choices, but Harry’s arrival has shaken things up... especially for Tom.

The villa was buzzing with morning energy as everyone moved around the kitchen, filling glasses with orange juice and grabbing breakfast. Y/N sat on a lounger, enjoying a quiet moment with her coffee before the day’s inevitable whirlwind of chats. She noticed Tom watching her from across the patio, looking a bit anxious. He made his way over, rubbing his hands together, as if trying to psych himself up.

Tom might have been Mr. Confident last week, but it looks like he’s feeling the heat now that Harry’s in the villa. Will Y/N’s current couple get through this twist unscathed, or will Tom’s nerves get the best of him?

“Morning, Y/N,” Tom greeted, taking a seat beside her. His usual relaxed smile seemed a bit forced today.

“Morning, Tom,” Y/N replied, sipping her coffee and meeting his gaze. She could sense he wanted to say something, and he looked like he was wrestling with the words.

“Listen,” he began, leaning forward. “Last night, with Harry showing up and all... It’s got me thinking. I just wanted to see where your head’s at.” His voice was steady, but she could sense the nervousness under it.

She nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “I get it. It’s all moving fast, isn’t it? I mean, I didn’t expect someone like Harry to walk in and shake things up.”

Tom shifted in his seat, his gaze flicking between her and his hands. “Right. He’s... yeah, he’s something. But, uh... I just want to know if you’re, well, interested. In him. Like, romantically.”

She took a moment, carefully choosing her words. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet, Tom. Harry’s interesting, and he’s definitely got that confident energy. But I’m still figuring things out. I mean, you and I have had a great connection.”

Tom relaxed a little, his shoulders loosening as he nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I thought so too. We’ve been getting on really well. I just—well, I know how this place works. It’s all about testing things and seeing if connections are genuine, but…” He trailed off, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. “I just don’t want to feel like I’m getting left behind, you know?”

Y/N reached over, resting a hand on his knee to ease his nerves. “Look, Tom, I’m here to find something real, and I do want to see where we could go. But I also don’t want to close myself off from getting to know Harry. It’s early days, and I feel like it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to ignore a potential connection.”

And there we have it, folks. Y/N is caught between Tom’s steady interest and Harry’s unpredictable charm. With Tom hanging on by a thread, will Y/N let go or keep her options open?

Tom’s lips tightened, and he gave a small nod. “Fair enough. I can’t stop you from seeing where things go. I mean, you’re right—it is early days. Just… give me a heads-up if you start to feel like it’s going somewhere else, yeah?”

“Of course,” she assured him, offering him a warm smile. “I’ll always be honest with you, Tom. That’s a promise.”

He smiled, though it looked a bit forced, then let out a sigh, looking back towards the villa. “Right then. Just have to up my game a bit, won’t I?”

Y/N chuckled, nudging him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Just keep being you.”

But will that be enough, Tom? With Harry’s arrival in the villa, we might just see if Tom can hold his own—or if his steady confidence starts to crack.

After Tom walked off, Y/N settled back into her lounger, taking a slow sip of her coffee. The warmth of the morning sun was comforting, and she let herself enjoy the peace, though her mind kept drifting to Harry.

Across the patio, Harry was surrounded by a small group of girls, each one caught up in his easy charm. There was Georgia, always the first to get a word in; her dark hair bounced as she laughed at one of his jokes, flashing him a look that said she was more than intrigued. Beside her was Chloe, who toyed with her braid as she angled closer, her gaze fixed on him, and Lila, who had barely left his side since his arrival. They all hung on his every word, their laughter blending with his deep chuckles.

Y/N watched him, noticing the way he seemed effortlessly at ease, making each of the girls feel like they were the only ones there. He was charming, no doubt, and that little smirk of his told her he knew exactly what he was doing. There was something magnetic about him; he was the kind of person you couldn’t help but notice.

Then, as if sensing her gaze, Harry’s eyes lifted, meeting hers across the patio. The moment their eyes connected, a playful glint flickered in his. His smile softened, turning into that cheeky grin she was beginning to recognize. He said something to the girls that made them all laugh again, and then, with a quick apology, excused himself from the group.

Y/N’s heart gave a little jump as she saw him walking towards her, the confidence in his stride obvious as he crossed the patio. When he reached her, he didn’t sit right away. Instead, he leaned forward, his arms resting on the back of her lounger, his face close enough that she could catch the faint scent of the sea on his skin.

“Morning,” he said, his voice smooth, that smirk never leaving his lips. “Didn’t expect to catch you staring.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Staring? I was just observing… thought I’d get a better sense of what all the fuss is about.”

He chuckled, settling himself on the edge of her lounger without breaking eye contact. “Ah, so you were curious, then. Good to know I’ve got your attention, even if just a little.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she replied, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “I was just checking to see if you were actually as charming as you think you are.”

He tilted his head, feigning contemplation. “And? What’s the verdict, then?”

She shrugged, pretending to consider it. “I think it’s too early to tell. But I’ll let you know if you manage to impress me.”

Harry leaned back, grinning. “Challenge accepted. I’m a big fan of keeping things interesting. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t come over here to see if I could learn a bit more about you too.”

“Oh, really?” she teased, crossing her arms as she watched him. “So, the big mystery man’s got questions?”

“Maybe one or two.” His gaze softened, the playful edge giving way to a hint of sincerity. “Like, what exactly is a girl like you looking for in here?”

She held his gaze, considering her answer for a moment. “Honestly, someone genuine,” she said, her tone earnest. “It’s easy to get caught up in all the surface stuff, but I’m hoping to find something real. Something that lasts.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Right. Thought I’d take a risk, try something new.” His voice softened, a touch of vulnerability creeping in. “Been a while since I let anyone in.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade. She felt a spark, a warmth that hadn’t been there before, and she knew he felt it too.

“Alright then, Harry the risk-taker,” she said, breaking the silence with a playful smile. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you say.”

Harry’s cheeky grin returned, the playfulness back in his eyes. “Oh, you’ve got no idea what I’m capable of, Y/N.”

Looks like Y/N’s little morning coffee break has turned into something a bit more steamy than she bargained for. With Tom on edge and Harry moving in, she may have her hands full. So, who’s in it for the long haul? Stay tuned.

--> part 2

363 notes · View notes

mahalachives · 2 months ago

Text

Part 9: The Rise of the High Lady of Autumn

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The wind rushed past, cold against your tear-streaked face as Azriel's wings cut through darkness. His arms formed an unbreakable cage around you, keeping you pressed against the steady beat of his heart.

Below, the world stretched in shadow-painted patches: forests giving way to hills, plains to mountains, all rushing by as he flew with desperate speed.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Eris was captured. Your safe haven in Dawn Court had crumbled in moments.

"It's my fault," you whispered, the words torn away by wind. "Beron wants me."

Azriel's arms tightened fractionally. "No." The word vibrated through his chest, against your cheek. "Beron sealed his fate the moment he betrayed you. What happens now was always coming."

The charm between your bodies pulsed with shared warmth, fire and shadow interwoven. It offered comfort where words failed, a silent promise that transcended the chaos below.

When the most imposing mountain range you'd ever seen loomed ahead, Azriel banked sharply.

You closed your eyes against vertigo, burying your face in his leathers. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and danger in equal measure.

"Look," he commanded softly, his breath warm against your ear.

You opened your eyes.

And there it was.

Velaris. The City of Starlight.

Nestled between mountains and sea, it glowed with a light that owed nothing to the sun. Instead, thousands of lamps, pearl and gold and silver, cast their glow across buildings that somehow managed to be both ancient and alive.

A river cut through its heart, midnight blue and glittering with reflected stars. Bridges arched gracefully across the water, each one uniquely beautiful.

In this moment, suspended between sky and earth, you understood something profound: beauty could exist alongside terror. Light could persist through darkness. Perhaps this was what the bond had been trying to teach you all along.

"Home," Azriel offered, the word rife with meaning.

It wasn't a demand or expectation, merely an invitation. A possibility.

He circled lower, wings extended to catch thermal currents as he guided you toward a house built into the side of a mountain.

A balcony extended outward like an offering hand, glowing with warm light that spilled from tall windows.

"The House of Wind," he explained. "Where the Inner Circle gathers."

The mention of his family sent anxiety coiling through you. The bond reacted instantly, tightening between you as golden light briefly illuminated your joined bodies.

Azriel landed with practiced precision, wings folding with mechanical efficiency as he set you carefully on your feet. Your legs wobbled, unaccustomed to solid ground after hours of flight.

His scarred hand steadied you, the touch brief but grounding.

His eyes, normally warm when they looked at you, turned to ice as they shifted toward the waiting figures. "They're here."

The glass doors opened. A male of such devastating beauty it seemed almost cruel stepped onto the balcony. Violet eyes flickered between you and Azriel, noting the proximity, the lingering touch.

Rhysand's power rolling off him in midnight waves, stars glittering within that darkness like predator eyes. Yet there was wisdom there too, ancient and considering.

"Az," he greeted, voice cultured and carefully neutral. "I see your mission was successful."

Something in his tone made your spine stiffen.

Not hostile, precisely, but measured. Assessing.

"High Lord," you responded before Azriel could speak, straightening to your full height despite your exhaustion. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Rhysand's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across those perfect features. "Lady of Autumn. Welcome to Velaris."

Behind him, others appeared. Feyre and beside her, Cassian, his wings tucked loosely against his broad back.

And then, a golden-haired female, beautiful in ways that transcended conventional prettiness. Her eyes assessed you with such cold hostility it felt like a physical blow.

Morrigan. The cousin who had once been promised to Eris in marriage, before he'd left her bleeding at the border between their courts.

Your brother's victim.

The air thickened with tension as her gaze slid from you to Azriel, noting how he'd positioned himself half a step ahead of you, wings still partially extended in unconscious protection.

"What is she doing here?" Mor demanded, voice sharp enough to cut. "We discussed this, Rhys."

Rhysand's expression tightened fractionally. "Mor..."

"No," she interrupted, her beautiful face contorted with a fury that seemed to transform her from within. "This is Velaris. Our sanctuary. Our home. And you bring Autumn Court royalty here?"

Azriel didn't speak. Didn't warn.

His shadows simply expanded, darkness slithering across the balcony floor toward Mor like living things with purpose, with intent. The temperature plummeted so rapidly that frost crystals formed on the railing beside you.

"Az," Cassian said, voice low with warning.

Azriel's face remained perfectly expressionless, but his shadows darkened, swallowing nearby lamps with cold precision. When he finally spoke, his voice carried none of the gentle cadence he'd used with you. Each word fell like a shard of ice.

"She is under my protection."

Four words. Simple. Final.

Mor's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "We're talking about Beron's daughter. Eris's sister. Have you forgotten..."

"I forget nothing." Azriel's interruption was soft yet somehow more threatening than any shout. His shadows coiled tighter, their edges hardening into something closer to blades than mist. "Nor do I need reminding of my own experiences, Morrigan."

The use of her full name, not the casual "Mor" of five centuries' friendship, fell like a blow between them. Something fractured in the air, invisible yet undeniable.

The bond between you flared in response to the building tension, golden light not just briefly visible beneath your skin but radiating actual warmth that pushed back against the frost his shadows had created. It was like standing in a ray of winter sunlight, your joined magics creating a balance neither could achieve alone.

"I don't expect welcome," you said quietly, meeting Mor's hostile gaze despite the instinct to retreat. "Only temporary sanctuary."

"Well, you won't find it here," Morrigan replied, her voice cold as Winter Court frost. "Not as long as I have any say."

Feyre stepped forward, diplomatic mask firmly in place. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion inside. Our guest has traveled far under difficult circumstances."

"Our guest," Morrigan repeated with venomous emphasis, "shouldn't be here at all."

The charm against your chest burned painfully hot as Azriel moved, not toward Mor but toward you. His body shifted until he stood between you and the others, a physical barrier of muscle and wings and shadow.

"She is my mate," he said, each word precise as a blade strike. "That should be enough for you, for all of you."

The declaration fell into stunned silence. Even Rhysand seemed momentarily at a loss for words. His violet eyes widened fractionally, power momentarily faltering around him as the implications registered.

In that silence, you felt something shift within the shadowsinger beside you. A weight lifting, perhaps.

"Mate or not," Mor said, recovering first, "she's still Beron's daughter. Still Eris's sister. Or have you forgotten what Autumn Court nobility is capable of?"

Azriel didn't turn to face her, his body remaining a shield between you and the others. His wings flared slightly, an unconscious display of aggression that made even Cassian's hand drift toward his weapon.

"You know nothing about her," he said, voice midnight given sound. "Nothing about what she's endured or survived."

Cassian shifted uncomfortably, the movement drawing your eye. The general's expression held none of Mor's hostility. Instead, he watched the exchange with something approaching concern, recognition flickering in his eyes.

"Az," Cassian said quietly, "maybe now isn't the time..."

"There is no better time," Azriel cut him off, his normally controlled voice edged with emotion. "Before assumptions become actions."

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your shoulders, sensing your distress. Their tiny flame forms brightened defensively, casting warm, pink light across Azriel's shadowed wings.

In their appearance, you understood something about magic you hadn't before. It answered to emotion as much as to will. Perhaps that was why the bond had formed in the first place, answering to something beyond conscious choice.

Rhysand's expression shifted subtly as he studied you with renewed interest.

Feyre moved closer to her mate, her own gaze thoughtful. She slipped her hand into Rhysand's, a silent communication passing between them. As High Lady, she would understand better than anyone what it meant to be bonded to a powerful male, to have that bond form against all expectations.

"She can't stay here," Morrigan insisted, crossing her arms. "I won't have it."

Something cold and resolute settled in your chest.

The truth was simple. You didn't belong here. You couldn't heal in a place where your very presence caused others pain.

"She's right," you said, the words falling into sudden silence. "I shouldn't be here."

Azriel turned to you then, shock evident in his expression, his shadows momentarily dispersing with his surprise. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I won't stay where I'm not wanted," you replied, voice steady despite the pain radiating through the bond.

"Where would you go?" Feyre asked, genuine concern in her voice. She, of all of them, had once been the outsider, the human in a world of immortals.

"Somewhere else," you answered simply. "Somewhere new."

"Alone?" Cassian's brow furrowed.

"If necessary." You lifted your chin, refusing to bend beneath the weight of Morrigan's hatred. "I've survived worse."

Azriel's shadows exploded outward, dark tendrils lashing the night air. The temperature on the balcony plummeted until breath fogged before faces. Even Rhysand took an involuntary step back, momentarily stunned by the ferocity of Azriel's reaction.

"You won't go alone," he growled, the words vibrating with conviction. "Wherever you go, I go."

The declaration stunned everyone into silence. Even Mor's hostility faltered, replaced by disbelief.

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. The bond between you blazed golden-bright beneath your skin, responding to the absoluteness of his choice. Through that connection, you felt what he felt, centuries of isolation crashing against the terrifying freedom of choice. Five hundred years of darkness giving way to a light he'd never believed himself worthy of claiming.

A choice made not out of duty or obligation, but something infinitely rarer. Free will.

"Az," Rhysand began carefully, "think about what you're saying."

But there was something beyond caution in Rhysand's voice now, something like understanding. His gaze flickered to Feyre, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He, too, had once chosen his mate over everything else.

Azriel turned to face his High Lord fully, his body shifting to stand beside you, equals, not protector and protected.

"I have thought," Azriel replied, his voice colder than you had ever heard it. Gone was the shadowsinger who had flown with you through the night. In his place stood a warrior hewn from winter frost and ancient darkness. "For five centuries, I've served the Night Court. I've spilled blood and shadow without complaint or hesitation."

His wings snapped fully open, an intimidation display that made even Cassian take an instinctive step back. His shadows formed patterns of such complexity and rage that they hurt the eye to follow.

"But I tell you now, clearly, so there can be no misunderstanding." His gaze swept the gathered circle, lingering longest on Mor. "If the choice is between my mate and my court, I choose her. Every time. Without hesitation or regret."

The words fell like a thunderclap. Mor's face drained of color. Rhysand's expression remained carefully controlled, but something like pain flickered in those violet eyes, the understanding of a High Lord who might lose not just his spymaster but his brother.

Your body went completely still, breath caught in your lungs. Five centuries of brotherhood. Five centuries of loyalty. Five centuries of shared battles and blood and nightmares. And he would walk away from it all, for you.

The bond between you vibrated with the magnitude of his choice, golden light spilling from beneath your skin, illuminating the night around you both. It wasn't just light; it was truth made visible. Undeniable. Absolute. The warmth it generated seemed to push back against the chill, creating a pocket of heat around you both, as if the magic itself rebelled against the coldness of potential separation.

"No one is asking you to choose, brother," Rhysand said, voice deceptively calm despite the power now coiling around him like a storm waiting to break. His eyes, though, betrayed deeper emotion, the memory of his own sacrifice for Feyre shadowing his features. "There are other solutions. We can find another place within Night Court territory..."

"No," you interrupted, your decision solidifying with each passing moment. "This is your sanctuary. Your safe place." Your eyes met Mor's, acknowledging her pain without minimizing it. "Some wounds can't heal in the presence of what caused them. I understand that better than most."

"You don't have to leave," Feyre insisted, stepping forward. "Mor doesn't speak for all of us." She, perhaps alone among them, fully understood what it meant to be separated from a mate.

"But she speaks truth," you replied. "And I respect that more than false welcome."

You looked at Azriel, heart pounding against your ribs. "You don't have to come with me. This is your family. Your home."

Azriel's scarred hand found yours, cool fingers slipping between your warm ones with careful deliberation. "You are my home now," he said simply.

Through the bond, his emotions crashed into you, raw and unfettered: centuries of silent longing, of watching others find connection while he remained in darkness. The terrible, wonderful freedom of finally choosing something for himself. The fear of unknown pathways balanced against the certainty of what he'd found in you.

Not out of obligation. Not out of duty. But out of choice.

Cassian moved forward, genuine alarm in his features. "Az, think about this. Five centuries together. We're brothers."

Azriel's gaze shifted to Cassian, something almost like regret flickering briefly in those hazel depths before ice reclaimed them. "And brothers understand when one must follow his own path," he replied, though the slight roughness in his voice betrayed the cost of his choice. "This isn't goodbye, Cassian. Just... a different road."

"Where will you go?" Rhysand asked, power now visibly swirling around him, tiny stars coalescing and fading within the darkness that clung to his skin.

"West," Azriel answered after a moment. "Beyond Prythian's borders. Beyond the reach of courts and politics."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with finality. Rhysand's face remained impassive, but his eyes, those star-flecked violet eyes, revealed the depth of his shock. Centuries of brotherhood, of shared battles and blood and loyalty, suspended in this single, fragile moment.

"I won't command you to stay," Rhysand finally said, each word weighed and measured. "I never would. But I ask you, as your High Lord and your friend, to reconsider."

Though his tone remained controlled, Rhysand's power betrayed his turmoil, stars burning brighter, darkness swirling more intensely. He understood the choice Azriel faced, had made similar sacrifices himself, yet still struggled with the reality of losing his shadowsinger.

Azriel's expression remained coldly resolute,"I've made my choice, Rhys. As you once made yours for Feyre."

The comparison wasn't lost on any of them. Rhysand had once risked everything, including his own life, for his mate. The parallel hung between them, uncomfortable but undeniable.

Morrigan stepped forward, her earlier hostility tempered by dawning realization. "You would really leave? For her?"

"Not just for her," Azriel corrected quietly, his shadows calming as they settled around you both. "For myself as well. For what we might become together, without the weight of past sins and obligations."

The admission stole your breath. This wasn't just about protection or duty. This was about something far more profound, a future neither of you had dared imagine possible. The knowledge of it settled in your chest like a stone, heavy with potential and terror in equal measure.

"At least wait until morning," Feyre urged. "Rest. Eat. Make this decision with clear heads."

Before you could answer, a sudden tug pulled at your awareness, a sensation like blood calling to blood. Your head snapped toward the city streets below, an instinct more primal than thought drawing your attention.

Chaos erupted below a heartbeat later. Shouting rose from the streets of Velaris, the sounds of panic reaching even the lofty heights of the House of Wind.

Rhysand was at the balcony's edge in an instant, power rolling off him in midnight waves as he scanned the city below. Cassian and Feyre flanked him, their own magic rising in response to potential threat.

"What is it?" Morrigan asked, moving forward despite her earlier hostility.

"Something's wrong," you whispered, the familial connection pulling at you with increasing urgency. "Someone's here. Someone of my blood."

Azriel's shadows stretched outward, tasting the air, gathering information beyond normal senses. His expression shifted from confusion to grim determination as they confirmed what your blood already knew.

"Lucien," he said, shadows confirming what his eyes could now see. "He's wounded."

You pushed past him to the balcony's edge, eyes straining to see through darkness.

There, in the street below, stood your brother. His clothing was torn and bloody, his hair matted with what could only be more blood. But he was alive, standing proud despite obvious injury.

"Lucien," you whispered, relief and fear warring within you.

Azriel's hand found yours, scarred fingers twining with your own. "I'll take you to him," he said, voice rough with shared concern.

As he gathered you in his arms and launched from the balcony, you caught a glimpse of the Inner Circle's faces, shock, concern, and in Mor's expression, something complicated that couldn't quite eclipse her earlier rejection.

The shadowsinger carried you down toward your brother with swift purpose, his wings creating eddies in the night air.

Landing lightly beside Lucien, Azriel set you carefully on your feet. Your knees nearly buckled as you took in the full extent of your brother's injuries, a deep gash across his forehead, burns along his arms, a limp that spoke of damage to his right leg.

"What happened?" you demanded, moving to your brother's side. "Where's Eris?"

Lucien's mismatched eyes were haunted, the mechanical one whirring erratically. "I couldn't get to him in time," he said, voice ragged with exhaustion and grief. "Beron caught him organizing the rebellion. He..." Lucien's voice broke. "He's torturing him. Using him as an example."

Horror flooded through you, cold and paralyzing. "No," you whispered. "No, no, no..."

"I tried," Lucien continued, the words tearing from his throat. "Mother above, I tried to reach him. But Beron's guards were everywhere. I barely escaped with my life."

Cassian landed beside you, having followed from the House of Wind. His face hardened as he took in Lucien's condition and his news.

"We need to get you to a healer," Cassian said, military precision taking over. "Then we plan our next move."

"There is no next move," Lucien replied, his voice hollow. "Beron has sealed the borders of Autumn Court. Every entry point is guarded by his elite. He's sent a message to all High Lords, any interference will be considered an act of war."

"And the rebellion?" Azriel asked quietly.

"Still fighting," Lucien confirmed, though his expression held little hope. "But with Eris captured... their leadership is in chaos. Beron is systematically hunting down anyone connected to the resistance."

The implications settled over you like a physical weight. Eris, your eldest brother who had risked everything to help you escape, was now paying the price for his defiance. The brother who had always seemed so untouchable, so invulnerable, was at Beron's mercy.

And Beron had none.

"We have to do something," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "We can't just leave him there."

Azriel's shadows coiled tighter around you, as if trying to shield you from a truth too painful to bear. "We won't abandon him," he promised, the gentleness in his voice a stark contrast to the coldness he'd shown his Inner Circle moments before. "I promise you that."

"But we need a plan," Cassian added, his battle-trained mind already working through scenarios. "Not a suicide mission."

You glanced back at the House of Wind, where Rhysand and Feyre still watched from the balcony. Morrigan had disappeared back inside.

"We still need to leave," you said quietly to Azriel. "But not until we've done everything possible for Eris."

"We'll find a way," Azriel agreed, his shadows swirling protectively around both you and Lucien. "Then we go."

Lucien's gaze shifted between you and Azriel, confusion evident in his mismatched eyes. "Go? Go where?"

"Somewhere new," you said simply. "The Night Court isn't the right place for me. For us."

Understanding dawned in Lucien's tired face. "Mor," he guessed, accurately reading the situation. "She's still blinded by the past."

"She has reason," you acknowledged, refusing to villainize someone whose pain was so clearly genuine. "And I won't heal in a place where my presence causes others to suffer."

Lucien's gaze shifted to Azriel, assessment clear in that mechanical eye. "And you? You would leave everything for my sister? Your court? Your High Lord? The family you've served for centuries?"

Azriel's expression remained neutral, but his shadows curled possessively around your joined hands. "I would."

The words shimmered between you, a truth so profound it left you breathless. The realization of what this male was offering, not just protection, not just loyalty, but a future built on mutual choice rather than obligation or duty, made your heart pound against your ribs.

"We stay until we've done everything we can for Eris," you said, your decision made. "Then we find our own path."

Lucien nodded slowly, acceptance settling in his weary features. "I understand. More than most."

The healing center of Velaris melded practicality with comfort in ways that spoke to the Night Court's character. Stone walls, softened by tapestries in deep midnight blue, captured and reflected the perpetual night of the city. Windows stood open to the cool air, carrying the distant hum of city life and the faint scent of salt from the nearby sea. Rooms glowed with starlight captured in floating glass orbs, their light gentle enough for healing but bright enough for precision work.

The air carried the distinctive scent of healing herbs: night jasmine to induce restful sleep, crushed moonberries for pain, and the sharp tang of wintermint for clarity of mind. Beneath it all lingered the subtle sweetness of healing magic itself, like honey dissolved in water.

Healers, quiet and efficient in midnight-blue robes embroidered with silver stars, had immediately taken charge of Lucien, guiding him to a treatment room where they now worked on his injuries with methodical precision. Their hands moved with the confidence of those who had mended far worse wounds than his.

You waited outside, pacing the smooth stone floor. Each step echoed softly in the quiet corridor, marking time like a heartbeat. Azriel stood motionless by the window, his shadows stretching periodically down the hallway, gathering information, monitoring for threats. His stillness made your restlessness all the more pronounced.

The door at the end of the hallway opened, admitting a slender female you had seen.

Elain Archeron.

"Where is he?" she asked, voice melodic yet urgent. "Is he..."

"He's being treated now," you answered, instinctively stepping forward.

Elain. Lucien's mate.

The female whose face appeared in his rare, unguarded moments, whose name he sometimes spoke in his sleep. The female who had sent warning, created diversion, saved Lucien's life.

Azriel's shadows maintained their steady patrol, neither reacting to her presence nor acknowledging any shared history. His face remained calm, completely unperturbed, as if greeting a casual acquaintance rather than someone with whom he might have once shared deeper connection.

"You helped him escape," you said softly to Elain.

Elain's gaze finally focused on you fully, wariness evident in her posture. Her fingers twisted a small silver ring with nervous energy. "You're his sister. The Lady of Autumn."

"Just his sister," you corrected automatically. "Nothing else matters right now."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing you with unexpected sharpness. Then, apparently satisfied with whatever she saw, she nodded once. "He called for you. In my visions. Before they happened."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. "Visions?"

"I'm a Seer," she explained simply, no pride or apology in the statement. Just fact. "I See what's coming. Sometimes. Not always clearly. Not always in time." Her gaze drifted to the treatment room door, guilt shadowing her features. "Not soon enough for Eris."

Azriel's shadows curled inward at the mention of Eris, growing denser, almost defensive. "You did what you could," he said.

Elain looked at him fully for the first time, her expression complicated. "Az," she acknowledged, something like resignation briefly crossing her features at his professional demeanor.

Before any of you could say more, the treatment room door opened. A healer stepped out, bowing formally to Elain.

"He's asking for you," she said simply, stepping aside.

Elain moved forward, then hesitated, glancing back at you. "Will you come? He needs his family too."

The unexpected inclusion startled you. You looked to Azriel, whose shadows had gone utterly still, as if holding their breath. He nodded once, a tiny movement that nonetheless conveyed complete support for whatever you chose.

"Of course," you said, stepping forward to follow Elain into the room.

Lucien lay on a bed of midnight blue, his injuries already partially healed. The gash on his forehead had closed, leaving behind a thin red line that would fade to silver. The burns on his arms were covered in a translucent green salve that smelled of mint and something sweeter, like crushed berries. His mechanical eye had been removed for repair, the empty socket covered with a patch of dark silk.

His remaining eye widened at the sight of you and Elain together. Surprise, then something like wonder, crossed his features. Beneath it, you caught the flash of vulnerability, the momentary disbelief that his mate and his sister would stand together at his bedside.

"My two guardian angels," he said, voice rough with exhaustion but touched with genuine amusement. "Come to ensure I don't slip away?"

Elain moved to his bedside without hesitation, her hand finding his with practiced familiarity. The moment they touched, a barely perceptible sigh escaped him, his body relaxing as if a hidden tension had finally released. "You're not going anywhere," she said, the dreamy quality entirely gone from her voice. In its place was steel, determination, a will that seemed at odds with her delicate appearance.

His eye never left her face, drinking in her presence as if storing it against future drought. The nakedness of his need was almost painful to witness, a male so thoroughly claimed by the mating bond that even the presence of others couldn't mask it.

You approached from the other side, relief making your movements unsteady. "The healers say you'll recover fully."

"They always say that," Lucien replied with a weak smile, finally tearing his gaze from Elain. "Makes the patients feel better." His gaze shifted to Azriel, who had remained by the door, shadows wrapped tight around him. "They're treating me better than I expected, Shadowsinger. Your doing?"

Azriel's face revealed nothing, but his shadows briefly formed a pattern that might have been confirmation. "The Night Court respects loyalty to family," he said quietly. "Even when that family belongs to Autumn."

Lucien's eye narrowed, studying Azriel with unnerving intensity. The mechanical gold eye, temporarily removed, would have been whirring with calculation.

Lucien's expression sobered. "We need to act quickly. Beron won't keep him alive indefinitely."

"We need a plan," you agreed, anxiety clenching your stomach at the thought of Eris in Beron's clutches. The bond with Azriel flared briefly, responding to your distress with golden warmth that pushed back against the cold fear. "A way to reach him."

"I can help with that," Elain said, her dreamy voice returning, eyes going slightly unfocused. "I've Seen a path. Through shadows and flame. A way beneath mountains where guards don't look."

Azriel straightened, interest sharpening his features. "What did you See, exactly?"

Elain's gaze turned inward, focusing on something none of you could perceive. "A tunnel. Ancient. Forgotten. It runs beneath the border mountains between Night and Autumn. It emerges in a grove where the trees burn eternally without being consumed."

Recognition flashed across Lucien's face. "The Sacred Grove. It's less than a mile from the Autumn Court palace."

"How did you know about this tunnel?" Azriel asked Elain, his voice remaining professionally curious rather than personally invested.

Elain's eyes refocused, meeting his with unexpected directness. "I Saw it after you left the House of Wind. When I knew what you'd chosen." She shrugged lightly, acceptance rather than hurt shaping her features. "The Cauldron shows me what's needed, Az. Not what's wanted."

The atmosphere remained calm, without the charged tension of unresolved feelings. Azriel's shadows continued their steady vigilance, neither reaching for Elain nor recoiling from her. Whatever history lay between them seemed settled, at least on his part.

Lucien watched this exchange with careful neutrality, though his fingers tightened slightly around Elain's. The movement was subtle, possessive yet insecure. A male who had found his mate but still feared losing her, even to a male who clearly had no interest.

"This tunnel," you interjected, "can it get us to Eris?"

"Yes," Elain said, attention returning to you. "But not all of us. Two, at most. More would draw attention."

"I'll go," Azriel said immediately, shadows coiling with deadly purpose.

"Me too," you added, the decision requiring no thought. "He's my brother."

"You can't," Lucien protested, struggling to sit up. "Beron wants you most of all. If he captures you..."

"He won't," Azriel interrupted, his voice midnight-cold and absolute. "I won't allow it."

The conviction in his voice silenced Lucien's objections. The scarred male exchanged a long look with Elain, some silent communication passing between them.

"When?" you asked.

"Tomorrow night," Elain answered, certainty in her voice. "When the moon is highest. The guards change shifts. There's a gap in their rotation, seven minutes when the eastern dungeon corridor is unwatched."

"How do you know that?" Azriel asked, shadows stretching toward her as if testing the truth of her words.

"I Saw it," she replied simply.

The finality in her voice sent a chill down your spine. Azriel's shadows recoiled slightly, then settled into watchful stillness.

"Then we leave tomorrow night," you said, decision made. "And afterward..."

"You go your own way," Elain finished for you, no judgment in her tone. "West, beyond Prythian's borders."

Lucien's eye widened, realization dawning. "You're leaving the Night Court?"

"I'm not welcome here," you said simply.

The bond's golden light briefly shimmered beneath your skin as you spoke, carrying warmth and certainty despite the unknown path ahead. In that moment, you realized that "home" was no longer a place for you, but a connection. A bond not forced by fate but chosen in defiance of it.

"And I go where she goes," Azriel added, voice softening when he looked at you despite the distance he maintained from the others.

A complicated series of emotions crossed Lucien's face. "I understand," he finally said, gaze lingering on Elain. "Sometimes the place you're meant to be isn't where others think you belong."

Elain's hand tightened on his, an unspoken acknowledgment of his words. "I'll draw you a map," she said to Azriel. "Of what I've Seen. The tunnel entrance, the guards' positions, the cell where they're keeping Eris."

Azriel nodded, gratitude softening his severe features. "Thank you, Elain."

She met his gaze directly, simple kindness in her eyes. "Be happy, Az," she said quietly. "That's all any of us ever wanted for you."

The words struck him visibly, shadows briefly dispersing in surprise before gathering closer than before. He didn't respond, but his eyes flickered to you before returning to her, answer enough.

The bond burned beneath your skin, molten gold tracing veins of fire through your borrowed body as you walked the streets of Velaris.

Each pulse echoed the question that had haunted you since waking in this world. Which life is truly mine?

The Night Court's famed city of starlight unfurled around you in painful, breathtaking beauty. Artists captured moonlight on canvas beneath silver-starred streetlamps. Music spilled from taverns like liquid joy, mingling with laughter and the scent of cinnamon and sea salt. Couples strolled arm-in-arm, their faces illuminated by faelights hovering like captured stars.

Too beautiful. Too perfect. A dream you'd never dared imagine.

"Are you cold?" Azriel's voice slipped through your thoughts, quiet as shadow. He walked beside you, wings tucked tight, shoulders angled to shield you from curious stares without touching you.

You shook your head, not trusting your voice. The golden thread of the bond twisted tighter as another wave of panic crashed through you.

Eris in chains. Lucien fighting alone. Beron's flames consuming all you'd begun to care for.

Azriel's shadows reached toward you before retreating at your rigid posture. You pretended not to notice the hurt that flashed across his face when you stepped further away.

"Just ahead," he said, gesturing toward a townhouse nestled between two larger buildings. Three stories of pale stone with midnight-blue shutters, a small balcony dripping with night-blooming jasmine. "Rhys and Feyre arranged it. Privacy until..."

He didn't finish. Until you left. Until he abandoned everything for you. Until you made choices that would shatter one world or another.

You nodded and walked ahead, climbing the few steps without waiting. The scent of jasmine clung to your clothes as you passed beneath the flowering vines, sweet and foreign and heartbreaking.

Inside, the townhouse breathed quiet elegance—plush furniture in midnight blues and silvers, windows strategically placed to capture moonlight, walls adorned with paintings of star-strewn skies. A fire burned in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the polished wood floor.

Too much. Too real.

The flames reminded you of Eris. Of his face when he'd declared rebellion against Beron. Of what your father must be doing to him now.

Not your father, you reminded yourself. Not your blood. Not your world.

Azriel stood in the doorway, shadows darker than the night outside wreathing his powerful frame. His face remained carefully blank, but his shadows betrayed him, curling into agitated patterns that revealed his concern.

"There are two bedrooms upstairs," he said, voice carefully neutral despite the golden light flickering beneath his skin whenever the bond pulsed. "You can choose whichever you prefer."

You moved toward the stairs without answering. Each step felt like wading through water, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and fear.

At the landing, you paused, throat tight with words you couldn't say.

Don't throw your life away for me. Don't sacrifice everything for someone who doesn't belong here. Don't care for me—please, don't care.

"I need to rest," you managed, the words hollow.

"Of course." The shadows around him shuddered with something like despair.

You turned away, entering the nearest bedroom and closing the door with a soft click that somehow felt deafening in the silence.

Alone at last, you sagged against the door, sliding to the floor as exhaustion claimed you. Ember and Sizzle materialized in twin pops of flame, immediately nuzzling against your trembling hands.

"What am I doing?" you whispered, voice breaking. "He's giving up everything for someone who can't stay. Someone with a body lying in a hospital across worlds, family keeping vigil, machines beeping out the rhythm of a life half-lived."

The flame bunnies chirped softly, climbing into your lap, their tiny warmth both comfort and burden. Hadn't they, too, become real? Hadn't this body, this magic, this life begun to feel more substantial than the ghostly memories of a human existence?

You pushed yourself up and crossed to the bed, not bothering to change out of travel-worn clothes. Sleep claimed you almost instantly, dragging you into dreams of hospitals and beeping monitors and sobbing aunts who had long since given up hope.

You woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding against your ribs with enough force to hurt. In your dream, Eris had been screaming your name as Beron's flames consumed him, the scent of burning flesh so vivid you gagged.

The room was pitch black, moonlight long since faded. The city below slumbered, only occasional lights visible in distant windows.

Decision crystallized in your chest, cold and final. You couldn't wait until tomorrow. Not with Eris suffering at Beron's hands. Not with Azriel preparing to throw away five centuries of brotherhood, of family, of purpose—for a female he barely knew.

For an imposter in a body not her own.

You dressed silently, strapping on the knife Lucien had pressed into your hands before you'd left the healing center. The blade thrummed with old magic, protection spells etched into its hilt.

Ember and Sizzle watched from the bed, unusually still, their tiny flame ears laid flat against their heads.

"Stay with him," you whispered. "I need to do this alone."

Your palm curled around the silver charm Azriel had given you.

Break it and I'll come to you, across any distance.

You removed it carefully, placing it on the bedside table. You wouldn't drag him into this. Wouldn't be responsible for another sacrifice.

You eased the door open, heart in your throat, and nearly collapsed at the sight that greeted you.

Azriel.

Sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall. His magnificent wings were folded tight against his spine, shadows wrapped around him like a living blanket against the chill.

Not sleeping—you doubted he ever truly slept—but guarding.

Waiting.

His head snapped up at your appearance, and the naked emotion in his eyes stole your breath.

Concern, yes, but something deeper. Something that made the bond sing gold and fire between you.

Shadows writhed around him, betraying his agitation even as his face remained carefully neutral. Several tendrils reached toward you before he called them back with visible effort.

"You're leaving." Not a question. His voice, velvet darkness wrapped around steel, betrayed nothing of his feelings.

"I have to try," you admitted, unable to lie to that piercing gaze. "For Eris."

"Alone?" The word carried more emotion than any outburst could have.

"Yes." You moved to step around him, refusing to acknowledge how the bond screamed against the distance you insisted on maintaining.

Azriel rose in a single fluid motion that reminded you what he was—warrior, predator, death on silent wings. He blocked your path without touching you, his body a wall of night and shadow.

"You'll die," he said. The starkness of it, the absolute certainty, sent ice down your spine.

"Better me than him." You straightened, meeting his gaze despite the effort it cost. "Better me than you."

Something fierce flashed across his face, breaking through that careful mask of control. "That's not your choice to make."

"And throwing away your life for mine isn't yours," you countered, frustration finally cracking your careful indifference. "Five centuries with the Night Court, with family who loves you, and you'd walk away for what? A broken bond with someone who isn't even supposed to be here?"

His expression shifted, surprise briefly visible before his shadows receded slightly.

"Is that what this is about?" The gentleness in his voice threatened to shatter you. "You think I don't know what I'm choosing?"

"I think you're making a sacrifice you'll regret for the rest of your immortal life," you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze despite the pain it caused. "And I can't let you do that."

"Let me?" A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained grave. "I've been making my own choices for five hundred years."

The words sent heat curling through your veins, unwelcome and undeniable. The bond flared in response, golden light briefly visible beneath your skin, beneath his, a betrayal of bodies despite minds' protestations.

"Come downstairs," he said, soft as night breeze. "Please. Before we both do something we'll regret."

The request was reasonable enough that you found yourself nodding, following him to the small sitting room on the main floor.

Shadows settled into corners as you both sat on the same couch, a careful distance between you that somehow felt both too great and not nearly enough.

The silence stretched, alive with all you couldn't say.

"Why have you been shutting me out?" he finally asked, directness catching you off-guard.

You stared at your hands, at the borrowed skin with its too-smooth texture, its too-perfect nails, its too-bright veins of gold that danced beneath the surface like trapped sunlight.

"Because this isn't real," you whispered. "None of it."

"It feels real to me," he replied, the simplicity of it cutting deeper than arguments ever could.

"It's not," you insisted, looking up at last. "This bond, this world, this body—none of it belongs to me. And I can't... I can't let you destroy your life for an illusion."

His scarred hand moved slightly closer, not quite touching yours. Even that small movement sent the bond into a frenzy of golden heat beneath your skin.

"What if it's not an illusion?" he asked, voice dropping lower. "What if this is precisely where we're both meant to be?"

The words struck closer to your secret fear than you'd thought possible.

What if he was right? What if the hospital room was the dream, and this—this magic, this bond, this male whose mere presence eased an ache you hadn't known you carried—was your truth?

"I don't belong here," you said, throat tightening around the words. "My body—my real body—is waiting for me to come home."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by compassion so genuine it hurt to witness. "The hospital. The human world."

You nodded, tears threatening. "I can't stay here, Azriel. No matter how much I might..." Want to. Belong to you. Need you. "I have family waiting. A life."

"And you think I'm following you out of obligation?" The question was gentle, offering understanding where you'd expected hurt. "Out of some misguided sense of duty to the mating bond?"

"Aren't you?"

His shadows stilled completely—a rare occurrence that drew your attention more effectively than any shout could have.

"I have spent five centuries in darkness," he said, voice so low you had to lean closer to hear, to breathe in his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar. "Five centuries as weapon and warning, as the nightmare that keeps enemies at bay. Five centuries watching others find connections I believed I could never have."

His eyes, when they met yours, contained such vulnerability that your breath caught. The golden light beneath his skin pulsed in time with your heartbeat, the bond singing recognition between your bodies even as your minds fought its pull.

"I thought I loved Mor once," he continued, the confession clearly costing him. "Then Elain. But it was always the idea of love that drew me. The possibility of light. Not the females themselves."

His scarred fingers traced patterns on the cushion between you, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the coolness radiating from his skin.

"With you, it's different," he said, voice roughened with emotion. "From the moment the bond snapped into place, even as I rejected it, I knew. This wasn't just magic. This wasn't just fate. This was recognition."

"Of what?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

His shadows stirred, curling into shapes that reflected his words—wings and flames dancing together, darkness and light intertwined.

"Of the only person who's ever seen me," he replied, each word carefully chosen, heavy with significance. "Not the shadowsinger. Not the spymaster. Not the weapon." His voice dropped lower. "When you look at me, your eyes don't reflect centuries of blood and darkness. They show me something I thought I'd lost long ago."

"What?" you whispered, unable to look away from the raw emotion in his gaze.

"Possibility," he said simply. One word that contained worlds.

His shadows curled toward you with heartbreaking hesitancy, stopping just short of contact. "I'm not following you out of duty or obligation. I'm following you because for the first time in five hundred years, I've found something that's mine alone. Not given by Rhysand. Not shared with Cassian. Not demanded by war."

"I can't give you what you want," you finally said, each word a shard of glass in your throat. "I can't stay here, Azriel. I can't be your mate. Not permanently."

"Why?" His voice remained gentle despite the pain that flashed across his beautiful face.

"Because I don't belong to this world," you whispered. "This body isn't mine. This life isn't mine. And someday—somehow—I have to find my way back home."

His scarred hand finally reached across the distance between you, not grasping, simply offering. "What if this is home? What if that human girl is the dream, and this is your reality?"

The question struck deeper than you'd expected, touching the fear that had haunted you since waking in this fae body.

What if he was right? What if the hospital was the illusion, and this strange, magical world was where you truly belonged?

"I don't know," you admitted, the confession leaving you raw. "I don't know which is real anymore."

"They both are," he said, shadows forming shapes that looked like doorways, like bridges between worlds. "And whichever you choose, I'll respect it. Even if it means losing you."

The words hung between you, heavy with sincerity. This wasn't just about the bond anymore. This was about choice—his and yours. About making decisions with open eyes and full awareness of the consequences.

"Why would you do that?" you asked, voice breaking. "Why would you leave everything for someone who might not stay?"

His scarred fingers extended further, an invitation without pressure. "Because some moments are worth an eternity of loss."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, the bond responding with a flare of golden warmth that momentarily eclipsed all doubt, all fear. This male who had known only duty and shadow for centuries was offering you something no one in either of your lives had ever given: complete freedom to choose your own fate, without expectation or demand.

His shadows brushed your wrist, cool as night air, gentle as a whisper. "I would rather know you for a single heartbeat than live an eternity wondering what might have been."

The bond between you shimmered, visible now as golden threads spanning the distance between your bodies, delicate as spider's silk but stronger than steel. Each breath you took made them glow brighter, a constellation of shared possibility.

"Tomorrow we rescue Eris," you finally said, pulling your hand back despite the bond's protest. "After that... I don't know. I don't know what happens next."

Azriel nodded, accepting your withdrawal without question. His shadows retreated, curling back around his shoulders in patterns that spoke of restraint, of patience, of understanding beyond what you'd thought possible.

"One day at a time, then." He spoke the words like a promise.

"One day at a time," you agreed, rising from the couch. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, the weight of his truths, of your fears, threatening to pull you under.

He stood as well, shadows gathering around him like a living cloak. "Would you prefer I remain downstairs tonight?"

There was no judgment in the question, no hurt, only simple respect for your boundaries. The consideration—so at odds with the fearsome reputation that preceded him—made your throat tighten with emotions you weren't ready to name.

"You don't have to sit outside my door," you said quietly, the bond aching as you forced distance between you. "But... I wouldn't mind knowing you were nearby."

The admission cost you, revealed more than you'd intended, but you couldn't bring yourself to regret it when understanding flashed in his eyes, followed by something that might have been hope.

"I'll be here if you need me," he promised, shadows reaching toward you one last time before he pulled them back. "Always."

You nodded once, then turned toward the stairs, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer.

In your borrowed bedroom, you sank onto the edge of the bed, Ember and Sizzle immediately materializing to nudge against your trembling hands.

"What am I doing?" you whispered to them, the question you couldn't ask Azriel. "What am I going to do?"

The flame bunnies had no answers, only warm comfort as they curled against you, tiny embers of promise in a night that seemed endless.

Outside your door, shadows whispered quiet vigilance, a promise kept without words. Downstairs, the shadowsinger of the Night Court—who had offered you his scarred heart without demanding yours in return—waited patiently for a decision you weren't sure you could make.

And in another world, separated by barriers of reality itself, machines beeped a steady rhythm beside a hospital bed where a body lay suspended between life and death, while family members whispered, "Please come home."

Two lives. Two worlds. Two hearts beating across an impossible divide.

The bond pulsed once more, golden light briefly illuminating the darkness of your room, carrying with it the echo of his words: Some moments are worth an eternity of loss.

Tomorrow, you would rescue Eris. Tomorrow, you would fight for family—chosen and given and made. Beyond that lay choices that terrified and tempted in equal measure.

You closed your eyes, the weight of worlds pressing against your chest.

One heartbeat at a time.

The High Lords converged on Velaris like gathering storm clouds.

The emergency conclave had been called by Rhysand after news of Beron's actions spread across Prythian. War loomed on the horizon, and even ancient enemies now sought common ground against Autumn Court's growing madness.

You stood on the balcony of the townhouse, watching as entourages made their way through the streets below. Each High Lord had brought a small contingent, enough to demonstrate power without appearing threatening. The air itself seemed to thicken with magic as they passed, a tangible pressure against your skin.

"Are you certain you want to attend?" Azriel asked from the doorway, his voice quiet. His shadows curled restlessly near the railing but never touched you.

You didn't turn. "I need to be there," you replied, fingers whitening as they gripped the cold stone. "For Eris."

Azriel said nothing more, but his presence shifted closer, a silent offering of strength.

The River House had been transformed for the gathering. The central chamber now held an enormous circular table, each seat marked with the sigil of a different court. Rhysand and Feyre stood at the entrance, greeting each arrival with careful diplomacy.

You entered with Azriel at your side, his presence a cold comfort as curious gazes tracked your movement. His shadows remained tightly controlled, but you could feel the tension radiating from him, a predator walking willingly into enemy territory.

Tarquin of Summer Court nodded politely as you passed, sea-salt scent clinging to his turquoise robes. Helion of Day Court studied you with scholarly interest, golden eyes missing nothing beneath his crown of light. Kallias of Winter Court remained expressionless, his silver-white hair contrasting sharply with his midnight blue attire.

Something strange fluttered in your chest at the sight of him, not recognition but a sudden chill that traced your spine despite the warmth of the room. You swallowed hard, attributing the feeling to general anxiety about the meeting.

The discussions began with Rhysand outlining the situation in Autumn Court, his voice measured despite the rage that occasionally flashed in his violet eyes. The rebellion, Eris's capture, Beron's increasingly erratic behavior. Maps were spread across the table, territories marked in colored ink.

"Winter Court has intelligence suggesting Beron has moved Eris to the eastern dungeons," Kallias was saying, his voice crystalline and sharp as ice. "Our late Lord Kieraven provided similar information before his death in the war with Hybern."

The name hit you like a physical blow.

Kieraven.

Your vision blurred at the edges, the room suddenly too bright, too hot. Your heartbeat accelerated, a fluttering bird trapped in your chest. Something about that name made your skin crawl, though you couldn't place why. Your fingers curled into fists beneath the table, nails cutting into your palms.

"These dungeons have access points through the servant corridors," another Winter Court advisor added, pointing to the map with fingers that seemed too long, too pale.

A phantom sensation of cold hands gripping your wrists flashed through your body. Your throat tightened as if invisible fingers pressed against it.

Beside you, Azriel shifted slightly in his seat.

To anyone else, the movement would appear negligible, a simple adjustment of posture. But you felt his attention sharpen, felt his shadows condense beneath the table, pooling around your feet in silent vigilance. His face remained impassive, yet something in his eyes had changed, a dangerous awareness that hadn't been there moments before.

"Are you well?" Tarquin asked from across the table, sea-glass eyes noting your pallor.

"Yes," you managed, though your voice sounded thin even to your own ears. "Just concerned for my brother."

The meeting continued, but you felt increasingly detached, a strange buzzing filling your head. Whenever your gaze drifted toward the Winter Court contingent, unease rippled through you, gooseflesh rising on your arms. You deliberately looked away, focusing instead on the maps spread across the table, tracing the familiar outlines of Autumn Court territories.

Azriel remained silent throughout, his contributions limited to precise tactical observations when directly addressed. But his attention never wavered from you, from the cold sweat beading at your temples, from the minute tremors in your hands that you tried to hide.

"The eastern corridor has twelve guards stationed at regular intervals," the Winter Court representative continued, "but there are passages between guard rotations where..."

Thirteen.

The thought came unbidden, bewildering in its certainty. There were thirteen.

"...where infiltration would be possible with proper timing."

When the Winter Court advisor mentioned "corridors in the eastern wing," your stomach twisted violently. Without warning, tears sprang to your eyes, though you had no idea why. The scent of frost and blood filled your nostrils, a memory that couldn't be yours.

Stone walls. Cold floor. Hands holding you down.

"The structure of these dungeons suggests a weakness in the northwestern corner," Kallias added, his pale finger tracing a path on the map.

Voices whispering things that couldn't be forgotten. Pain beyond naming.

You blinked back tears furiously, refusing to show weakness in front of these powerful beings. But Azriel noticed, of course he did. Nothing escaped the shadowsinger's attention, especially not concerning you.

His hand found yours beneath the table, scarred fingers wrapping around your trembling ones. A touch so light it might have been imagined, yet anchoring you to the present. His face remained distant, focused on the maps, but his thumb traced a small circle against your wrist, steadying your frantic pulse.

"Each rotation changes at midnight," the Winter Court advisor was saying. His voice seemed to come from far away, distorted as if through water. "Which gives a window of approximately seven minutes..."

Seven minutes. Seven minutes where no one came. Seven minutes of desperate hope before the eighth male arrived.

The room began to spin, colors bleeding into one another. Your lungs couldn't seem to draw enough air, each breath shallow and insufficient. The bond beneath your skin pulsed erratically, your borrowed Fae body remembering what your human mind could not.

When you tried to speak, your throat closed. Panic rose without explanation, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The room seemed to shrink around you, the voices of the High Lords becoming distant and indistinct.

A single tear escaped despite your efforts, tracking silently down your cheek.

Azriel was on his feet in an instant, his movement so smooth it seemed he'd simply materialized standing. His shadows flared around him, tendrils whipping in patterns that spoke of deadly intent, though his face remained controlled.

"My lady requires air," he announced, his voice giving no room for question or challenge. "Continue without us."

Before anyone could object, he had gathered you into his arms. Not gently, not tenderly, but with efficient, impersonal precision that would appear as duty rather than concern to watching eyes. His wings unfurled as he strode toward the balcony, his face a mask of cold indifference that belied the protective fury radiating from him.

"My apologies for the interruption," he said to Rhysand, his tone suggesting anything but remorse. "We'll return shortly."

Then you were airborne, the cool night air rushing past as Azriel carried you away from the River House. Your body trembled against his, tears flowing freely now though you still couldn't understand why.

"I don't know what's happening to me," you whispered against his chest, embarrassment and confusion warring within you. "I don't know why I'm reacting this way."

Azriel said nothing, his silence almost comforting as he flew through the darkness. The city fell away beneath you as he climbed higher, banking toward a sheer cliff face that towered over Velaris. Stars scattered across the vast expanse of night sky, cold and distant as ancient memories.

He landed on a small ledge invisible from below. A tiny flat space carved into the rock, overlooking the entire city and the sea beyond. A single bench made of polished stone sat against the cliff wall, worn smooth from centuries of use. The air here smelled of wild thyme and night jasmine, undisturbed by the scents of the city below.

"No one knows about this place," he said, setting you carefully on the bench. "Not even Cassian or Rhys." The admission hung in the air between you, significant in its rarity.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to stop the trembling that seemed to come from somewhere deep within. "I'm sorry for disrupting the meeting. I don't understand what came over me."

Azriel moved to the ledge's edge, wings partially extended as if ready for flight. His shadows swirled in agitated patterns around him, occasionally forming shapes that looked almost like protective shields before dissolving back into formless dark.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

"I do," you insisted, wiping at tears that wouldn't stop. "Breaking down like this when Eris needs us to be strong, to be focused..."

Azriel turned to face you, and the expression in his eyes made you fall silent. Not tenderness or concern, but something darker, more knowing. His shadows quieted, gathering close to his body as if containing secrets too dangerous to share.

"The body remembers what the mind forgets," he said, each word carefully chosen. "Sometimes it warns us of dangers we don't consciously recognize."

You shook your head, confusion only deepening. "What are you talking about? I've never even met these people before."

Azriel didn't answer directly. His gaze shifted to the city below, to the River House where the conclave continued without you. "The Winter Court," he said finally, voice so low you had to strain to hear it. "Your reaction wasn't without cause."

"I don't understand," you whispered, another tear sliding down your cheek.

He moved to sit beside you, not touching, a precise distance maintained between your bodies. His shadows, however, encircled you both, creating a barrier between you and the rest of the world. The scent of night-chilled stone and cedar enveloped you, bringing strange comfort.

"You're safe here," he said, voice gentle despite its underlying steel. "No one can reach you. No one can hurt you."

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made you cry harder, great gulping sobs that seemed to rise from some hidden well of grief you hadn't known existed. Your body remembered something your mind could not access, a trauma buried beneath layers of magic and dimensional walls.

"Why do I feel like this?" you gasped between sobs. "Why does it hurt when I don't even know what's hurting me?"

Azriel remained silent for a long moment, his shadows shifting restlessly. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "Some wounds run deeper than memory."

You turned to face him fully, frustration cutting through your tears. "Stop speaking in riddles. Tell me what you know."

His eyes met yours, ancient and knowing and filled with a darkness that made you shiver. "I can't," he said softly. "This is something you must discover for yourself, when you're ready."

The bond between you pulsed, golden light briefly visible beneath both your skins. It thrummed with truth, with connection deeper than conscious thought.

"Your human life," Azriel continued carefully, "and this Fae existence... they're more connected than you know."

Before you could press further, he removed his outer leathers and draped it around your shoulders. The leather was still warm from his body, carrying his scent. The weight of it was grounding, pulling you back from the edge of panic.

"For now," he continued, "just know that your reactions are valid. That what you feel is real, even if you don't understand why."

The certainty in his voice gave you pause. There was more to this, much more, than he was saying. But the gentleness underlying his cold exterior suggested whatever knowledge he held was being withheld out of protection, not cruelty.

"Will you tell me someday?" you asked, pulling his jacket tighter around you.

"When you're ready to hear it," he promised, shadows briefly touching your hand before retreating. "Not before."

After a long while, when your tears had finally subsided, you found yourself leaning against him despite your earlier resolve to maintain distance. His body tensed momentarily at the contact, then relaxed, one arm coming around you with cautious precision.

You both sat in silence, watching the stars reflect on the distant sea. The panic had receded, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The night air carried the salt scent of the ocean mixed with the wild herbs growing in crevices of the cliff face.

"I sometimes think about what life would be like," you whispered into the night, voice raw from tears, "if I stayed in Prythian."

The moment the words left your lips, the entire world seemed to still. Even the wind paused, holding its breath with you.

Azriel's body went rigid against yours, but his arm remained, a steady anchor around your shoulders. His shadows, ever-moving, froze in mid-air like fractured pieces of night. The only sound between you was the soft rhythm of his breathing, more careful now, more measured.

"Tell me," you continued, heart hammering against your ribs, "if you could choose any life for us, what would it be?"

The question hung between you, fragile as spun glass.

For several heartbeats, he didn't move, didn't speak. Then his shadows pulled tight around his body, as if he were gathering parts of himself that had never been exposed to light.

"Not here," he finally said, voice so low you felt it more than heard it, rough-edged with longing he'd never allowed himself to voice. "Not in Velaris or any court."

You tilted your face to study his profile, severe and beautiful against the backdrop of stars. "Where then?"

He swallowed, the movement visible in the strong column of his throat.

"There's a place..." He faltered, then began again. "Beyond the western mountains. Past Illyrian territory."

His voice softened into something you'd never heard from him before, something almost reverent. "A valley hidden between two peaks where the snow never falls too heavily and the summers are mild."

As he spoke, his shadows formed shapes you could almost recognize. Mountain peaks. Pine trees. A lake surface rippled by gentle wind.

"No High Lords," he continued, something in his voice breaking open. "No war. Just forest and mountains and a lake clear enough to see the stars reflected in its depths."

Your breath caught. "It sounds beautiful."

"I found it centuries ago," he admitted, the confession weighted with significance. "During a mission for Rhys. I've never told anyone about it." The words that followed were quieter still.

The knowledge settled in your chest, a precious gift. This wasn't simply a fantasy he was spinning; this was a secret he had kept, a dream he had nurtured in solitude for centuries.

"Why not?"

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, as if he could see this valley even now, waiting beyond the darkness. "Because some sanctuaries must remain untouched." His voice dropped further. "Because some dreams are too fragile to share."

The bond between you pulsed, golden and warm, as if in recognition of truth freely given.

"Would we have a house there?" you asked, allowing yourself to fall into this impossible future.

"A cabin," he corrected softly. "Built of pine and stone. Simple but strong."

He hesitated, then added in a voice that made your heart crack open. "Windows facing the sunrise."

"With a porch," you added, your own voice thick with emotion. "Where we could watch thunderstorms rolling across the mountains."

His shadows stirred, curling toward you before retreating. "Yes," he agreed. "And space behind it for a garden, if you wanted one."

"I would," you whispered, the vision so vivid you could almost feel soil beneath your fingernails. "Herbs and vegetables. Maybe wildflowers. Things that heal and feed and bring beauty."

You closed your eyes, imagination carrying you further into this shared dream. "What would we do there? So far from everything?"

"Live," he said softly.

The word hung between you, heavy with all it contained. No wars. No courts. No duty. No pain. Just existence without the weight of the world on your shoulders. Without the pressure of a bond neither of you had asked for. Without the pull of another world where machines kept a body breathing while you inhabited this one.

"No missions," you murmured. "No courts summoning you away."

His arm tightened fractionally around you. "No more shadows used as weapons," he said, voice roughened with longing that cut you to the bone. "Just shadows as they were meant to be, cast by trees and mountains and ordinary things."

Something tight in your chest unraveled at his words. This wasn't merely a dream of escape. This was his deepest yearning—to be defined not by his power or utility, but by simple humanity.

"Ember and Sizzle would love it," you said, thinking of your flame bunnies exploring forest trails.

A sound escaped him—so close to a laugh it made your heart stumble. "They'd terrorize the local wildlife," he replied.

"I'd want coffee," you said, surprising yourself with the mundane desire.

Azriel turned his face toward you then, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it. "I'd find a way to get it for you," he promised. The certainty in his voice made something within you ache. "Whatever it takes."

"I'd bring other things too," you continued, warming to the idea. "Music. Books. Ridiculous holiday traditions that would make no sense to you."

His brow lifted slightly. "Like what?"

"Christmas trees," you said, smiling despite the tears still drying on your cheeks. "Bringing an entire pine tree inside the house and covering it with shiny objects. For no logical reason whatsoever."

His brow furrowed. "That sounds... hazardous. Especially with your flame bunnies."

The laugh that escaped you was unexpected, bright and clean in the night air. "It is! People's houses catch fire all the time. But we do it anyway because it's beautiful."

Something shifted in his expression as he watched you laugh—a softening, a wonder, as if he'd just witnessed something rare and precious. His shadows reached toward you, hesitant, almost shy.

"Tell me more," he said, voice hushed with quiet hunger. "About these strange human traditions."

"We'd have movie nights," you said, leaning into him. "Which would be impossible without electricity, but let's pretend. We'd huddle under blankets and watch stories play out on a screen."

"I don't understand what that means," he admitted. The honesty in his face, the genuine desire to know this part of you, made your throat tight with emotion.

"It doesn't matter," you whispered. "I'd find other stories to share. We'd make our own traditions."

His eyes held yours, something unspoken passing between you. The bond thrummed, golden threads weaving tighter with each heartbeat.

"Would we have children?" you asked, the question slipping out before courage failed you.

Azriel went completely still, even his breathing suspended. For a terrible moment, you thought you'd shattered everything with that single question.

Then his arm tightened around you, so subtly you might have imagined it if not for the way his shadows trembled, forming and reforming shapes that looked suspiciously like tiny winged figures near your joined hands.

"Would you want them?" he asked, voice controlled to the point of breaking.

"Yes," you admitted, the word falling like a stone into still water. "Two, I think. A boy and a girl."

"With wings?" he asked, the question barely audible.

You turned to face him fully, heart in your throat at the vulnerability in his expression. "Of course with wings," you said fiercely. "Beautiful wings like their father's."

His breath caught, the small sound devastating in its honesty. His hand found yours, scarred fingers intertwining with your own as if they'd always belonged there.

"And your fire," he said, voice rough with emotion. "Your courage. Your heart."

The bond between you blazed, golden light spilling from beneath your skin to illuminate the darkness around you. His shadows didn't recoil from the light but danced with it, twining together in patterns that spoke of possibility.

"They'd be free," you whispered, the realization settling bone-deep. "No courts claiming them. No ancient grudges to inherit. Just mountains and forests and stars."

"I'd teach them to fly," Azriel said, voice breaking on the final word. "Among the peaks at sunrise."

You could see it so clearly—his powerful hands steady on small backs, his fierce protectiveness tempered with patience as tiny wings learned to catch the wind.

"I'd teach them stories from both worlds," you said, tears gathering again. "So they'd understand where they came from. Who they are."

"They'd know peace," he said, the word like a prayer on his lips. "True peace."

You both fell silent, the shared vision suspended between you—so vivid, so beautiful, so achingly out of reach. The cabin in the valley. The children with wings. The life built on choice rather than duty or obligation.

Yet for the first time, you found yourself wondering which world truly felt like home. The human one, with its beeping monitors and grieving family? Or this one, with its magic and pain and the possibility of a valley beyond the mountains?

"It's a beautiful dream," you finally said, unable to keep the longing from your voice.

Azriel shifted, turning to face you fully. "It doesn't have to be just a dream," he said, and for the first time in all your encounters, you heard naked pleading in his voice—an emotion you'd never expected from the controlled, deadly shadowsinger.

When you looked up, what you saw stole your breath. Azriel—the Night Court's most feared assassin, the male who had witnessed five centuries of darkness without flinching—had tears in his eyes. Not falling, not yet, but there, shimmering in the starlight like diamonds.

"Azriel," you whispered, reaching up without thinking to touch his face.

He caught your hand with his scarred one, pressing your palm against his cheek in a gesture so vulnerable it fractured something essential inside you. His skin was cool beneath your touch, but warming rapidly. The bond between you pulsed, a heartbeat shared across bodies and worlds.

"Whatever you choose," he said, each word weighted with centuries of solitude, "know that the cabin waits. Whether in a month or a century." His voice faltered. "Whether we go together or—"

The words died in his throat, but you heard them nonetheless.

"Or I return to my world," you completed for him, the possibility that had always stood between you.

He nodded once, barely perceptible. But his eyes, those ancient, haunted eyes that had witnessed centuries of darkness, held yours with unflinching courage.

"Either way," he said, "I wanted you to know. That somewhere, there is a place that belongs to us alone. Without courts or duty or pain."

The first tear fell then, tracing a silver path down his scarred cheek and onto your joined hands.

The bond between you flared, golden light spilling from your joined hands, illuminating your faces in the darkness. Not a chain binding you together, but a bridge between worlds, between possibilities.

"Thank you," you whispered, voice breaking. "For showing me this. For letting me see."

His only response was to draw you against him, wings unfurling to create a private sanctuary around you both. Against your cheek, you felt the steady rhythm of his heart, its beat perfectly synchronized with your own.

Tomorrow would bring danger—Eris's rescue, confrontation with Beron, an uncertain future beyond. But for now, cradled against the shadowsinger's chest while his rare tears mingled with your own, you allowed yourself to hold that impossible dream close.

The cabin in the valley. The children with wings. The life beyond the courts.

A dream, perhaps.

But with the golden bond pulsing beneath your skin, the solid warmth of his body against yours, the scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the human world of beeping monitors and grieving family seemed increasingly distant. Like a half-remembered dream fading with the dawn.

For the first time since waking in this borrowed Fae body, you felt something settle inside you. Not certainty, not yet. But possibility. Hope.

Home.

Which was real? Which was home?

For the first time, you weren't certain you knew the answer.

The golden bond thrummed beneath your skin as you woke, an urgent pulse matching your heartbeat. Outside, Velaris slept under indigo skies, last stars fading as dawn approached.

Perfect timing. Perfect silence.

You dressed in shadow, fingers finding Lucien's enchanted blade without looking. Its weight at your hip felt both foreign and familiar, like muscle memory that didn't belong to you.

Ember and Sizzle materialized at your feet, tiny flame bodies flickering with anxiety. They sensed your intentions without words. You pressed a finger to your lips, and they quieted, though pink embers sparked with protest.

"Stay," you whispered, stroking each once. "Wait for him to return."

They settled on the windowsill, sentinels against the pale horizon, their glow dimmed to near-invisibility.

Downstairs, the townhouse held its breath. Azriel's jacket hung by the door, night-chilled stone and cedar wrapping around you as you slipped it over your shoulders. One last comfort before what must be done.

Your fingers found the silver charm at your throat, his parting gift. Break it and I'll come to you, across any distance. You placed it on the small table, a note beneath in your hurried hand.

Forgive me.

Three heartbeats later, Velaris's pre-dawn streets enveloped you. The rising sun gilded rooftops with the same golden light that pulsed beneath your skin, a warning you ignored.

What you planned was foolish. Suicidal, even.

Going alone to rescue Eris when the combined might of multiple courts had organized for tomorrow. But another day meant more torture for your brother. Another day risked Azriel's life for your family's conflict.

Another day meant facing him with the truth. That you planned to return to your world. That his dream of a cabin in the valley, of children with wings and your shared future, would remain just that, a dream.

Between one step and the next, reality fractured.

The hospital room blurred over Velaris's cobblestones. Your aunt's face, tear-stained and haggard, superimposed over dawn-touched buildings.

"The doctors say it's time to consider letting you go," her voice echoed, "but I can't. I just can't."

You stumbled, shoulder striking stone. A passing Night Court citizen glanced with concern, but your forced smile sent them on their way.

The winnowing point beckoned from the edge of the city, a place to bend reality and step directly into Autumn's territory. You'd memorized it from the war maps, burned it into your mind while the High Lords plotted.

But first came the hardest part.

In an alcove away from prying eyes, you pressed your hand to your chest. The bond pulsed steadily, familiar as breathing. A constant presence anchoring you to this world, to him.

"I can't let you suffer when I go," you whispered to no one, to him, to yourself. Golden light spilled between your fingers. "It would destroy you."

Better a clean break. Better mercy than slow torment.

"I release you."

The golden light flared, blinding.

"I sever this bond, not out of hatred but mercy."

Pain lanced through your chest, not external but from within, like ribs cracking outward.

"Not out of rejection..."

Your knees struck cobblestones.

"...but protection."

Tears blurred your vision, golden light pulsing erratically.

"I reject this bond." The words tasted like ash and iron. "I reject it so you may be free when I am gone."

Something inside you tore, not muscle or bone but something essential, something primal. Your vision whited out, breath stolen.

"I reject it because..." a gasping sob interrupted, "...because I love you."

The golden light pulsed once more, then dimmed. The connection that had hummed between you since that first moment in the Autumn Court didn't vanish but receded, like music heard underwater, distorted, distant, muffled.

Cold swept through spaces where warmth had lived. Hollowness echoed where completeness had dwelled. Your hand pressed against your sternum, searching for the familiar pulse, finding only silence.

You dragged yourself upright, swaying. The world felt wrong, off-balance. You'd grown so accustomed to the bond's weight that its absence left you lightweight, untethered.

No time for mourning.

Dawn broke fully now, spilling gold across the city. Soon Azriel would return. Soon he'd find the charm. Soon he'd feel the muted bond and know.

The winnowing point shimmered as you approached. Your magic felt diminished without the bond's amplification, but determination burned hotter than power. You gathered what remained, world dissolving around you.

Reality reassembled. Endless autumn spread before you, trees burning with color that never faded, crimson and gold leaves against a perpetual sunset sky.

You stepped forward, then stumbled as another merged memory hit, hospital corridors overlaid with forest paths. Medical staff around your bed, discussing options, timelines, prognoses. "Irreversible" floated through the air as your doctor shook his head.

"Not yet," you gasped, forcing clarity. "I'm not finished here."

The castle loomed in the distance, Beron's ancestral seat. Eastern dungeons, according to intelligence. Servant passages with specific guard rotations.

You moved toward it, staying to shadows, avoiding patrolled roads. The spice-and-smoke scent of autumn wrapped around you, so different from Velaris's salt-touched breeze. Yet something in you recognized it, a distant familiarity you refused to acknowledge.

Spires pierced a blood-orange sky as you approached. Your body ducked beneath a low archway without conscious decision, hands finding servant passages your mind shouldn't know existed. Stone whispered beneath your fingers, hidden doors responding to touches that felt both foreign and instinctive.

Memory flashed, running these same passages as a child, hiding from brothers who sought to torment, servants who sought to tame.

Not your memory. Not your life.

You pushed it away.

The first guard appeared at the dungeon approach, young, barely more than a boy, bored with his assignment. His eyes widened at sight of you, recognition blooming.

"My lady," he breathed, dropping to one knee. "We were told you were..."

Your hand found his forehead before he finished, sleep spell springing to your lips without thought or practice. He slumped forward, consciousness fleeing.

The magic drained you more than it should have. Without the bond's strength flowing through you, your powers were diminished, hollowed. You leaned against stone, breath ragged.

"Just a little further," you told yourself, pushing away.

The main dungeon entrance waited ahead, an iron door carved with moving flame patterns. Two alert guards stood before it, hands on weapons.

You couldn't risk another sleep spell. Not when Eris waited beyond, not when escape would demand whatever magic remained. You drew Lucien's blade instead, its enchanted edge catching torchlight.

Then you stepped into view.

"My lady," one gasped, shock evident. "Lord Beron said..."

"Lord Beron says many things." Your voice emerged colder than you'd ever heard it, a tone that didn't belong to you but to the body you inhabited, the cruelty cultivated over centuries.

Both guards hesitated, confusion and fear battling across their features. They'd been trained to obey the High Lord, but generations of instinct told them to defer to the Lady of Autumn.

You exploited that hesitation, moving with deadly grace you'd never possessed in your human life. The blade found the first guard's throat, not killing, but promising.

"Open the door," you commanded the second, "or watch your companion bleed."

He fumbled with keys, fear making him clumsy. The heavy door swung open with a groan of metal, revealing a staircase spiraling into darkness.

"Down," you ordered, pushing the first guard ahead while keeping the second at blade-point.

The stairs descended endlessly, air growing colder, damper with each step. Blood and fear-scent thickened as you descended, your stomach knotting with dread.

At the bottom waited another door, this one reinforced with both iron and magic.

You studied the symbols carved into its surface, pulsing with malevolent energy. Following instinct that wasn't yours, you pressed your palm against the center where Beron's sigil burned brightest.

Fire erupted beneath your hand, searing your palm. You gritted your teeth, refusing to pull away as the sigil flared once, recognized something in you, then faded to ash. The door swung open.

You turned to them, fire of the Autumn Court burning in your eyes. "Leave," you commanded.

They fled, taking the stairs two at a time.

The chamber beyond was lit by a single brazier, shadows dancing across stained stone. The air reeked of blood and burned flesh, of bile and sweat and despair.

And there, chained to the far wall, hung Eris.

Your breath caught. You'd prepared yourself for injury, for pain. Not for this.

The once-handsome face swollen beyond recognition. His right arm hung at an unnatural angle, broken in multiple places. Blood had dried in rusty streaks down his chest and legs. The stench of infection and charred flesh made your eyes water.

His breathing came in wet, labored gasps. Each inhale bubbled with what might be blood in his lungs.

"Eris," you whispered, rushing forward.

At your voice, his head lifted slightly. One eye, the only one not swollen shut, focused on you with effort.

"You... fool," he croaked, each word a struggle. "Trap."

"I'm getting you out," you said, examining the chains that bound him.

His laugh was a broken thing, dry as autumn leaves. "Sister... you need to..."

You reached for the chains, examining the enchanted metal. "I need to get you out of here."

"Be careful," he warned, words slurring. "Spelled to..."

You pressed Lucien's blade against the lock before he finished. The enchanted metal glowed briefly, then clicked open. Eris slumped forward as the chains released, his weight falling against you.

"Can't walk," he mumbled against your shoulder. "Ankle... shattered."

"Then I'll carry you," you replied, though you had no idea how you'd manage it without the bond's strength.

Before you could figure out a solution, slow clapping echoed through the chamber.

You whirled, pushing Eris behind you as best you could while drawing your blade.

Beron stood in the doorway, flame crown burning atop his head. Behind him, a dozen guards filled the stairway, weapons drawn.

"How touching," the High Lord of Autumn said, voice like silk over steel. "The wayward daughter returns for her traitorous brother."

"Father," you acknowledged, keeping your blade steady despite the fear coursing through you.

Beron studied you, head tilting slightly. "But you're not really my daughter anymore, are you?"

A chill ran down your spine.

Beron circled you slowly, flames dancing at his fingertips. "My daughter was cruel. Calculating. Vicious." His eyes narrowed. "She would never have risked herself for anyone, least of all Eris."

The way he said it, not with anger but something like baffled wonder, unnerved you more than rage would have.

"I'm not her," you said flatly. "I never claimed to be."

"And yet..." Beron's voice softened unexpectedly, "...you opened the sigil door. Only the power of the High Lord can do that."

Something in his expression shifted, a flicker of recognition that made your heart stutter.

"I remember when you were born," he said, each word deliberate. "So small. The first female born to Autumn in three centuries."

"Stop it," you snapped. "These mind games won't work."

A memory flashed unbidden, sitting on Beron's knee as a child, watching in wonder as he formed fire animals in his palm.

You shook your head violently. "Those aren't my memories."

"You don't want them to be," Beron corrected. His flame crown dimmed slightly as he studied you. "But they are yours. As is this body. As is this court."

"I have a family," you insisted. "A life waiting for me."

"And yet you're here." Beron gestured to the dungeon around you. "Risking everything for a brother who would have let you die without a second thought."

"He's lying," Eris rasped from behind you, somehow finding strength to stand straighter. "Tell her, Beron."

"Tell me what?" you repeated, unwillingly drawn into the conversation.

"After Winter Court," Eris said, each word costing him. "Thirteen nobles. Left you for dead."

Beron's jaw tightened. "Ancient history. Diplomatic matters."

"Not... diplomatic," Eris forced out, blood speckling his lips with the effort. "Assault. Torture. Abandonment."

Ice flooded your veins as another memory surfaced, cold hands on your skin. Laughter echoing off stone walls.

Pain beyond imagining.

"No," you whispered, the blade trembling in your grasp. "That's not... I'm not..."

"Your soul fractured that night," Eris continued, each word a blade between your ribs. "Split in two. Half fled to another world."

"That's not possible," you said, but your voice lacked conviction.

Because it made sense. It explained everything, the foreign memories, the body that felt both alien and familiar, the life in another world that seemed increasingly distant.

"My little flame," Beron said, and the childhood endearment struck like a physical blow. "I made you into something terrible because I had to. The courts would have devoured you otherwise."

Another memory, Beron teaching you to hurt servants, to hide weakness, to cultivate cruelty as armor.

"You were so gentle as a child," he continued, something like regret coloring his tone. "I remember how you wept when you accidentally burned a butterfly. How you tried to heal it with your fingers."

The memory crashed through your defenses, the orange butterfly, its wings blackened by your untrained magic. The desperate attempt to save it, tiny hands cupping its broken body.

"Stop," you begged, but the memories kept coming.

Beron took a step toward you. For an instant, his face transformed, not the cruel High Lord but the father who'd once lifted you to his shoulders. "I wasn't there when Winter took you. I thought... I thought it was politics. By the time I realized..."

"It was too late," you finished, the words rising from somewhere deep inside. "I was already torn apart..."

Beron nodded, something like pain flashing across his features. "Your mother warned me. She said making you cruel would destroy what made you special. I didn't listen."

The blade wavered in your hand, your voice breaking. "You left me to them. You let them..."

"I didn't know what they planned," Beron said, but his eyes slid away from yours. The lie sat heavy between you.

"You knew," Eris snarled, finding strength from somewhere deep inside. Blood trickled from his mouth with each word. "You knew and did nothing. Then covered it all up."

"You understand nothing of ruling," Beron snapped, anger flaring. "Sacrifices must be made. Alliances preserved."

"I was your daughter," you whispered, the truth of it settling into your bones. "Your only daughter."

Something in Beron's face cracked then, a glimpse of the father beneath the High Lord's mask. "Yes," he admitted. "And I failed you."

The words hung in the air between you, unexpected in their sincerity.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then Eris moved.

It happened so fast you barely registered it. Eris, who moments ago could barely stand, lunged forward with hidden strength. Something flashed in his hand, a small blade concealed somewhere on his broken body.

It struck Beron in the chest, driving deep. Directly into his heart.

Beron's eyes widened in shock, his gaze locked with Eris's. "Son?" he gasped, blood bubbling at his lips.

"For her," Eris whispered, holding his father's gaze without flinching. "For what you let happen."

Beron's flame crown sputtered, then flared blindingly bright. Power, ancient and terrible, erupted from his body as he collapsed. It swirled like a living tornado, seeking its new vessel.

Eris fell to his knees, arms outstretched, face lifted to receive what had been promised him for centuries, the High Lord's power.

But the magic had other ideas.

It swirled around Eris, examined him, then veered sharply toward you. Golden fire engulfed you, lifting you from the ground as it poured into your chest, your veins, your very soul.

You whimpered as centuries of power and knowledge invaded your body, not just magic but memory, history, duty.

The fractured pieces of yourself collided, human and Fae, present and past, nurse and Lady of Autumn.

When the transfer ended, you collapsed beside Beron's motionless form. The High Lord of Autumn was dead. His power now resided in you.

"No," you whispered, staring at your hands where flames now danced unbidden. "No, this isn't right."

Eris stared at you in shock, his face drained of what little color remained.

"It chose you," he said, disbelief evident. "The magic recognized its own."

Around you, the guards had fallen to their knees, recognizing their new High Lady in the same moment you did.

"I didn't want this," you said, tears streaming down your face. "I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be..."

But where were you supposed to be?

The hospital room seemed like a distant dream now, your human life fading like mist in morning sun. This, the flames dancing at your fingertips, the memories flooding back, the fractured soul finally reunited, this was real.

"Long live the High Lady of Autumn," Eris said, bowing his head despite his injuries. "My sister. My High Lady."

Fire danced across your skin, responding to emotions too complex to name. You weren't just who you'd been in that hospital bed. You weren't just the cruel Lady of Autumn from before.

You were both. You were neither.

You were something new entirely, forged in trauma, tempered by two lives, crowned in fire.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the shock and grief and power, a small voice whispered.

This is who you were always meant to be.

Author's Note: I could apologize for the emotional damage... but let’s not lie to each other. You came here willingly. 😌🔥 Beron’s toast (literally), your girl’s a High Lady, and Azriel is one "where is she?!" away from emotionally combusting in a corner. Buckle up. It only gets worse better from here.

💌 Thanks for reading, crying, and mentally punching Beron with me. Now the real questions: Will our girl embrace her inner fire queen or sprint back to her coma body like it’s the last bus home? Will Azriel survive this emotional rollercoaster without setting something (or someone) on fire? Will Eris finally get a nap?

Stay tuned. I have no idea either. 😇

Taglist: @circe143@lunarxcity@willowpains@messageforthesmallestman@lreadsstuff@evye47@lovely-susie@moonfawnx@tele86@moonlitlavenders@darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa@auraofathena@lottiiee413@minaaminaa8@claudiab22@moonbeamruins@shewolf1549@crimsonandwhiteprincess@a-band-aid-for-your-heart@kathren1sky-blog@alimarie1105@masbt1218@topaz125@falszywe@randomdumsblog@sophia-grace2025@okaytrashpanda@thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn@suhke3@galaxystern08@ivy-34@hellsenthero@nayaniasworld@raccoonworld@bobbywobbby@evergreenlark@greenmandm@shinyghosteclipse@catloverandreader@the-onlyy-angie@bunnboosblog@i-like-boooks@ashduv@kayjaywrites@lovelyreaderlovesreading@badbishsblog@vera0124@i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

#acotar #azriel #azriel x oc #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #rhysand #azriel x you #cassian #feyre acotar #nesta acotar #lucien vanserra #eris vanserra

331 notes · View notes

ssvnriise · 1 month ago

Text

what if sukuna was a hater… but also a secret pink-loving cuddle bug?

you finally carved out time in your chaotic schedule to redecorate your apartment—something you’ve been dreaming about for ages. and naturally, it now looks like it was lovingly drowned in a bucket of pink paint. every corner is bursting with your favorite color, from the pastel pink curtains swaying in the breeze to the bubblegum throw pillows perfectly arranged on your sofa. even the tiny touches—rose-tinted candles, soft blush wall art, and a strategically placed collection of hello kitty plushies—scream you.

when you eagerly dragged your boyfriend, sukuna, into the space to show off your masterpiece, you expected at least a smirk or a teasing remark. Instead, he gave the entire room a disinterested once-over, grunted, and casually walked off like you’d just shown him a blank wall. typical.

but hours later, after a draining shift at work, you walk into your bedroom—and immediately freeze.

there he is.

sukuna, the usually smug and cold-hearted menace, is curled up under your pink, heart-patterned comforter, half-buried in pillows. one arm is slung protectively around your hello kitty plushie, his face nuzzled against it with a look of complete, unguarded peace. his tattoos seem softer in the warm glow of your fairy lights, and the contrast of his usual intimidating presence against the pink, cozy surroundings is downright hilarious.

you have to clap a hand over your mouth to hold back your laughter, eyes wide with disbelief. he’s adorable, you think, heart melting as you tiptoe closer.

turns out, maybe pink grew on him after all.

you tiptoe into the room, biting your lip to suppress the giggle bubbling in your chest. every fiber of your being is screaming to grab your phone and snap a picture of this once-in-a-lifetime scene—but one wrong move and you’re certain he’ll wake up and ruin the magic.

so instead, you settle for sitting gently on the edge of the bed, just watching him. His breathing is slow and steady, one hand clutching your plushie like it’s some kind of talisman. the faintest crease between his brows softens every time he exhales, like he’s finally at peace. you wonder if he even realizes he’s holding it—or if he sought it out without thinking, craving something soft in a room he pretended to hate.

after a minute, he shifts.

“mmm… you’re staring,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, not even bothering to open his eyes.

you blink. “how’d you know?”

sukuna slowly cracks one crimson eye open, still half-lidded with drowsiness. “you’re loud when you’re trying to be quiet.” his gaze flicks down to the plushie in his arms, then back up at you, completely unbothered. “what?”

you can’t help it. the laugh finally escapes, bubbling up in a soft, delighted sound. “you looked so cozy I didn’t wanna wake you. didn’t think you of all people would end up cuddling hello kitty.”

sukuna grunts, squeezing the plushie a little tighter before rolling onto his back with a yawn. “she’s soft. and your bed smells like you.”

your heart does a little flip at the casual honesty. you scoot closer and nudge him playfully. “so… the pink decor’s growing on you?”

he side-eyes you, then lazily lifts a corner of the comforter. “shut up and get in already. I’m cold.”

you blink, caught off guard by the invitation, but your grin returns in full force as you slip under the covers beside him. he immediately pulls you close, pressing his face into your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

#jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #jjk imagines #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #ryomen x reader #ryomen x you #ryomen x y/n #jujutsu kaisen fluff

226 notes · View notes

n0vazsq · 5 months ago

Text

Beginning of forever | LN4 x Reader

pairing . . . lando norris x gf!reader

summary . . . When Lando took you to celebrate christmas in a ski resort, you never expected what would have happened next

request . . . no!!

word count . . . 1.5k+

warnings . . . none!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . KILL ME RN I WANT THIS also ignore how i wrote this on new years eve

. . . The evening was as perfect as it could get. The ski resort in the mountains, nestled among snow covered pines, was glowing with holiday cheer.

The thick, gusts of snowflakes falling from the sky gave the entire landscape an almost ethereal quality, as if you had stepped into a snow globe.

Christmas lights twinkled in vibrant reds, greens, and golds, casting a warm glow across the darkening sky. The cozy, rustic charm of the wooden lodge and its stone fireplaces made the night feel even more magical.

It was everything you had ever dreamed of for a holiday getaway, and yet, tonight, something was different; something special was in the air.

Lando had made sure of that.

You had arrived at the resort just a few days ago, enjoying the slopes, fireside chats, and all the winter activities you loved.

Skiing together had been a blast; Lando’s teasing as he zoomed past you on the slopes, showing off his skills, and your good natured challenge of trying to keep up with him had left you both laughing breathlessly.

It had been nothing short of perfect, but the real surprise was still waiting for you.

You stepped onto the balcony of your cabin, the frosty air biting at your cheeks as you gazed out over the mountains.

The landscape looked like a painting, the distant peaks casting a serene shadow as the snow softly blanketed everything beneath them.

The lodge was just down the hill, its golden glow inviting and warm against the biting cold.

Lando’s voice broke through the calm, low and husky from behind you. "Pretty, isn’t it?"

You turned to find him standing in the doorway, his dark curls mussed by the wind and his face lit up by the soft glow of the holiday lights behind him. His eyes were fixed on you, as they always seemed to be, with that familiar warmth that made your heart race.

"It’s magical," you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth. "Almost like something out of a dream."

Lando walked toward you, a troublesome smile tugging at his lips. He reached out, his hand grazing your back, pulling you into the warmth of his embrace.

You melted into him, the heat of his body a welcome contrast to the chilly night air. His arms enveloped you, the familiar scent of his cologne comforting and grounding you in this moment.

You leaned back slightly to meet his eyes, feeling a nervous flutter in your chest. "What’s on your mind, love? You look like you’re plotting something."

Lando’s smile grew a little softer, his hands gently lifting your chin so that you were looking directly into his eyes. The twinkle in them made your pulse quicken. "Just… appreciating you. And this moment."

You felt your heart skip. His gaze was tender, but there was an intensity in his expression that took you by surprise. His fingers caressed the side of your face, and you closed your eyes for a moment, leaning into his touch.

"You’re everything to me, you know that?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but it resonated deep within your chest. "I don’t know what I’d do without you, angel."

A shiver ran down your spine as his words sank in. You loved him more than anything, but this felt different. The air around you seemed to shift, the weight of the moment heavier than it had been in the days before.

Something was about to happen, something that would change everything, and you couldn’t quite place what it was. But in that moment, you didn’t need to. All you wanted was to be here with him.

"I know, love," you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. "I feel the same way."

Lando pulled back, keeping a gentle hold on your face as he looked at you with such adoration, you thought you might collapse right there. Then, without another word, he slowly reached into his pocket, his gaze never leaving yours.

Your heart stopped.

In his hand, he held a small velvet box, its contents hidden from view but so clearly life-altering. Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t expected this; not here, not like this.

You had joked with him in the past about your 'dream proposal', but never had you imagined it would be so perfect.

He smiled softly at your stunned silence, the playful glint in his eyes shifting to something deeper, more vulnerable.

"I know we’ve only been together for a few years, angel, but from the moment I met you, I knew you were the one I was supposed to be with. You’ve made my world brighter in a way I never thought was possible. I don’t want to wait any longer to make it official. I want you by my side forever."

You were trembling, trying to breathe, trying to process his words. Tears started welling up in your eyes, but they weren’t from sadness; they were from the pure, overwhelming joy that filled your heart.

"Will you marry me, angel?" Lando asked, his voice shaking ever so slightly, as if he was nervous, though you knew better. "Will you be mine forever?"

The world seemed to pause as you stared at him, at the man who had shown you love in the most unexpected and beautiful ways.

You didn’t need to think about it, didn’t need to second guess anything. He was the one. He always had been. You had built a life together, filled with love, laughter, and a deep, unspoken understanding of each other.

Tears fell down your cheeks now, freely, but they were tears of happiness. Pure, unrestrained joy. You nodded, your voice barely escaping as you whispered, "Yes, Lando. Yes, a thousand times yes."

Lando’s face broke into a grin so wide, it almost seemed to light up the night. He opened the velvet box, revealing a stunning ring; a delicate band with a sparkling diamond that glinted in the light from the cabin behind you.

With trembling hands, he slid the ring onto your finger. The cool metal against your skin only heightened the warmth that spread through your chest.

He cupped your face in his hands once more, pulling you into a kiss that was nothing short of loving. His lips were soft against yours, but the kiss was full of everything; passion, excitement, love, and the promise of forever.

It was everything you had ever dreamed of and more. Every kiss you had shared before felt like practice for this one, and you kissed him back with all the emotion you had kept inside for so long.

Lando pulled away after a moment, his breath shallow, eyes wide with happiness. "I love you, angel," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you so much."

A sob escaped your lips as the gravity of it all finally hit you. You let out a soft laugh, tears streaming down your face. "I love you too, Lando. I’ve loved you for so long, and I will for the rest of my life."

Lando gently wiped away your tears with his thumb, his gaze filled with affection. "You’re everything to me," he murmured again, pressing his forehead to yours. "I don’t want to imagine a single day without you."

You laughed softly, still wrapped in his arms, the world around you fading away as your hearts beat in sync. "You won’t have to, love. We’re in this together."

For a moment, the only sound was the quiet snowfall around you, the occasional crunch of snow beneath your feet. Lando held you tight, and you let yourself relax in his arms, savoring the feeling of his warmth and the love you shared.

But as you stood there, wrapped in his embrace, you realized this was just the beginning.

The future stretched out ahead of you both, full of promise, full of love, and full of endless possibilities. No matter what came, you knew you’d face it together. Forever and always.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. "I’m so happy, Lando," you whispered. "I don’t think I could be happier."

"Then let’s make it even better," he said with that mischievous grin you adored so much. "Let’s have a lifetime of happy moments, starting right now."

You leaned in to kiss him again, your lips finding his as the snow continued to fall, soft and steady, covering the world in a blanket of white.

This Christmas, this moment, was everything you had ever wanted. And with Lando by your side, you knew the best was yet to come.

"I love you," you said softly against his lips, feeling the words travel deep into your soul.

"I love you more," Lando replied, his voice full of certainty.

And in that moment, as you stood together on the balcony of the snow covered cabin, with the world around you filled with holiday magic and love, you knew that this was the beginning of your forever.

taglist . . . @barcapix ,, @f1lover55 ,, @ilovebarcaaa ,, @httpsdana ,, @paucubarsisimp ,, @justaf1girl (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

345 notes · View notes

faebled-stories · 7 months ago

Text

Hidden Strength

Kinkvember Day 7: Femdom/Immobilized

Kiss Of Life Han Julie x Male reader

7.3k words

The sun began its slow descent, casting a golden hue through the tall, narrow windows of Julie's dormitory, and you could feel the enchantment in the air. The light filled the small room with warmth, turning it into a sanctuary as beams of sun danced like whispers across the furnishings. Each detail glowed in this soft, waning light—the small, well-worn books stacked haphazardly on the desk, the laundry basket in the corner that had long since needed attention, and the plush throw blanket draped lazily over the back of a chair. Dust motes floated serenely through the light, resembling tiny stars suspended in a gentle, magical glow.

Julie stood near the entrance, carefully adjusting a small vase of fresh flowers she had picked from a nearby store earlier that morning. The vibrant yellows of daisies and deep purples of tulips stood out against the rustic wood of the console table. Each petal seemed to tell its own story of the sunlit day that had just passed, stories that matched the bubbling thrill that flickered in her eyes. Tonight was the night she had been looking forward to—an evening she had imagined over and over in her mind, a night where you, the one who stirred her soul in ways words couldn’t capture, would finally meet her friends. She’d run countless scenarios in her head about how this meeting would go, spinning fantasies and rehearsing introductions. But now, here in the warmth of her room, those fantasies felt tangible, almost alive, breathing alongside her anticipation.

The dorm itself mirrored Julie’s emotions: cozy, inviting, and filled with a subtle lavender fragrance that floated through the room, calming her nerves. Soft light spilled from the delicate table lamps, blending with the gentle twinkle of string lights draped across her ceiling, casting an intimate glow over everything. It was the sort of ambiance that drew you in, evoking memories of childhood sleepovers, whispered secrets, and moments when bonds seemed to deepen in the flicker of a candle’s flame.

Then, the familiar creak of the door broke through her thoughts, and she turned, her breath catching as you stepped inside. For a moment, her eyes softened, her gaze locking with yours as a warm smile blossomed on her lips. It was as if the entire room shifted to acknowledge your presence, grounding her swirling thoughts and calming the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat. You, with your quiet confidence and easy presence, seemed to blend into the warmth of her carefully crafted haven as if you belonged there.

Julie moved towards you, her smile widening as she leaned in to press a gentle kiss on your cheek—a gesture both tender and electric, filled with the quiet intimacy of everything unspoken between you. Her fingers lingered against your shoulder for a moment, and you could sense the pride in her eyes as she stepped back, letting you take in the room. A hint of curiosity danced in your gaze as you absorbed the cozy details, the careful touches that revealed so much of who Julie was.

“Come on,” she said softly, her voice steady, colored with the warmth of belonging and a spark of excitement she could barely contain. "They are all dying to meet you." The pride in her tone was unmistakable, as if she was welcoming you into a part of herself she rarely shared, inviting you deeper into her world.

As you walked with Julie toward the living room, laughter and lively voices spilled over from the trio who formed the heart of her group—Haneul, Belle, and Natty—lounging comfortably on an oversized sectional. The warmth of their camaraderie seemed to fill the entire space, and you could feel how much they meant to Julie; they weren’t just friends—they were chosen family, each one a vital thread woven into the fabric of her life. When they spotted you and Julie approaching, their faces lit up with joy, eyes twinkling with friendliness and a touch of curiosity. Julie’s hand rested lightly on your arm, guiding you forward, as if anchoring you to this moment she had longed to share.

As you got closer, you could hear snippets of their playful banter; Haneul animatedly recounted a missed class, waving her hands in exaggerated gestures, while Belle teased her with a mock scolding. Natty, sprawled out on the couch, chimed in with an enthusiastic nod, her laughter bubbling up and pulling everyone else along with it. You felt yourself relax, letting your natural charm surface as you joined in the conversation, tossing in a few witty comments that sparked more laughter. The group responded easily, welcoming you as if you’d always been a part of their tight-knit circle.

Julie stepped back a bit, watching the scene unfold with a quiet sense of pride blossoming in her chest. For her, this was more than just an evening with friends—it was a bridge between her worlds, a blending of the people she cherished most. And as laughter and light-hearted teasing filled the room, she couldn’t help but feel that this gathering marked the beginning of something beautiful.

“I can’t believe it took you this long to bring your boyfriend over—he’s so fun to be around!” Haneul teased, a mischievous grin lighting up her face as she nudged Julie playfully with her elbow. Her words carried a lighthearted energy that filled the dimly lit room, sparking another round of laughter. Julie chuckled, brushing off the teasing with a casual wave of her hand, her cheeks faintly flushed. “Yeah, it was about time,” she replied, her voice warm with both pride and affection.

The evening continued to unfold like the pages of a captivating novel, each conversation flowing effortlessly, every laugh weaving the group closer together. You found yourself laughing deeply, the kind of genuine laughter that only emerges in moments of pure connection. It was clear you belonged here, that your presence added something vibrant to their bond.

Natty, relaxed in the comfort of the shared dorm, had chosen a loose shirt, unconcerned about needing a bra. The soft fabric draped casually over her, shifting with her movements, adding an effortless allure. Her confidence and natural grace were palpable, a quiet charisma that drew people in without her even trying.

But as the night wore on, Julie’s smile wavered just slightly as she watched you talking animatedly with Natty. Natty, with her easy charm and relaxed demeanor, was practically family to Julie—a friend who had stood by her through secrets, laughter, and tears. Julie rarely felt anything other than complete trust in her. Yet tonight, a flicker of jealousy stirred within her as she noticed your gaze linger just a fraction too long on Natty’s chest, where the loose shirt dipped slightly, hinting at more than she could ignore.

It was barely a moment—a fleeting look, subtle enough that anyone else might have missed it. But for Julie, it was enough to send an unsettling ripple through her composure. Her stomach tightened as the thought took root, her mind spinning despite her efforts to shake it off. It wasn’t as though you’d crossed any lines; you were simply being your warm, charismatic self, engaging and open as always. Yet, that fleeting glance tapped into insecurities she thought she had buried, doubts lingering like shadows even amid her trust in both you and Natty.

Julie took a steadying breath, trying to refocus as she observed the scene, almost as if from a distance. Within her, a delicate balance of pride and vulnerability settled—a quiet mix of loyalty and uncertainty that she held onto as the evening continued around her.

Forcing a neutral expression, she tried to suppress the unease that draped over her like a heavy cloak. The room buzzed with laughter and teasing, yet it was becoming harder for her to fully engage. Each time you threw your head back in laughter, your charm seemed to grow under the admiring gaze of her friends. A pang of doubt fluttered in her chest, a quiet ambivalence tugging at the edges of her mind.

Soon, the conversation shifted to relationships—a topic Belle was particularly excited to explore. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she leaned forward, her smile playful and a bit too eager. “So, what’s it like dating Julie unnie?” she asked, eyes twinkling. “Is she totally whipped for you?” The room erupted in laughter, and Julie felt warmth creeping up her cheeks—a comment that would normally roll off her back but now struck a tender nerve. Should she let it go? She clenched her jaw, forcing a tight smile.

Natty joined in, her usual boldness paired with an audacious smirk. “She's the leader of our group,” she said, glancing at you with a teasing glint, “but I bet you call all the shots at home. I can’t imagine her being in charge over you.”

You didn’t respond right away, and the group took your silence as confirmation, murmuring their agreement with amused grins. Haneul, ever the instigator, jumped in with laughter, egging on the playful ribbing. “Oh, for sure! Julie unnie, the one in control everywhere except with you,” she teased, nudging you with a wink.

The jests and laughter swirled around Julie like rising waves, each remark chipping away at her composure. She glanced anxiously at you, waiting—hoping—for you to step in and defend her, to assert the truth of your relationship and challenge their playful assumptions. But instead, you chuckled along with them, a casual shrug signaling that, to you, it was all just lighthearted banter. Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity, and her stomach knotted tightly.

Your silence felt like a quiet betrayal. Why would you let them see her in such a simplistic, inaccurate way? How could you stand by, leaving the depth and nuances of your relationship blurred by their teasing?

A slow heat builds within Julie, anger bubbling beneath the surface, though she covers it with an artificial laugh, going along with the banter for the sake of appearances. Inwardly, her thoughts race, composing pointed retorts and fierce arguments she plans to unleash later. The laughter continues to fill the room, but joy feels painfully out of reach. She clutched the edge of your drink a bit tighter, hoping it’ll keep her grounded, but the jealousy from earlier and frustration continue to churn within, casting shadows that refuse to dissipate.

When the night finally winds down, and her friends’ laughter fades to soft goodbyes, Julie and you step out into the cool night air. The chill hits her like a sharp wave, bracing against her skin and momentarily clearing her head. But the fresh air does little to ease the simmering frustration that has been building inside her all evening.

The moment the door thuds shut behind her and you, cutting off the final echoes of laughter, the tension inside her snaps, unraveling the careful restraint she held all night. She turns to you, words tumbling out like a dam finally broken. “What the hell was that back there?” Her voice is low, sharp, and cold as it slices through the quiet of the night.

You blink, taken aback by the intensity in her tone. “What are you talking about?” you ask, confusion and concern mixing in your voice.

She crosses her arms, instinctively tightening them across her chest as if holding herself together against the flood of emotions threatening to spill. “You just sat there and let them say all that crap,” she spits, her voice trembling despite its force. “They were making me out to be a pushover, like I’m some kind of doormat at home. And you didn’t defend me—not once! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

Your eyes widen as realization sinks in, and guilt begins to weave through your thoughts. You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off before you can form the words. Taking a step closer, she looks up at you, her eyes glistening with restrained anger and hurt. “I expected you to set the record straight. To tell them that’s not who I am. But instead, you just… laughed along. Like it was all true.”

The accusation hangs heavy in the chilly air, each word settling deep. You feel the pang of guilt flicker across your face as you reach out, hesitating, searching for the right thing to say. But her gaze stops you, piercing and unwavering, a mix of anger and wounded pride. Beneath her anger, you see a raw sense of betrayal that gnaws at her, aching and exposed. This was supposed to be the night she introduced you to the people closest to her, the ones who saw her as strong and capable. Instead, she feels as though she’s been reduced to a shallow caricature, her relationship glossed over for the sake of a joke you let slide.

She draws a shaky breath, lowering her arms as she tries to steady herself, grounding the storm that churns inside her. “We’ll talk about this when we get home,” she says, her voice resolute and final, leaving no room for debate. She needs space to process the whirlwind of emotions before anything else can be said.

Your shoulders slump, and you nod silently, regret etching lines across your face. The two of you begin the walk back to your shared apartment in tense silence, each step echoing the growing chasm between you. The usual warmth and ease that bind you feel absent, replaced by a heavy, strained quiet that makes every footfall feel burdensome. The silence amplifies the divide, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions, each step stretching the space further.

As you walk, she’s lost in thought, memories of the evening replaying in relentless loops. Every laugh, every teasing remark, and every moment you’d laughed along instead of defending her plays like an unending scene in a theater she can’t escape. Frustration simmers, coiling tightly in her stomach as she tries to understand how you could have missed how deeply it affected her, how your silence felt like a silent endorsement of their jokes.

-----

The familiar sight of your apartment, once a place that buzzed with shared laughter and the comfort of mutual understanding, now looms ahead, transformed into an arena of silent reckoning. Julie’s eyes, which once sparkled with shared secrets and inside jokes, now bore into you with a steely resolve that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

When she speaks, the word hangs in the air like a final verdict. “Strip.”

You find yourself obeying, not out of fear, but out of a deep-seated need to atone for your transgression.

As you undress, the gravity of the situation becomes increasingly palpable. Each article of clothing that hits the floor feels heavier than the last, a testament to your surrender and an acknowledgment of the power dynamics that have shifted so abruptly. The room, usually filled with warmth and comfort, seems to shrink around you, intensifying the awareness of your exposed state. The chair in the center, once ordinary, now holds an ominous presence, its unyielding surface a prelude to the control Julie is about to wield.

Sitting there, naked and vulnerable, your exposure transcends the physical; it becomes a baring of your very soul, a silent plea for forgiveness and understanding. The cool air of the apartment skates over your skin, raising goosebumps and sending shivers racing down your spine. Every sense feels heightened, tuned to the faintest sounds—the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of the floorboards, and the steady rhythm of her movement as she prepares. The anticipation stretches each second into an eternity, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

When Julie finally reemerges, the transformation is striking. Gone is the warm, light-hearted partner who shared laughter with you earlier in the night. In her place stands a figure of dominance, her presence commanding and confident. She is dressed in black, the fabric accentuating her form with precision, glinting subtly as she moves. In her hands are the tools of her trade: silken ropes that promise both comfort and captivity, a spreader bar that signals the extent of your impending restraint, and a gag that will soon silence your words.

Julie’s movements are deliberate, each step resonating through the quiet room. The click of her heels on the hardwood floor becomes a countdown to when your world will narrow to just her and the sensations she chooses to inflict. She pauses in front of you, her gaze sweeping over your form with a look that is both critical and approving. It’s not cruelty in her eyes but satisfaction—a shared acknowledgment of the trust underlying this exchange.

“Hands,” she commands, her voice low and unwavering. You comply immediately, bringing your wrists behind you as she steps closer. The scent of her perfume reaches you, teasing your senses. Her fingers are skilled, weaving the ropes with a practiced ease, the loops snug but not cutting. Each knot holds you firmly in place, ensuring your surrender is complete. The bindings serve as a tangible reminder of your submission, tightening with every subtle shift of your body.

Julie's eyes glinting with mischief as she picks up the gag. She holds it up for a moment, searching your gaze for that final glimmer of acceptance. She moves closer, fitting the gag around your head. The material presses into your lips, silencing any potential words. As the gag muffles your voice, turning your apologies and pleas into soft, incoherent murmurs that fill the room, Julie smiles in satisfaction.

The sensation is disorienting yet electrifying, deepening your vulnerability. With a playful smirk, she reaches for the spreader bar, attaching it firmly, stretching your legs and enhancing the sense of helplessness. You feel the weight of your submission settle in, the world around you narrowing to just her and the anticipation of what comes next.

She steps back to assess her work, the room momentarily filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing, now shallow and uneven. The silence stretches, amplifying the thrum of anticipation coursing through you. Her gaze lingers as she runs a finger down your arm, trailing goosebumps in its wake. The spreader bar still lies within reach, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

“Do you know why you’re in this position?” she asks, her voice slicing through the quiet with a commanding edge. The question hangs in the air, charged with expectation.

You nod, the movement subtle but insistent. Your eyes meet hers, carrying an apology and submission that don’t need words. But the nod alone isn’t enough for her.

“Good,” she whispers, leaning down until her breath warms your skin. “Then you’re going to be a good boy and take everything I give you tonight. Understand?”

You nod again, more fervently this time, the gag pressing against your mouth as you do. Your heart thunders as her words echo in your mind, sending a pulse of anticipation through you that makes every nerve in your body come alive. Her lips curl into a smirk as she straightens, her eyes never leaving yours.

And with that, the teasing began.

Julie moves with a predator's grace, each step calculated and precise. She brushes against you, her body a whisper against your skin, as she circles the chair like a huntress toying with her prey. Every nerve heightens in suspense, registering each point of contact—her breasts grazing your arm, her hips swaying against your legs. The gag renders your mouth useless, but your eyes betray a silent, unspoken desire.

Her fingers skim lightly over your thighs and stomach, deliberately avoiding your most sensitive areas, savoring the way your body tenses under her touch. Fingernails scrape gently over your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

"Already squirming," she teases, voice soft yet commanding. "I haven’t even started, and you’re falling apart."

A muffled groan escapes as your body instinctively yearns for more. She revels in your helpless state, bound and utterly under her control. Her fingers dance over your chest, tracing the contours of your muscles before finally grazing the tip of your hardened length. The touch is fleeting, barely enough to satisfy the ache building within, but just enough to keep you teetering on the edge.

"So needy already," she murmurs, dark amusement flickering in her eyes as she continues her tantalizing torment. "And I’ve barely touched you."

Julie’s mastery in the art of dominance is clear in the way she commands every inch of your submission, drawing out your reactions like a skilled musician coaxing a melody from each note. She knows the true power lies in denial, in the sweet agony of anticipation. Her hands explore further, tracing the lines of your torso, shifting between feather-light touches and firmer caresses.

The dynamic between you pulses with an electrifying tension, a charged dance of dominance and submission. Without warning, she climbs onto your lap, her thighs bracketing your hips as she straddles you. Her warmth presses against you, her slickness gliding over your length, coating you with her arousal and leaving a heated trail that only deepens the fire within you, threatening to consume you both in its intensity.

Her hips start a slow, deliberate grind, pressing her heat against you in a rhythm that’s both seductive and torturous, a constant teasing friction that only intensifies your need. Each controlled roll of her body against yours sends waves of pleasure rippling through you, spreading outward until every inch of your skin feels alive, hypersensitive to her slightest movement. She holds herself just out of reach, the wetness from her core brushing and slicking along your length, leaving you taut with need, your body practically vibrating with anticipation. Each soft gasp that escapes her lips as she moves only fuels the growing ache within you, driving you to instinctively buck your hips, craving to close the maddening distance, to press deeper into her warmth.

But the restraints binding you to the chair hold fast, forcing you to submit, a stark reminder of your willing captivity. Every strained movement, every pull against the bindings, only sharpens the ache, the urgency growing with each second she remains perched atop you, tantalizingly close but just out of reach.

She catches sight of the glistening evidence of your arousal at your tip, coated in her own slickness, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Leaking already," she murmurs, the tone a mixture of amusement and smug satisfaction. Her eyes gleam with wicked delight, drinking in every bit of evidence of your desire. "So desperate for me… and I haven’t even let you inside. Pathetic."

Her words cut through the fog of arousal, a sharp contrast to the gentleness of her fingers as they begin to wander, tracing languid lines across your chest. Her fingertips drift over your skin with a possessive tenderness, mapping each contour and ridge with expert care. Her nails skim along your muscles, trailing down over the firm lines of your torso and sending jolts of heat to every nerve, her touch both thrilling and maddeningly slow.

She leans in, her breath warm against your neck as she murmurs softly, her voice carrying a tone of command that feels both soft and absolute. Every inch of you responds to her, every nerve straining toward her touch as she masterfully pushes and pulls you between desire and restraint, leading you through a symphony of sensation, teasing you closer and closer to the edge without allowing release.

Your breaths come shallow and ragged, each exhale a silent plea for mercy as your gaze meets hers, desperation clear in your eyes. But there’s a glint of mischief in her expression as she holds you there, a silent acknowledgment that she’s in complete control. She has you—body and mind, bound and utterly at her mercy, while she conducts each sensation with calculated precision.

In one swift, unexpected move, she rises from your lap, leaving you throbbing, trembling with unfulfilled longing. The sudden absence of her warmth is jarring, a shock that leaves you gasping as your body craves her all the more. Helpless, you watch as she steps back, just out of reach, her gaze sweeping over you with a look of calm satisfaction, savoring the power she holds. She’s a goddess in her own right, basking in the way you devour her with your eyes, the silent worship etched across every fiber of your being.

With a fluid gesture, Julie blindfolds you, plunging you into darkness where every other sense sharpens. "You don’t get to beg with your eyes anymore," she murmurs, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "You’ll just have to feel." Deprived of sight, every whisper of her movement against your skin intensifies, turning each caress into a new form of exquisite torture.

She kneels down and her hand wraps firmly around your shaft, motionless yet charged with intent. You can feel the beat of your own pulse against her palm, each rhythmic throb amplifying the ache within you. She holds you just like that, unhurried, letting the tension build until every second feels like an eternity.

Then, almost imperceptibly, her arm began to move. Each stroke is a maddening tease—soft, deliberate, and just enough to make your muscles clench with anticipation, but never enough to bring you the release you crave. She slides her hand upward, a slow and torturous ascent that ignites every nerve along the way, until she stops just below the tip. Her grip tightens just a little, holding you there, keeping you on edge, her control turning your desire into a relentless pulse.

After a breathless pause, she reverses course, moving just as slowly down to the base and stopping again. The deliberate rhythm—up, pause, down, pause—leaves you trembling, body taut and shivering under the command of her touch. Each hold, each slight squeeze, feels like both a promise and a denial, the tension building with every passing second. It’s a masterful, torturous dance, and you’re ensnared in her control, helpless yet entranced by her command over your senses.

Her lips part in a sly smile "Look at you," she murmurs, her voice low and honeyed. "So hard, so ready and I decide when you’re satisfied." Her words are a silken reminder of her power, and the restraint she demands makes the desire inside you swell even further, twisting with both longing and surrender.

Just when the suspense is unbearable, she leans closer, her breath grazing your length, warm and tantalizing. The soft, steady rhythm of her exhale sends ripples of heat through you, and the contrast between her closeness and the aching need intensifies the tension coiling within. Her breath lingers, teasing, as if savoring every second of the anticipation.

Then, her lips brush lightly against the tip, a feather-soft kiss that makes your entire body jolt in response. In that instant, a drop of anticipation escapes, and she notices, her gaze fixated on each pulse of your member. She dips her head, the tip of her tongue darting out just enough to scoop the small drop, her touch maddeningly gentle.

Her tongue traces the tiniest, deliberate flick across the sensitive skin, collecting the bead with exquisite care. Each soft, restrained stroke of her tongue stokes the fire within, leaving you teetering on the edge of release yet held back, her control absolute. Each touch is measured, perfectly calculated to keep you suspended between need and surrender, an unrelenting tease that keeps you helplessly ensnared.

Your muscles strain against the bonds that hold you, your body surrendering to the exquisite torment she inflicts. The pride that once stiffened your spine melts under her touch, leaving you utterly exposed and vulnerable. In this game of pleasure and restraint, Julie is the undisputed master.

"What a pathetic mess," she taunts, amusement lacing her voice as she revels in her dominion over your body. "You tower me and yet I can make you crumble with just a touch." Her words cut both as a rebuke and a compliment, a testament to her irresistible allure.

With each slow stroke along your shaft and each flick of her tongue over the sensitive tip, she brings you to the very edge of release, only to pull back, leaving you teetering on the brink of bliss. Your body arches, straining against the restraints, desperate for the ultimate surrender that only she can offer.

Then, without warning, she stops.

Julie stands back, posture exuding a blend of amusement and authority, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she watches your frustrated contortions. Her eyes glint with mischief, sparkling like sunlight on an unruly sea, as she takes in the sight of you squirming under the weight of your desire. The tension thickens, a palpable pulse wrapping around you both, amplifying every flicker of energy flowing between you.

“You want to cum so badly, don’t you?” she taunts, her voice dropping to a low, sultry purr that resonates in the core of your being, each syllable dripping with seduction. The words hang in the air, tantalizing and laced with playful command, pulling you even deeper into her orbit. She leans closer, her warm breath brushing against your skin, strengthening the connection that crackles between you.

“Beg for it,” she continues, her tone turning sharper, though still steeped in teasing allure. “Apologize for what you did to me earlier.” Her eyes narrow, challenging you to surrender, to embrace the vulnerability simmering just beneath the surface. The power dynamic dances between you, electric and heady, anticipation swirling like a cyclone that leaves you breathless, utterly captivated by her control.

Your response is a garbled attempt at speech, the gag reducing your words to incomprehensible murmurs. Yet the desperation is unmistakable, a raw testament to the intensity of your need.

Julie chuckles softly, her breath hot and laced with playful mischief as she leans in, her lips hovering near your ear. The warmth radiating from her skin sends a shiver down your spine, heightening the tension simmering between you.

“I can’t understand you,” she teases, voice low and sultry, each word leaving a trail of excitement in the still air. Her playful tone cuts through the intensity, a lightness that only sharpens the edge of the moment. A mischievous grin dances across her lips, a blend of challenge and allure that sets your heart racing.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” she purrs, her eyes bright with mischief. The space between you crackles with unspoken desire as you struggle to respond, caught in the spell she weaves. Julie’s confidence and sass infuse the moment with an infectious thrill, holding you captive in a deliciously precarious game of cat and mouse.

With renewed urgency, you try again to plead, your muffled cries growing more frantic. But Julie’s smirk remains, her head shaking in silent refusal as she drinks in your pleas, delight flickering in her gaze.

The seconds stretch, each one a small eternity that settles heavily on your consciousness. The yearning inside intensifies, a silent plea for release that feels like a prayer. Each minute seems to stretch further, blending into a timeless void filled only with the sound of your ragged breaths and the pounding of your heart.

Julie watches with an intensity that’s both unsettling and thrilling, her gaze tracking every twitch, every involuntary shudder that runs through you. She seems to derive a certain pleasure from this power, this control she holds over you.

Then, as if guided by an impulsive whim or sensing a subtle shift within you, her demeanor changes. Her fingers, which have been teasing around your length, suddenly tighten around your shaft. The warmth of her palm contrasts sharply with the cool air, the pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

In an instant her hand begins to move in deliberate, fast strokes. Each motion is a symphony of sensation, a calculated descent into the depths of pleasure. Your muscles coil like a spring, tension mounting with every pass of her hand.

The room fills with the sound of your muffled moans, the gag doing little to stifle the raw, animalistic noises escaping your throat. Parched from panting, forming words becomes impossible, but your body speaks for you, each tremor a language of pure need. Your back arches, every fiber straining against the crescendo of sensation threatening to overwhelm.

Then, with a suddenness that’s both startling and inevitable, the wave of release crashes over you. After the relentless teasing and countless moments held just on the brink, the sensation is nothing short of explosive. It’s as though every nerve in your body has been ignited, the intense buildup finally finding its release in a torrent that consumes you completely. The climax is powerful and shuddering, each pulse deeper and more overwhelming than the last, streaking across your stomach and chest as Julie angles you just so, letting every drop land exactly where she intended.

The sensation is almost blinding, leaving you trembling in its wake. The sheer force of release leaves your muscles shuddering, as if they’re catching up to the relief they’ve been denied for so long. Your breaths come in sharp gasps, each one echoing the intensity of everything you’ve been holding back. Every ounce of tension unwinds, cascading through your limbs until you feel weightless, utterly spent.

As the aftershocks ripple through you, your head was buzzing, the world narrowed to the warmth and satisfaction coursing through your body. Julie’s hand slows, her touch soft and almost reverent as she loosens her grip, fingers tracing gentle circles along your skin. Her gaze lingers over the evidence of her careful work, a quiet triumph in her eyes as she takes in the effect she’s had on you, savoring each tremor and shallow breath.

You thought you were done, that the punishment had finally matched the crime, but you couldn't have been more wrong. The game is far from over.

The air hangs heavy with the scent of leather and the unmistakable musk of arousal, filling the space between you. Julie’s fingers work with expert precision as she reaches for the buckle behind your head, the slick click of metal releasing the ball gag from your mouth breaking the tense silence. As the gag falls away, you gasp for air, your chest heaving with a sharp, grateful intake, savoring the rush of cool air against your parched throat—a fleeting relief from the intensity she’s kept you under.

But she allows you no time to settle. Her fingers glide up to the blindfold, and with a quick tug, she pulls it away, letting light spill into your vision. Your eyes squint and blink, adjusting to the sudden brightness after so long in darkness, the details of the room coming back into focus in a dazed, almost surreal clarity. Julie’s face comes into view, her gaze heavy with satisfaction, her expression carrying the weight of everything she’s just put you through.

In one fluid motion, she gathers the overwhelming evidence of your surrender—your release, slick, warm and copious in her hand, holding it up between you, letting the light catch it as if it were some prized possession. Her eyes, dark and filled with a knowing glint, meet yours, and the look she gives you is laced with pride, satisfaction, and a sense of complete ownership that sends another shiver down your spine.

Her expression speaks volumes, a blend of triumph and control, as if marking this moment as her own creation. The silence stretches, laden with all the unspoken promises she’s fulfilled, and the intensity of her gaze makes it clear that she isn’t done with you yet.

“Open,” she commands, her voice a silky rasp that brooks no disobedience. Your lips part instinctively, the submissive reflex inside you responding to her dominance. Slowly, deliberately, she tips her hand, letting the viscous fluid slide over your tongue. The taste is salty, bitter—a potent reminder of your surrender.

"Keep it there until I say otherwise," she instructs, her tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. You nod slightly, eyes wide, a blend of fear, excitement, and adoration clouding your gaze. A soft whine escapes you, a sound that speaks volumes about your submission.

Her hand resumes its relentless rhythm on your sensitive member, merciless in its pace, drawing you back to the peak of pleasure despite the sharp, overstimulated ache that borders on pain. Each jolt that courses through your body makes you feel your vulnerability tenfold. The strength you once prided yourself on is gone, leaving you trembling, utterly at her mercy.

“Keep squirming” she purrs, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she revels in the sight of you reduced to this state. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Your body twitches under her touch, control completely relinquished to her hands. The overstimulation is overwhelming, but stopping is a luxury she’s denied you, and you’re left trapped in an intoxicating blend of ecstasy and agony that only she can navigate.

Julie’s eyes, darkened with unrestrained desire, stay locked onto yours as her slick hand works you closer and closer. But there’s no comfort in her gaze, only dominance and satisfaction as she sees you fall apart under her touch. She leans in, a mocking smile on her lips. “Look at you—just a mess. Can’t even handle a little girl like me.”

The pressure builds unbearably, each second a dizzying rush that overwhelms you. Your face twists in desperation, begging silently for her mercy as her pace continues. Just when you think you can’t bear it anymore, your control shatters, a raw moan escapes you as a couple drops of liquid spills from your lips onto your chest as your release is forced from you again.

But Julie only smirks, her hand still working with an unrelenting rhythm, refusing to give you even a moment’s reprieve. She watches, amused, as you whimper and struggle beneath her, her mocking voice low and taunting. “I didn’t say you could stop.”

Your eyes widen, pleading, but she doesn’t relent. The sensitivity has your body spasming under her touch, every nerve frayed as she pushes you toward a second release, knowing it will push you past all limits. You can only submit, powerless as she drives you quickly over the edge again.

With a broken moan that quickly crescendos into a loud, uncontrollable cry, your body surrenders, releasing one last time in a shuddering wave. The climax is so overwhelming that your muscles, usually clenching tight in moments like this, go limp under her dominance. The sensation crashes over you, leaving your mind blank and your body helplessly convulsing.

As the intensity peaks, your previous release spills from your mouth, dripping down to your chest and mingling with the sweat beading your skin. The warm, slick mess spreads across your torso, the sensation amplifying the vulnerability coursing through you. Every fiber of your being is overtaken, leaving you quivering and trembling as she finally eases her grip. You collapse, utterly spent and broken before her, breaths coming in ragged gasps as the overstimulation echoes through your limbs.

Julie’s eyes never leave yours as she leans in, claiming your mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss that leaves you gasping. She pulls back with a sharp smirk, then spits harshly onto your chest, the suddenness of it making you shudder as the warmth mixes with the already smeared fluids. The act stings with raw dominance, each drop marking her claim. Slowly, she drags her fingers through the blend, smearing it purposefully across your skin. Each stroke is deliberate, a cool reminder of her power as her touch lingers over your heaving chest, spreading the warmth until it clings to every inch of you.

“There,” she murmurs with a smirk, voice a perfect blend of pride and satisfaction. “Now you’ll remember exactly who owns you.”

Julie rises slowly, her fingers gliding down your chest, pausing to press lightly where your heartbeat betrays your surrender. She steps back, her eyes sweeping over you—bound to the chair, hands secured tightly behind your back, legs spread wide by the bar at your ankles. Every inch of you is exposed, vulnerable, and yet there’s no desire to resist. The calmness settles deeper, the certainty of yielding to her undeniable.

A small, satisfied smile plays at the corner of her lips as she studies you, taking in the way the ropes hold you exactly where she wants. Her gaze fixes on you with a confidence that’s unbreakable. “This,” she says, her tone soft yet edged with command, “is exactly where you belong. Tied up, under my control, waiting for my command. You don’t get to call the shots here—that’s my role.” Her words settle over you, embedding themselves like an invisible mark, a seal on the surrender you feel.

She steps behind you, her hands resting firmly on your shoulders, anchoring you in her presence. She begins to knead away the last traces of tension, her fingers firm yet gentle, drawing you deeper into her influence. A shiver races down your spine as she leans close, her breath warm against your ear.

“Think about tonight,” she murmurs, her voice both soft and unshakable, as though each word is settling into you. “Think about how easily you yield, how completely you become mine, just as you are right now. Because this”—her nails trail lightly down your back, drawing a sharp breath from you—“is how things will be. In this house, and anywhere else we go.”

Her hands slide back to your wrists, her fingers deftly working to untie the ropes that have held you so tightly. She moves with care, releasing each bond one by one, each motion a reminder of her control. Even as the ropes fall away, the feeling of being held by her command remains. She moves to your front, kneeling to remove the spreader bar from your ankles, her fingers brushing your skin lightly, each touch a reminder that it’s her choice to free you, her decision.

Once free, you feel the urge to stretch, but her gaze roots you to the spot, grounding you in her authority. Her eyes stay fixed on you, unwavering, and without a word, the weight of her expectation presses down. It’s instinctive—you feel yourself slowly sinking down, lowering to your knees before her, your hands coming to rest at your sides.

Julie steps closer, her fingers reaching for your chin. She tilts your head up, bringing your eyes to meet hers, and the weight of her command settles even deeper within you.

“This,” she says, her thumb brushing softly over your jawline, “is exactly where you belong—at my feet, waiting for my word. I want you to see who’s in control, who makes the choices. And every time you look at me like this, you’ll remember that every action, every decision, is mine.” Her fingers tighten just slightly, her gaze holding yours with a depth that leaves no room for doubt.

You nod subtly, the acceptance in your gaze mirroring her certainty. Her hold on your chin remains, her fingers pressing a little firmer, reinforcing the truth she’s just spoken. “I don’t want you to just obey. I want you to feel it, to know that every inch of you is mine to command. You stay when I say stay. You move when I allow it. Understand?”

The air is thick with her authority, her words pressing into you, reinforcing her control in every possible way. You nod then finally, she releases your chin.

She smiles, her satisfaction evident. “Good,” she murmurs, watching you closely. “Get up and go clean yourself. Then meet me in bed. We're going to discuss your behavior at the dorm.”

You rise slowly, each movement a reminder of the boundaries she’s drawn. As you turn toward the bathroom, you feel her gaze lingering, following you like a weight that holds you in place even as you walk away. And when the door clicks shut behind you, the image of her small, knowing smile remains etched in your mind—a reminder of the perfect place she’s found for you, right where she intended.

#kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #kpop smut #girl group smut #reader insert #male reader #kinkvember #kinkvember 2024 #kiss of life #kiss of life smut #han julie #han julie smut #julie smut #julie x reader #kiss of life julie #kiof #julie kiof #julie kiss of life

588 notes · View notes

shesgaymichaelscott · 5 days ago

Note

hiii can i request melissa and fem reader where melissa is still with (literally can't remember any of her boring ass guys names lmao) but somehow their eyes meet and they feel like time stops 🤭 but they get pulled apart before they can introduce themselves and then reader ends up working at abbott and they're pining eeeeee then they become friends and the tension and chemistry is crazy and melissa ends up leaving loser guy bc she realizes she's falling in love with reader :)))

(if you're feeling like writing smut then maybe mel realizes she's never really had great sex before bc of the losers she's been with until reader blows her mind 🙂‍↕️)

Look at Me Again

(sooo much mutual pining it kills me!!, love at first sight, eventual smut🤭)

Word Count: 7.6k

taglist <3: @writerspirit @schemmentigfs @myownworriedshoes

Gary was easy.

That was the honest truth of it, and Melissa Schemmenti had long since made peace with honest truths.

He was easy like vending machine candy when you skipped lunch. Like watching reruns of Law & Order instead of dealing with the mess in the sink. Reliable. Predictable. Someone to warm the other side of the bed without asking much of her soul.

And after everything—her ex-husband, the chaos of her family, the emotional highwire act that came with being needed by everyone in her orbit—Melissa had thought maybe easy was enough.

He was fine. He was sweet. She didn't hate that he knew how she took her coffee or that he gave her space when she wanted it. She didn't mind that he thought her chaotic, oversized family dinners were "endearingly intense," even if he spent most of them blinking in terror.

But deep down, somewhere in that slow-burning place inside her that used to wake for things like poetry and lust and the way someone's voice could curl around your name and make it mean something—Melissa knew she wasn't lit up.

Not really.

She hadn't been lit up in a long time.

"It's one drink, Melissa," Jacob insisted, arms flapping like he was coaching a Broadway cast. "You are allowed to enjoy yourself."

"We're celebrating the grant funding," Janine chimed in, bumping Melissa's shoulder affectionately. "Come on. Just one night out with your work family. Please?"

Barbara raised a brow but sipped her tea calmly. "Consider it a wellness initiative."

"And I'm buyin' first round," Ava added, flourishing her phone like a magic wand. "Because I finessed a corporate sponsorship from this kombucha company that thinks I'm an influencer. They don't need to know the drinks are vodka."

Gregory looked up from his quiet corner, one brow raised in amusement. "What she means is, we'd all like to hang out. With you. So stop trying to ghost."

Melissa sighed dramatically. "You're all like moths in my damn ears."

"Flattering," said Jacob, already pulling his coat on. "Let's go, hot teacher girl."

Melissa rolled her eyes but let herself be pulled along, her coat slung over one arm. She texted Gary a simple 'Going out with the staff. Be home late. Don't wait up' and didn't wait for a reply.

Ruby's was crowded in that warm, familiar way—half dive bar, half community hub. The air buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low pulse of music no one really danced to but everyone bobbed their heads with.

Melissa took her usual seat near the corner of the bar, where the light hit just right to keep her visible without inviting too much conversation. She was nursing her whiskey when it happened.

The moment.

That moment.

A figure stepped through the door like they didn't even know they were about to ruin her life.

You weren't dramatic. You weren't posing. You weren't the kind of woman who asked to be seen—but Melissa saw you anyway.

It was something about the way you moved, sure. That slow, self-assured grace. But more than that, it was your eyes. The second they lifted—just casually, just for a flicker—and met hers across the room, Melissa forgot what air was.

Time slowed.

She didn't believe in that kind of crap, normally. Fate. Lightning strikes. Love at first sight. But this—this felt like a ripple in the universe. Like someone had pulled a thread too tightly and it snapped, right between her ribs.

You looked at her like you knew something. Like you recognized her.

And Melissa, for once in her very stubborn, rooted life, didn't look away.

Not until Ava spilled someone's tequila sunrise directly onto Barbara's lap and chaos erupted.

In the shuffle—Gregory trying to help, Janine fussing, Barbara elegantly swearing under her breath—Melissa's eyes darted back to where you had been.

Gone.

Just like that.

She didn't get your name. Didn't know if you really noticed her back or felt that same pull. And yet, the moment lodged itself deep in her, something to carry home like a splinter under the skin.

That night, in bed next to Gary, Melissa stared at the ceiling. She let him rest his hand on her hip, let him mumble something about work tomorrow, let herself pretend that nothing had happened.

But her heart beat just a little faster.

Because something had.

She didn't know it yet, but she'd just met the woman who would ruin her life in the best possible way.

And she was going to see her again.

Soon.

—

Your first day at Abbott Elementary began the same way your morning runs usually ended—sweaty, breathless, and mildly terrified of what you'd just signed up for.

You smoothed your hand down the front of your blazer as you stood in front of the school's side entrance, taking a deep breath. The sign out front was crooked. There was a paper bat taped to the front door that said Don't test me, I bite. And someone was already yelling about a laminator inside.

God help you, you liked it already.

You were the first guidance counselor Abbott had ever had—budget expansions, new district initiatives, blah blah blah. What it really meant was that no one knew what the hell you were supposed to be doing yet.

And that meant freedom. Reinvention. Possibility.

It also meant pressure.

"Deep breath," you muttered to yourself. "You've got this."

Inside, the front office was mid-chaos. Phones ringing. A kid doing the worm down the hallway. A woman with sleek black hair encouraging him to find a better rhythm.

"Principal Ava Coleman," she announced, like it was a name you should already know. "Style icon. Visionary. Professional life coach—unofficially. You must be my new project."

Your eyebrows rose. "Guidance counselor, actually."

"Same thing," she said, waving it off. "You'll be in charge of vibes and emotional crises. Like me, but with paperwork. Come on, I'll give you the world's most chaotic tour."

And chaotic it was.

She breezed you through classrooms and corners of the building that barely passed for code-compliant, introducing you to teachers in rapid-fire bursts:

Barbara Howard, regal and composed, whose handshake felt like a benediction. Jacob Hill, who immediately launched into an unsolicited monologue about restorative justice and the time he cried during Encanto. Gregory Eddie, quiet, observant, and lowkey hot in a flannel-wearing-sad-boy kind of way. Janine Teagues, who practically vibrated with friendliness and already asked if you needed help decorating your office.

They were all warm. A little strange. Deeply loyal to each other in a way you could feel like heat off a sidewalk.

You liked them. That terrified you a little.

"Almost done," Ava chirped, leading you down the hallway toward a door labeled 'Staff Lounge' with a sticker of a possum and the words Emotional Dumping Ground. "Just gotta introduce you to our last teacher. Redhead. Probably yelling about the Philly parking authority or spaghetti right now. She's like if the mob adopted a kitten."

You laughed, nerves easing.

The second the door opened, you heard her voice before you saw her:

"—and then the guy tells me I can't park there 'cause of street cleaning? In October? I said to him, buddy, I've been street cleaning since I came outta the womb, and if you think I'm moving my car in heels, you've got—"

She turned as Ava pushed the door open wider.

And stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-gesture. One hand in the air like punctuation that never arrived.

Your eyes met.

And there it was again.

The spark.

No—not a spark. A match dropped in gasoline. That moment from the bar, crystal-clear. Like it had been waiting in both of you, smoldering in the background of your lives until now.

Melissa's breath caught audibly. Her green eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she masked it—fast, sharp, the way you knew a woman who'd learned to protect herself did.

You swallowed.

"Hi," you said, voice just barely steady. "I think we've... sort of met."

Silence, thick enough to spread on toast.

Janine blinked between you two. "Wait... did you guys go to Temple together or something?"

"No," Melissa said, eyes still locked on you. "Ruby's."

Ava's mouth dropped open. "Ohhhhhh. This is the bar girl."

You flushed.

Melissa stood a little straighter, voice gruff but softer now, "Melissa Schemmenti. Second grade."

You told her your name.

She repeated it like it tasted good in her mouth.

"Guidance counselor," Ava added helpfully. "Here full-time. Permanent. Not leaving."

You swore Melissa's throat moved when she swallowed.

You stuck out your hand, because professionalism mattered, even when your heart was trying to beat its way through your sternum.

She shook it. Firm. Warm. A little too long.

God help you both.

By the end of your first week at Abbott, two things were abundantly clear:

Melissa Schemmenti avoided you like it was a competitive sport. And you liked her anyway.

She was polite. Respectful. Occasionally gruff in that Philly way you were starting to realize meant affection—but she never lingered. If you came into the lounge, she left. If you stayed late working on a bulletin board for mental health awareness, she mumbled something about paperwork and disappeared into her classroom.

She was like a cat—always around, never close, watching from the edge of the room with those sharp green eyes.

And you? You had it bad.

You noticed the way she always held the door open without being asked. How she joked with Barbara in the mornings and somehow always had spare Tylenol in her drawer like she was prepping for the end times. The way she lit up around her kids, especially the ones with fire in their bellies and chaos in their notebooks. You watched her soothe, defend, fight for them like they were hers.

So yeah. You had it bad.

And you'd barely spoken since the bar.

Barbara, of course, noticed it first.

It started with a glance. Then a pause. Then a sideways look during a particularly chaotic Thursday lunch when Melissa spent more time staring into her soup than eating it.

Barbara leaned over, calm and motherly. "You've hardly touched your lunch, Melissa."

"I'm just thinkin'."

"About the new guidance counselor?"

Melissa dropped her spoon. "Excuse me?"

Barbara didn't flinch. "You've been distracted. Quiet. You've left the staff lounge three times this week to make calls that never seem to last more than two minutes. Either you're dodging bill collectors or there's a woman involved."

Melissa scowled. "I'm not dodging bill collectors."

Barbara waited.

Melissa sighed. "She's... fine."

"Mhm."

"She's good with the kids. I mean, really good. That fifth grader who wouldn't talk to anyone last year? Already asked if she could have lunch in her office next week. She—" She stopped herself. "She's good."

Barbara looked over at where you were kneeling in the hallway with a kindergartener who had drawn an entire comic book about a squirrel detective. You were animated, laughing, gently guiding the kid's enthusiasm into confidence.

"You mean she's charming," Barbara said, sipping her tea. "And possibly everything you've always said you don't have time for."

Melissa didn't answer.

Because you were. You were earnest and steady in a way that sneaked under her skin. You asked questions no one thought to ask, remembered people's birthdays, brought in tissues with lotion during flu season without being asked. And worse—you saw her.

Every time your eyes met, she felt it again. That Ruby's lightning. The moment that never left her.

She tried to ignore it. She had Gary. Gary, who brought her her favorite pretzels and laughed at her jokes and didn't make her feel like the ground was shifting under her.

But you...

You made her nervous.

She hadn't felt nervous in years.

The thing about nervous energy, though? It builds. It simmers.

It boiled over two weeks later.

It was raining. The kind of cold, sideways rain that made the whole school smell like wet sneakers and permanent marker.

Melissa was standing outside her classroom, arguing with a parent on the phone, when she heard laughter. Real laughter. Coming from the guidance office.

She glanced over. The door was open.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor with two sixth graders between you, showing them how to fold little origami foxes.

Melissa meant to walk away. She really did.

But then one of the girls held hers up and whispered something to you, and you giggled—head thrown back, warm and delighted like you hadn't learned to be cautious with your joy yet.

And Melissa? She couldn't breathe.

She was soaked. Cold. Her nerves were fried from the parent she just had to talk off the ledge. And still, all she could think was:

God help me, she's beautiful.

You looked up and caught her staring.

For a split second, neither of you moved.

Then you smiled. Soft. Shy. Like you knew what she was thinking.

"Want to make one?" you called, voice easy.

Melissa blinked.

And for once in her life—she said yes.

The sixth graders left in a flurry of thanks and half-folded paper animals, their voices trailing off down the hall like echoing laughter. You leaned back against the edge of your desk, exhaling with a smile still lingering on your lips.

"They're sweet," Melissa said, watching the door even after it shut. She still hadn't sat down. She looked out of place here—too much leather and steel inside your cozy, pastel-colored office.

But she hadn't left.

"They really are," you said. "They don't trust easily, but when they do..." You gestured to the pile of foxes. "They give you their whole world."

Melissa's eyes flicked to the desk, where one of the kids had drawn a tiny crown on her paper fox and named it Queenie. You caught the smirk tugging at her mouth and grinned.

"You really wanna make one?" you asked again, gentler this time.

She hesitated.

You held out a square of orange paper. "It's therapeutic. Or infuriating. Depending on your tolerance for tiny folds."

She gave you a look. "You're really sellin' it."

But she took the paper.

She sat beside you. Close enough that her coat brushed your sleeve. Her hands were calloused, strong—meant for chalk and defending small children, not delicate creases. You placed your fingers over hers without thinking, guiding her through the first step.

Her breath hitched. You felt it more than heard it.

"Like this," you said softly, nudging her thumbs inward.

"I'm not great with this kinda thing," she muttered.

"You wrangle second graders like it's nothing. You can handle some fancy paper."

She laughed—quiet, real—and your heart pulled tight.

For the next few minutes, you folded side by side. The air between you was thick, but easy. You worked in tandem, shoulders occasionally bumping, fingers brushing.

"You're good at this," she said finally, holding up her slightly lopsided fox like it was a trophy.

"I'm good at calming anxious minds," you said. "Origami just happens to be part of the toolkit."

She looked over at you. "Is that what you think I am? An anxious mind?"

You smiled. "No. I think you're someone who never lets anyone see when you are."

That stopped her.

You didn't flinch, though your own heart was hammering.

Melissa looked down at her fox, turning it over like it might offer her an answer.

And then—almost too quickly—she stood up.

"I, uh..." she cleared her throat. "I should get back. I've got papers to grade, and Gary's pickin' up dinner tonight—"

The name dropped like a stone.

You blinked. "Oh. Of course. You're... with someone."

"Yeah," she said. Too fast. "I am."

You nodded, trying not to let the sudden heat in your chest show on your face. "Of course. Sorry if that—this—was..."

"No," Melissa cut in, voice low. "It wasn't. It's not. I just—"

She didn't finish.

You looked down at your fox. The silence stretched.

Then you offered her a smile. Small. Safe. "We could be friends."

Melissa froze.

"Unless that's... weird," you added quickly. "I don't want to step on anything. Or anyone."

"No." Her voice was rough, like it scraped on something inside her. "It's not weird."

You nodded. "Friends, then."

She reached for the door but paused, hand hovering over the handle.

When she looked back, something in her face had cracked open just a little. Vulnerable. Searching.

"I don't know what this is," she admitted. "But it's... not nothin'."

You met her gaze.

"No," you agreed. "It's not nothing."

She left without another word.

And for the first time since Ruby's, you felt like the floor beneath your feet was shifting.

Melissa didn't notice how cold she'd gotten with Gary until Jacob noticed for her.

It was a Tuesday—rainy, again—and Gary had shown up mid-morning to restock the vending machines like he always did. Usually, Melissa had something snarky to say. A flirty dig. A hand on his arm. Some tiny gesture of ease.

Today? She barely looked up from her crossword.

"You want anything while I'm at Wawa later?" Gary asked from the break room doorway, shaking his keys.

"No," she said, too quickly. Then, realizing it, added, "I'm good, thanks."

Gary lingered, visibly waiting for something—anything.

Melissa didn't offer it.

She kept her pen moving, focused too hard on trying to find a six-letter word for regret. Her jaw was tight. Her heart tighter.

Gary finally left.

Jacob, sitting on the couch with a yogurt and an Us Weekly, peeked over his container with a look that was way too perceptive for Melissa's comfort.

"Everything okay in heteroville?"

Melissa glanced at him. "Excuse me?"

"You didn't even smirk. Usually, I get at least one 'that man's lucky I put up with him' for the road."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm tired."

"Mmm," Jacob hummed. "Sure it's not, oh, I don't know—internal emotional collapse brought on by gay panic and long-suppressed yearning?"

Melissa snapped her head up. "Jacob."

He held up his hands innocently. "I'm just saying. You've been moodier than a Scorpio on decaf ever since a certain charming guidance counselor showed up looking like a Pinterest board and handing out kindness like candy."

"I'm not—"

But she didn't get to finish.

Because that's exactly when you walked into the staff lounge.

With Janine.

And smiling.

That smile that did something to Melissa's spine.

"Hey, everyone," Janine chirped, brushing water off her sleeves. "It is pouring out there. You'd think this school was cursed with endless emotional metaphors!"

You laughed beside her, cheeks pink from the cold. "Hi, Melissa."

Melissa looked up.

God, you were so warm. It was annoying. That quiet kind of kindness that didn't ask for attention, that didn't need to flirt to make people gravitate toward you.

And worse?

You smiled at Gary.

He'd come back in to grab the dolly cart and was fiddling with the side panel of the vending machine. When you greeted him—sweetly, with no edge, no jealousy—it knocked the wind out of Melissa.

"You're the one who stocks the sour straws, right?" you asked, soft and playful.

Gary chuckled. "Guilty as charged."

"They've saved me like three times this week. I owe you."

He lit up.

And Melissa felt something tighten in her chest.

You weren't flirting. You were just nice. But Gary was basking in it like a goddamn sunflower, and Janine was chatting with him too, and Jacob was watching her like she was on an episode of The Bachelor: Internal Crisis Edition.

Melissa stood.

"Need air," she muttered.

"Melissa, it's pouring," Janine called after her.

"Better than choking," Melissa snapped before the door shut behind her.

Jacob whistled low. "And that concludes our preview of emotional implosion season."

Janine blinked. "Is she... okay?"

You frowned. "Should I—?"

Jacob gently touched your arm. "No. Just... give her a minute."

You looked toward the door Melissa had disappeared through, the sour straw wrapper still in your pocket from earlier when you almost brought her one, and whispered, "Okay."

But your chest ached anyway.

—

You were sitting in bed, half-asleep, the soft hum of a lo-fi playlist keeping you company while your laptop blinked with half-finished notes for a student grief workshop. Your phone buzzed beside you.

Melissa: Got your number from Jacob. Hope that's not weird.

You sat up straighter immediately, your stomach doing something unsettling.

You: Not weird at all. Hey, Schemmenti.

There was a pause. You could practically feel her debating whether to continue.

Melissa: Didn't mean to be a jerk earlier. In the lounge. Was just... rainy. Bad mood.

You: You weren't a jerk. You're allowed moods. You're human. Allegedly.

Melissa: Allegedly. Don't go spreadin' rumors. (...thanks.)

A beat.

Melissa: Didn't know you liked sour straws. I'll keep that in mind.

You: Didn't know you texted after 10pm. I'll keep that in mind.

She didn't reply right away.

But the next night?

She texted again.

It became a thing. A quiet, sacred thing.

Late-night messages about the kids. About ridiculous school meetings. About old movies and music and what you'd order at a diner at 2am. About everything except what was really happening between you.

Melissa: They're makin' us do a trust fall at the staff PD day. If I die, avenge me.

You: Deal. I'll give you a Viking funeral in the parking lot with office supplies.

Melissa: Romantic.

You: Only for you.

She never responded to those texts. Not the flirty ones. But she never ended the conversation either.

At school, it was worse. Or better. Depending on how you looked at it.

Melissa would pass by your office and flick the lights off just to hear you squeal and threaten revenge. You started slipping notes into her mailbox—"Drink water. Don't stab anyone before lunch." She'd toss you a piece of gum with a smirk in the lounge. You'd put her favorite pens in her mail slot like it wasn't obvious you'd noticed.

Your friendship was banter. Heat just beneath the surface. Almosts and what-ifs.

And the rest of the staff? They absolutely noticed.

It was Barbara who made the first move after weeks of the back-and-forth.

She found Melissa in the quiet calm of her classroom during lunch one day, organizing flashcards with a kind of surgical precision that screamed avoidance.

"Melissa," she said gently, sitting down beside her without asking.

Melissa didn't look up. "If this is about me not eating again, I swear I'm gonna—"

"It's not," Barbara said. "It's about her."

Melissa froze.

"I see how you look at her," Barbara continued, voice soft but steady. "I see how you don't look at Gary anymore."

Melissa sat down. Slowly. Like the weight of it all was finally catching up.

Barbara reached out, resting a hand over hers.

"You deserve more than just comfort. You deserve someone who makes you feel alive."

Melissa's throat worked around a tight swallow. "It's not that simple."

Barbara's smile was full of quiet wisdom. "It never is. But what do you want, Melissa?"

And that was the thing, wasn't it?

She didn't know how to say it.

But every time she opened her phone at night and your name was there waiting?

She knew.

Meanwhile, Janine had cornered you in the copy room.

Literally.

"Okay," she said, arms crossed, "you're gonna tell me right now whether you're in love with Melissa or if that's just your face all the time."

You nearly dropped your coffee. "Janine—"

"Uh-uh," she said, holding up a finger. "I've seen the glances. The smiles. The lingering hand touches. This is a rom-com and we're in act two."

You tried to laugh it off, but your ears were already red.

"I don't know what it is," you admitted. "But it's... something. And I think I might be in trouble."

Janine softened. "She's scared. You know that, right?"

You nodded. "I just don't want to push. She's with someone. And I like her too much to mess her up."

Janine tilted her head. "But what if she's already messed up without you? What then?"

You didn't have an answer.

—

The library smelled like cheap coffee, dry Expo markers, and repressed rage.

It was Development Day at Abbott Elementary—aka the one day a year where time lost meaning and even Barbara, poised as ever, looked like she wanted to throw someone through a window.

Ava, naturally, was leading the session.

"Alright," she called, spinning a whiteboard marker like a dagger. "Let's all pretend to care for the next hour so the district doesn't smite us."

Melissa muttered something under her breath that sounded like, "I'd rather be audited," as she sank into the seat beside you.

She hadn't said much since that late-night text where she'd asked if you'd ever seen Moonstruck, and you'd replied, Yeah. You remind me of Cher. If Cher were meaner and hotter.

She'd ghosted for a full six hours after that one.

Now, seated next to her, your knees brushed.

She didn't move away.

Across the table, Jacob was trying to organize color-coded notepads. Janine shot you a look. Gregory looked like he'd spiritually vacated the room twenty minutes ago.

Ava pointed at the two of you with her marker. "You two. The star-crossed lovers. You're in charge of the wellness initiative next week. Don't make it weird."

You blinked. "What?"

Melissa coughed. "What?"

Janine blinked at Ava. "Wait, why them?"

Ava waved her off. "Please. The slow burn tension? The nightly texting I know is happening? The hallway glances? I might not care about children, but I do care about unresolved sexual energy."

You tried not to choke on air. Melissa shifted beside you like she was deciding whether to leap through a window or tackle Ava to the ground.

Jacob cleared his throat, eyes wide with delight. "Um, excuse me, but I would like to officially second the 'star-crossed' comment. We're talking Persian poetry levels of longing over here."

"I hate all of you," Melissa grumbled, voice tight.

"I think it's sweet," Barbara added mildly, sipping her tea. "Though a bit tragic."

Your face burned.

"Alright," Ava continued, tapping the whiteboard. "You're in charge of 'mental health awareness and emotional team bonding,' which sounds fake but is technically required. Go bond or whatever."

The room dissolved into side chatter.

You stayed quiet. So did Melissa.

Until, finally—so softly you almost missed it—

"I'm not with Gary anymore."

You turned to her, pulse suddenly in your throat. "What?"

She didn't look at you. Her eyes were fixed on the dent in the conference table. "Few days ago. I ended it."

You blinked. "Oh."

Melissa breathed in slow. "He's a good guy. But it wasn't enough. And I think maybe... I didn't want it to be."

Your heart was pounding now.

"Melissa—"

"I'm not saying anything else," she cut in. "Not yet. But I thought you should know."

You stared at her profile. The way her jaw was clenched like it cost her something to be this honest. The way her hand was gripping the folder in her lap like it might steady her.

"Okay," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for telling me."

A pause.

Ava glanced back over from the whiteboard, her smirk feral.

"Told you," she muttered to Jacob.

The staff meeting broke up in a blur of chairs scraping and voices buzzing, but Melissa didn't move. You didn't either.

She'd just told you—finally—that she ended it.

You didn't say anything more. You just looked at her. And she felt it.

Later that afternoon, you found yourselves shoved into the smallest workroom on the second floor to "brainstorm logistics" for the upcoming student wellness initiative. Ava had waved a stapler vaguely at you and said something about "zen zones or hugs or whatever" before disappearing with a tray of cookies and no actual leadership.

Melissa was already there when you walked in, arms crossed, hip against the low counter.

You dropped your bag by the file cabinet, closed the door behind you, and smiled slow.

"So," you said. "Do you want the kids to do mindfulness jars or emotionally repressed rage-scribble journals?"

Melissa snorted. "Do I look like a mindfulness jar kinda woman?"

You stepped closer, deliberately. "No," you said. "You look like the kind of woman who would throw glitter at someone on purpose and then claim it was therapy."

She held your gaze. "Not glitter. That stuff's a plague."

You leaned in just slightly, lips twitching. "I'll bring confetti, then. For when you inevitably lose your mind planning this with me."

She didn't answer right away. Just stared. Like she was waiting for you to say something you hadn't yet.

So you did.

"Melissa," you said, voice low, "just to be clear—I'm going to flirt with you now."

She blinked. "What?"

You smiled. "Don't worry. It'll be subtle. Maybe a little dangerous. But technically, it still counts as workplace appropriate."

You took a step closer, barely brushing past her as you reached for a pack of sticky notes.

"I was thinking we could do compliment cards," you murmured, your shoulder grazing hers. "The kids write kind things to each other anonymously. Like: 'You're brave,' or 'You helped me today.'"

You met her eyes. "Or maybe: 'You looked so good today, I forgot how to spell my name.'"

Melissa stared at you like you'd knocked the wind out of her.

But she didn't move away.

"Subtle, huh?" she rasped.

You tilted your head. "You haven't told me to stop."

Her voice was soft. "I know."

The silence stretched, thick and charged. You brushed a speck of lint from her sleeve. Let your fingers linger.

"We could also do affirmation mirrors," you offered, like your fingertips weren't sparking on her arm. "Let the kids look at themselves and say kind things. You could demo it. 'I'm a badass who looks criminally good in red.'"

Melissa let out a low sound that might've been a laugh—or a warning.

"You're not making this easy," she muttered.

"I'm not trying to."

That undid her just a little. Her hand braced on the counter behind her like she needed it to keep her upright.

"You drive me nuts," she murmured. "You know that?"

You leaned in, lips nearly brushing the shell of her ear.

"I hope so."

She let out a shaky exhale.

Then someone rattled the doorknob, and the moment shattered like a wineglass under pressure.

It was Jacob, of course.

"You two almost done plotting your wellness cult?" he chirped. "Ava wants to know if there's going to be a sign-up sheet for drama therapy, and also I need to pee."

Melissa jumped back half a foot. You bit your lip, fighting a smile as you opened the door.

Jacob looked between the two of you. His eyes narrowed.

"Was the air always this thick in here?" he asked.

"Yes," you said sweetly, brushing past him.

Melissa still hadn't moved.

—

It was just after 5 p.m the next day. The halls of Abbott had gone quiet—kids long gone, most of the teachers too, save for the die-hards still grading papers or stress-eating in their rooms. You were curled on the floor of your office, poster supplies strewn around you, taping down borders for the "Self-Love Station" banner when you heard it—

A knock.

You looked up, and there she was.

Melissa.

Still in her boots and leather jacket, still somehow rumpled and perfect, still looking like the decision she hadn't made yet was clawing its way out of her skin.

"I have an idea," she said. Voice scratchy, low. "For the event."

You raised a brow. "You're on fire this week, Schemmenti."

She gave a tight half-smile. "Yeah, well. I've been... thinkin'. Too much."

You pushed aside some markers. "Come in."

She did.

And sat closer than she had to. Cross-legged across from you, elbows on her knees like she might spring up at any second if she dared to relax.

"What's the idea?" you asked.

But she didn't answer right away. Just stared at you like she was looking for something.

Your voice softened. "Melissa."

Her eyes met yours.

"Where's the line?" you asked, barely above a whisper. "Because I've been dancing right on it. And you haven't stopped me."

Her breath stuttered. Her fingers curled into her palms.

"There isn't a line anymore," she said. "Not with you."

The silence buzzed between you, electric.

You reached for her hand, slow and careful. She let you take it.

And when she leaned in—tentative, trembling—you leaned too.

Your noses nearly brushed. Her breath fanned across your lips, ragged and wanting. Her forehead tilted to yours like instinct.

You were right there.

And then—

Her phone rang.

Loud. Abrasive. Sharp as a slap.

She jerked back like she'd been burned, swearing softly under her breath. You scrambled to give her space, heart racing.

"Sorry," she muttered, checking the screen. "It's my sister. She'll call five more times if I don't pick up."

You nodded, trying to breathe evenly. "Of course. Go ahead."

Melissa stepped out, phone pressed to her ear, her other hand still half-curled like it remembered holding yours.

She didn't come back.

You stayed in your office another twenty minutes, just... sitting. Fingers ghosting your own lips. You had been right there.

That night, the texts came earlier than usual.

Melissa: I'm sorry.

You: For what?

Melissa: You know what. I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

You: Me too. Still do.

Melissa: You drive me insane. You always smell like vanilla and soap and something dangerous. It's not fair.

You: You could've kissed me. I wouldn't have stopped you.

Melissa: Don't say that. I'll lose my mind.

You: Already there, Schemmenti. Join me.

A pause.

Melissa: You're not helping. I'm in bed trying to behave.

You: Tell me how that's going.

Melissa: I'm thinking about your mouth.

You: Yeah?

Melissa: Yeah. The way you talk. The way you look at me. The way you didn't pull away.

You: Next time the phone won't stop us.

Melissa: Don't tease me.

You: Not teasing. Unless you want me to.

There was a long pause.

Then—

Melissa: Jesus. I haven't wanted someone like this in... I don't think I ever have.

You: Then don't hold back next time.

Melissa: I'm trying. But I want you so bad it hurts.

The next few days at Abbott were a masterclass in barely holding it together.

Melissa was different now. Not in a dramatic way—no declarations or dramatic sighs or broken coffee mugs. But in the way she looked at you. Longer. Hungrier. Like she couldn't stop. Like she didn't want to.

You'd catch her staring when you weren't speaking, when your back was turned, when you were laughing too hard with one of your students. She'd pretend she wasn't. You'd pretend not to notice.

And the touches? They lingered.

A hand on your back as you brushed past in the hallway. Fingertips grazing your wrist when she passed you a folder. A knuckle brushing your knee under the staff lounge table—once, just once, but it had you both holding your breath.

Jacob and Janine were, unfortunately, feral about it.

They cornered you between the copier and the extra laminating pouches like they were on a mission from God.

"Okay," Janine hissed, "are you in love yet or are we still playing chicken with our emotions?"

Jacob flailed a folder. "I saw her blush today. Melissa Schemmenti. Blushed. Over you. She nearly spilled her coffee!"

"I think she bit her lip in the break room," Janine added, eyes wide. "Bit. Her. Lip."

"She lingered at your door for ten whole seconds," Jacob whisper-screamed.

"I think my uterus ovulated from the tension alone," Janine whispered dramatically.

You groaned. "Okay, stop. Both of you. I know. I know. But I'm not pushing her. This has to be her decision."

Jacob softened. "You're really into her."

You nodded. "Completely."

Janine squealed into her elbow.

That night, it was storming.

Soft thunder. Dim bedside lighting. Your phone buzzed in your palm.

You'd been staring at Melissa's contact for ten minutes already when her name finally popped up.

Melissa: Are you home?

You: Yeah. Cozy. Rainy. You?

Melissa: I can't stop thinking about you. I haven't been able to focus all day. You're in my head.

Your stomach flipped. Hard.

You: Same.

There was a pause.

And then—

Melissa: Can you come over?

You blinked.

You: Right now?

Melissa: Yeah. Please.

You: Send me the address.

The typing bubbles came fast.

She sent it.

Melissa: I don't know what this is gonna be. But I need to see you.

You sat there for half a second, heart in your throat, adrenaline humming in your fingertips.

Then you got up. Grabbed your keys. And left.

The drive to Melissa's house felt like moving through a dream. Rain smudged the windshield, city lights blurred behind your headlights, and your heart was pounding so loud it felt like it was in your throat.

You barely remembered parking.

Barely remembered walking up to the door, soaked hood down, every nerve in your body coiled like a live wire.

The door opened.

Melissa stood there barefoot in leggings and an oversized Eagles sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. Her hair was messy, damp at the ends like she'd been pacing or—God—showering, and her eyes?

Her eyes burned.

You didn't say anything. Neither did she.

You stepped inside.

She shut the door behind you without a word, locking it with a soft click. The silence was loaded.

"Hi," you breathed, voice hoarse.

Melissa took a step closer. "You came."

"You asked."

"I wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure I could not."

Her hands reached for your face like instinct, like gravity, fingers threading into your hair as her lips crashed into yours with a sound so relieved it made your knees buckle.

You kissed her back hard, hungry, like you'd been waiting your whole life to get to this moment and now you were done waiting.

Melissa groaned into your mouth, tugging you closer by the waist until your bodies were flush, her hands hot and desperate on your back.

You gasped between kisses, and she chased the sound—her lips catching your jaw, your throat, the edge of your mouth like she couldn't bear to stop tasting you.

"Tell me to stop," she rasped against your skin. "Tell me to slow down."

You shook your head, breathless. "I don't want you to."

That was all it took.

Melissa's hands slid under your shirt, greedy, reverent. Yours pulled the sweatshirt over her head in one slow motion that left her half-naked and heaving in front of you.

"Jesus," you whispered, drinking her in, her breasts practically begging to be freed from her bra.

She surged forward, kissing you again, slower this time. Deeper. Her body was pressed against yours like she wanted to memorize every inch of contact.

You guided her backward, gently, until the backs of her knees hit the couch. She sank into it, pulling you with her.

You were still in your bra, jeans undone, breath catching as she hooked her fingers in the waistband and tugged—rough, urgent—until you helped her, until denim hit the floor and you were straddling her in nothing but soaked cotton.

Melissa's eyes dragged over your body like she was starving, and maybe she was. Starving for something real, for the heat she'd been denying, for you.

"Come here," she breathed, voice ragged.

The kiss deepened—hotter now, wetter, messier. All teeth and tongue and low, needy sounds pulled from places neither of you had touched in far too long.

You ground down against her with a soft moan, and Melissa swore, the sound guttural.

"Jesus Christ—"

Her hands flew to your ass, gripping hard, dragging you even closer like she couldn't stand the space that still existed between your bodies. Your clothed core slid against the smooth skin of her thigh, and you gasped into her mouth. Her breath hitched—then turned feral.

"Fuck, you're so wet," she groaned. "Is that for me?"

"All for you," you whimpered. "Only you."

Her mouth found your collarbone, then lower. You arched into her as her tongue flicked over the swell of your breast, then circled your nipple until you were gasping, clutching at her hair as your hips moved against her with a mind of their own.

You didn't even realize she'd unhooked her bra until you felt bare skin on bare skin.

You hissed at the contact, your nipples brushing hers as your hips moved in tandem, your bodies finding a rhythm that was messy and desperate and so fucking good.

"Look at me," Melissa rasped, her voice low and wrecked.

You did. And what you saw there—God, it was everything. Years of pretending, of playing it safe, of folding herself into versions of love that never really fit. It was all there. And so was want.

All for you.

"I need you," she whispered. "Please. I need—"

You kissed her hard before she could finish, slipping your hand between her legs, under the waistband of her panties.

She was drenched.

Your fingers slid through her easily, and her head dropped back against the couch as she gasped, her hips bucking into your touch.

"Fuck, baby," she moaned. "Please don't stop—"

You didn't. You pressed two fingers into her, slow but deep, watching her unravel beneath you.

She was gripping your shoulders like you were the only solid thing in her world, her thighs trembling as you curled your fingers just right, your thumb circling her clit in tight, purposeful strokes.

"Let go for me," you whispered, lips brushing her ear. "I want to feel you fall apart."

With a guttural cry, Melissa came hard around your fingers, her whole body tensing and trembling as she clung to you, her breath hot against your neck.

Melissa was still shaking when she pulled you up against her, kissed you like she needed your mouth to breathe. She didn't say anything—just took your hand, laced your fingers together, and tugged you off the couch.

"Come here," she murmured.

You followed, heart still racing, every nerve still alive from the sound she'd made when she came—wrecked and soft and yours.

She led you upstairs. The hallway was dim, lit only by the occasional flicker of lightning through the windows, but she didn't need lights. She didn't need words. Her hand never left yours.

Her bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

And then she was kissing you again, deeper this time, less frantic and more reverent. Her fingers slid into the waistband of your panties, slow, deliberate, like she wanted to memorize the moment before they fell to the floor.

You didn't even make it to the bed before you dropped to your knees.

Melissa froze, her breath catching, one hand tangled in your hair.

"Wait—are you sure—?"

You kissed her inner thigh and looked up at her, voice low and reverent.

"I've never been more sure of anything."

You pressed another kiss higher. Then another.

She let out a sound that was half curse, half plea, and let you guide her to the bed. She lay back, legs falling open for you without hesitation. She was already so responsive, so raw and sensitive, every inch of her body humming like it remembered your touch and needed more.

And when you finally put your mouth on her?

She sobbed.

Not a cry. Not a scream. A full sob. Like you were giving her something she hadn't known she could even ask for.

You moaned into her, her taste addictive, your hands holding her thighs open as you licked and kissed her like you were worshipping her—because you were.

She gripped the sheets, her hips grinding up into your mouth, head thrown back against the pillows as she whispered your name over and over like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.

And you?

You were so gone.

So gone.

She was everything—her voice, her scent, her thighs trembling around your head. You were dripping, aching, and completely wrecked with how much you wanted her, how much you were giving yourself to her, how deep you were letting her inside you just by tasting her, claiming her, loving her like this.

And somewhere in that blur of pleasure, of tongues and moans and fingers digging into skin—

You came.

No hands. No touch. Just her. Just the sheer overwhelming intensity of it, of giving her everything, of finally being here.

You gasped her name into her skin as it happened, body shuddering against the sheets.

When you finally looked up, dazed and panting, Melissa was staring down at you like she'd just witnessed something holy.

She reached for you instantly.

"Come here," she whispered, voice thick. "Come back to me."

You climbed into her arms, collapsed into the curve of her body, still trembling.

She kissed your temple. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

"I've never..." she started, then stopped.

You lifted your head, eyes meeting hers.

"I've never had this," she said. "I didn't think I could. I didn't know I could feel like this."

You kissed her, slow and sweet.

"You do now."

Melissa pulled you closer—closer than close—until your body was flush against hers, hearts pounding in tandem. You could still taste her on your lips. Still feel the ghost of her against your tongue.

Her hand slid down your stomach like it belonged there, like she'd been aching to trace you.

You gasped, clutching at her shoulders, your legs parting instinctively as she pressed her fingers against you—warm, slow, deliberate.

Your head fell back as she kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Her mouth was hungry but reverent, open-mouthed kisses like she was marking you, like she wanted to memorize every sound you made.

And you made them. Soft cries. Whimpers. Her name over and over like it was the only word that meant anything.

Her fingers moved inside you with a confidence that didn't come from experience—it came from desire. She wasn't showing off. She wasn't rushing.

She was listening. To your breath, your body, the tremble in your voice as you begged her not to stop.

"You're so fucking beautiful," she whispered, lips brushing the underside of your breast before sucking gently, leaving heat blooming across your chest. "You feel like you were made for me."

You whimpered, your thighs tightening around her wrist as her pace quickened just enough to push you over that dangerous edge again.

"I'm gonna—Melissa—"

"I've got you," she breathed. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel you."

With a cry that cracked through your ribs, you shattered in her arms—spine arching, nails digging into her skin, your whole body trembling against hers like every nerve had caught fire.

She held you through it, kissed you through it, never letting up until you were clinging to her, dazed and gasping, your body wrung out and boneless in her embrace.

The aftershocks hit you in waves, smaller quakes as she slowed her hand, finally easing you down from the high she'd given you.

Your forehead pressed to hers, both of you breathing like you'd run miles.

"Holy shit," you murmured, barely coherent.

Melissa laughed softly, a breathy, wrecked sound. "Yeah."

She pulled you close again, wrapping the blankets around your bodies, her thumb stroking your hip as the thunder rolled in the distance and your breaths began to sync again.

"I don't want this to be just tonight," she whispered into your hair. "I want more."

You tilted your head to meet her gaze, your smile tender and trembling.

"I want more too," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "I always have."

Melissa's eyes softened in a way you'd never seen before, like something in her finally exhaled. She tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers lingering on your cheek.

"You scare the shit outta me," she murmured, half-laughing, half-serious.

You smiled wider. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Her thumb stroked your lower lip. "Because this feels like something I could ruin just by wanting it too much."

You shook your head, leaning into her hand. "You won't ruin it. You can't."

Her brow furrowed, like she was still trying to believe that could be true. But you were here, in her bed, your legs tangled with hers and your heart cracked wide open, and she was still looking at you like you hung the stars.

You cupped her face, kissed her again—slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you wanted them in the morning, and the next morning, and all the ones after that.

She kissed you back like a promise.

Eventually, the storm outside eased, and inside the bedroom, so did the both of you. Her hand stayed on your back, warm and grounding, even as your bodies began to sink further under the covers, into something softer. Something safe.

You shifted slightly, pressed against her chest, her heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"Stay?" she asked quietly, like she already knew the answer but needed to hear it.

You nodded. "I'm not going anywhere."

180 notes · View notes