CW: harry is a hot shot ceo, and y/n is his shy, new PA! minors please dni!!! enjoy!! longer an at the end!
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He made the familiar walk to his office, hand stuffed into his pocket and phone secure between his fingers. The lights were on, from what he could see from the outside, and the blurred glass made way for a figure standing right by his desk. Confusion lurked in Harry’s head as he wondered who could possibly be in his office without his permission. Without a second thought, he threw the door open and walked right in, “who are you?”
His voice was gruff and cold, a complete opposite to the sugary sight before him. Stood by his desk was a girl— a very pretty one, in fact. Big, round eyes looked at him, resembling a deer, and a plush mouth was left agape as she eyed him up and down. She was wearing a sweet ensemble; a pretty pastel blue dress that fell just past mid-thigh and had a tiny slit on it. Her hair was swept back over her neck, tamed and neat.
He lingered his gaze on her as she straightened up from where she was bent over his desk and cleared her throat, “hi, Mr. Styles, it’s nice to finally meet you,” she extended a hand for him to shake, “I’m Y/N. Your new assistant.” The slight rise and fall of her chest gave her nerves away but her eye-contact never faltered. Her hand was warm and soft when he took it, and only then did the last-minute text from Mitch come back to him.
By the way, you’ve got a new assistant starting this week. Be nice to her.
This was her. Of course. He gave her a firm handshake, “Harry.”
Y/N never thought life after university would be like this. When she first pursued her bachelors in business degree, she had dreamt of a future where right after graduation, she’d be offered all these hot-shot jobs and she’d go on to become a big, powerful business woman. Some might think this dream of hers was far-fetched and unrealistic, but when you graduate from a highly prestigious university, first class with honours, well, it’s at least a little bit fair to have such expectations.
She worked her ass off when she was still in school— nailing every exam and assignment, doing summer internships and for a moment she thought about applying for a masters degree, but that was quickly shot down when Y/N checked in on her accruing student debt. She might pursue it some time down the road, but for now, her main goal was to get out of this shit-hole of a cafe where she worked and get her ass to a big firm, just like she was promised by all the career counsellors at university.
She was applying consistently to a million different firms, and at this point, she’d be happy if she could even be a receptionist at one of them. She had exhausted all of her connections made in university in hopes of anyone linking her to a decent job, but she turned up with no luck as of yet.
She had been working at Bluebird cafe all throughout her degree and she was working there even now, seven months post graduating. Disappointment welled deep in her guts every time she saw herself in that same old uniform and cap, greeting the same customers and making do with the same lousy cheque.
It was another dreadful morning at said cafe when Y/N was preparing a humongous order for at least twenty six people. She assumed it was for an office or corporation, judging by the jittery young man who placed the order at the counter. He read carefully off a piece of paper every single order and made Y/N recite it back to him to ensure the drinks were perfect. He ended up handing the paper to Y/N so she could once again make sure everything was according to the requests, and it was on the paper Y/N recognised the prestigious navy logo stamped on the top right.
Grapejuice Inc.
One of the biggest textile corporations in the world, run by the famous Styles’ family. Y/N could only dream of a job there. It was suddenly understandable why the young man was nervous before her. The drinks must probably be for a big, senior meeting or something.
Y/N took her time perfecting them, writing the details of each order on the cups to make it easier for the man to allocate them. She slowly placed them in six separate paper cartons, stacking them on top of each other carefully. The man sighed graciously and took the bag from her hand ever so slowly before walking out of the cafe. She sighed, wiping her hands on her black apron. Behind her, Niall enthused out loud, “how much d’ya think they pay the poor boy to get ‘em their morning drinks?”
Y/N turned to face him, watching him rinse out the alternate milk blender, “probably thousands. It’s a huge company.” Niall hummed, “maybe. But usually such prissies have a hard time paying their employees well.”
Y/N was distracted by an order that pinged on their little UberEats tablet, and started prepping the two drinks and almond croissant. She hummed at his response. “Prissies or not, they’re one of the most influential corporations in the world.”
Niall nudged her shoulder and smirked, “don’t go around licking their asses already. They haven’t hired ya yet.”
”Ha. Let’s all make fun of my inability to find a proper job, now,” she mumbled sarcastically. She took her anger out on the oven door, slamming it shut after she put the croissant in there to warm up. Niall wiped his hands on a towel and rubbed them up and down her arms, comforting her, “hey c’mon, babe,” he said gently, noticing her frustrated frown. Seeing that man working for such an amazing corporation made her slightly jealous. It was a sour, unpleasant feeling which Y/N hated. Niall pulled her into his chest in the empty cafe, save for another employee, Mina, who wiped down the tables.
”They’re missing out on the biggest brain in the city,” he flicked her cap playfully, “the right job will come along, I know it. Don’t worry your pretty head over it.”
Y/N appreciated the comfort, leaning into him. She was grateful for his presence, and for his reassuring touch that grounded her. He pulled back and pinched her cheek playfully, “cheer up, buttercup. We’ve got lattes to make for abusive boomers!”
Y/N sighed. She only prayed that Niall's previous words had some truth to them.
-
That night when she got home, Y/N followed her usual routine of feeding her cat Pebble and then turning the shower on, waiting for it to warm up. In the meantime she prepped for dinner and picked out her pyjamas. Once she was all showered and fed, she climbed into bed and pulled out her laptop to do her nightly job search. Numerous sites were searched, Linkedin was scowered and her CV was passed around like a blunt at a party.
She might have applied for a position at Grapejuice Inc, in her sleep-driven haze. It might have been an assistant position for one of their senior management… could have been the Secretary… or the CEO. She doesn’t remember, as she passed out in front of her computer screen, the light glowing and illuminating her peaceful features.
-
When Y/N was in high school many years ago, she met a boy named Landon. They were both in the same Art History class, and the teacher paired them up for a project where they had to analyse and present on a popular period piece. She ended up spending long hours with him during the week, and Y/N being the hormonal teenage girl she was, fell for Landon’s shaggy blonde hair and toothy grin. He was sweet and caring, taller than her and called Y/N ‘sweets’ and four months after they first met, he asked her to be his girlfriend and took her out on her first date.
Landon had taken most of her firsts. He was the only boyfriend she ever had and the only person she ever kissed, but that was it. They never did anything beyond that. The most they ever dabbled in was maybe a hand on her ass or slipping under her shirt to touch her tummy while they made out, but it was never anything more. Y/N blamed the distance for that.
After high school, both Y/N and Landon had big dreams for university. They both wanted to go to one of the big schools, but the problem was that the one Y/N wanted to go to was ten hours away from the one Landon got into. Education was something that was important to both of them, so compromising it for the sake of their relationship was out of the question. They decided to make do with the distance and promised to each other they would remain loyal despite the land that separated them.
It was hard at times, especially in university when all of Y/N’s friends were able to go out and bring whoever they wanted home, date different people and have new experiences while she sat feeling lame because she missed her boyfriend. They still made an effort to try and see each other— oftentimes during semester breaks Y/N would visit Landon and Landon would try to visit Y/N. It was those fleeting days that kept Y/N sane during the course of their relationship.
She spoke to him everyday still, texting him little updates of her day, and he’d text her his. They called every couple of days, though they were pretty short since they were out of words to say thanks to their texts.
Y/N knew that Landon was currently working at his new job as a junior editor after he graduated with his English degree. She was happy for him, of course, but his new commitment meant she was hearing less and less from him. Although there were the daily ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ texts, these days she was seldom seeing those as well.
It was her day off today, a quiet Tuesday afternoon where Y/N decided to go to the farmers market a little ways from her apartment. She was sitting down at a small restaurant, a cold drink battling the summer heat resting in her hand, but her attention was somewhere else. Her lip was abused under her teeth as she typed up a message to Landon. She missed talking to him, and was penning all her frustrations and thoughts in a long paragraph when she was interrupted by her phone ringing.
The phone number was unfamiliar, making Y/N’s eyebrows furrow. She answered it cautiously. “Hello?”
”Good morning, am I speaking with Miss Y/N L/N?”
Confusion crept upon her. “Yes, this is her.”
”Hi, Miss L/N. This is Mitch Rowland calling from Grapejuice Inc, how are you today?”
Now that rendered Y/N speechless. Her heart dropped and her mouth fell open in surprise. The sound of a child shouting nearby shook her from her thoughts as she regained her consciousness and straightened up, “I’m well, how are you?”
”Pretty alright. Listen, we saw your application for senior assistant to the Chief Executive Officer and loved your CV. How are you placed for an interview sometime this week? Say, Thursday at nine?”
Y/N could not believe the words she was hearing through the phone. She wanted to scream and dance and hug this Mitch guy all at the same time. Her cheeks heated up and a big smile spread across her face, “yes! Thank you for calling me, of course, Thursday at nine is perfect.”
”Great! I’ll text you the address. You can come straight to the reception. Sheila will have your name and will let you through to the interview room. I look forward to meeting you.”
Y/N wished him a confident ‘me too’ and said goodbye, her heart still racing. She took a moment to bask in the reality of the situation. It felt so surreal— Y/N only ever dreamed of getting to work in such an amazing corporation, that too at such an amazing position.
Suddenly, the sun wasn’t harsh like before and her drink was sweeter. The chatter of children nearby made her feel peaceful instead of irritated. She didn’t even find it in herself to care about Landon’s lack of communication as she excitedly dialled Niall’s phone and screamed the news into his unsuspecting ear. An unfamiliar sense of hope filled her heart. Maybe things would finally start to look up for Y/N.
-
The two days leading up to Thursday were the longest ever. Y/N was nervous and excited at the same time, jittery while she was at the cafe serving customers. Niall hyped Y/N up, mumbled a million ‘I told you so’s and tried to ease her nerves when she went on and on about what she should say at the interview.
She asked Mina to cover her Thursday morning shift and ran to the mall the night before to browse for a new blazer, wanting to dress professional but also cute. It was also a million degrees out, so she would probably only wear the blazer indoors for an hour or two, depending on how long the interview was.
She still hadn’t texted Landon about it. Maybe once the job was secured she would, but she didn’t want to get his hopes up just to shatter them if things somehow did not work out.
The morning of, Y/N was too nauseous to eat anything. She usually got that way when she was nervous or anticipating something, so her lack of appetite didn’t come as a shock. The top she wore clung to her body nicely, a light pink colour which matched the kitten heels she had on. The blazer and skirt were of the same dark grey colour, complementing each other nicely. She felt pretty with her hair done neatly and makeup light. Hopefully she made a good impression on Mitch and whoever she met.
Driving to the office was somewhat of a dream. Y/N never thought she would be in this position, especially with how things were looking the past few months. Constant disappointment almost rendered her hopeless, but she was proud of herself for sticking through it. Now, she prayed that she got the job and could finally stand on her own feet, with a job she rightfully earned. She felt giddy thinking about what it would be like if she got the job. She would hand in her notice to the cafe immediately. Then she’d call her mum and Landon. They would be so happy for her, she just knew it.
The place was gigantic— an intimidating building that loomed over her jittery body. Y/N stared up at it. It had to be at least forty storeys. She took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to walk in, a smile gracing her features. Following Mitch’s instructions, Y/N went straight up to the lavish reception and caught Sheila’s attention. Sheila, who was gorgeous; long brown hair cascading down her back, and adorned in a baby blue dress. She flashed Y/N a friendly smile. “Hi! How can I help?”
”Hi, my name’s Y/N. I’m here for an interview. Mitch called me,” Y/N said. a look of recognition came across Sheila’s face as she grinned, “of course. It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. Just follow me through here.” Grapejuice Inc was just as grand on the inside as it was on the outside— immaculate architecture and wide, open spaces. There were large windows on all walls allowing sunlight to filter into the space, brightening up the area. Y/N followed Sheila to the elevator, “it’s the twenty second floor, fourth door to your right,” she informed Y/N easily.
Doing as she was told, Y/N soon found herself outside of a large room with double doors. The hallway she was standing in was mostly empty, littered with artwork on both sides. It felt like no one was even on the floor, silence flooding the area. As soon she thought about knocking on the doors, they swung open and she was met with a tall, brunette man.
He had long hair which was tied back neatly, and he smiled warmly at Y/N, “you must be Y/N,” he said, “my name’s Mitch. We spoke on the phone a couple of days ago.”
Y/N grinned and held out her hand, “right. Nice to meet you in person.” His handshake was solid— professional and perfected as he guided her into the room. It was a large room with a long conference table in the middle. On one side a bunch of papers were scattered. That was probably where Mitch was sitting. He motioned for her to take a seat across from him. A jug of water rested on the table along with a paper and pen. Y/N bit her nails into her palm to ground herself.
“Sorry about the mess. I’ve been doing these interviews all morning,” he started sheepishly. Y/N waved him away, “that’s okay. Don’t have to apologise.” Mitch cleared his throat, “let’s get started then…”
-
The interview ran for about an hour and a half. Y/N felt like Mitch was eating away at her brain, throwing a million questions at her at such a fast rate. She tried her best to answer diligently, taking her time to really think through what he was saying to give the best possible response. Y/N knew such opportunities were hard to come by, and she wanted to make the best of it.
The job he was describing was mostly administration stuff; keeping track of the CEO, Mr. Styles’, meetings, planning his trips, scheduling, filing, invoicing, organising. All the things she had mastered at school and during her internships. Mitch wanted Y/N to meet Mr. Styles in person, but he was away for a business conference in Japan.
“Well, all I can say right now is that I’m really glad I called you, Miss L/N,” he said, resting his hands on the table, “this has been great.”
Y/N felt her face heating and smiled gingerly, “thank you.”
“I know we spoke about this plenty, but keep this job description,” Mitch slid a piece of paper her way across the table, “feel free to familiarise yourself with it. I’ll have a chat with the team and let you know about the outcome of this interview latest by Monday.” He got up and held the door open for her, “thanks for coming in.”
Y/N shook his hand again and bid him goodbye, giddy as she walked out of the interview room and into the elevator. The sheet of paper was clutched between her fingers and she let out a deep breath. Although the interview was tiring, she was feeling hopeful about the job. Mitch was great and helpful, answering all of her questions easily and explaining the role to her in depth. She waved goodbye to Sheila and made her way out of the building, and when she was finally in the confines of her car, she squealed to herself; everything was slowly falling into place, and she couldn’t be more grateful.
-
Friday at three PM Y/N was at the cafe, mindlessly wiping down the counter. A startled Niall walked in from the back, “Y/N your phone was ringing. T’was an unknown number but I think they left an email or something.”
Y/N turned around in confusion. She saw as Niall stared down at her illuminating screen and tried to take her phone from him, “what? Who is it?” He furrowed his eyebrows, “it’s from someone called Mitch Rowland. I think… I think you got the job.” Her eyes widened, “you’re joking. Show me.”
He passed her the phone, and there it was. An email from Mitch. She read it over and over and over. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she realised she wasn’t dreaming. Y/N was going to be working at Grapejuice Inc. They wanted her as soon as possible.
Niall saw her dazed face and squeezed her tightly, his arms near suffocating her, “I told you! I knew you could do it, so fucking smart you are,” he kissed her hair, “I’m so happy for you, pet. They’re gonna love you.” She peeled back from his chest and looked at him with her tear-soaked face, “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” she laughed in disbelief, “this whole thing feels like a dream.”
-
If Harry didn’t know any better, he could probably be convinced that this was what heaven felt like.
The way he jabbed into the back of the pretty girl’s throat had him throwing his head back and moaning uncontrollably, and he felt like an angel was personally taking his hand and leading him to eden. His palm came down on the kitchen counter in front of him, the other hand weaving into her hair to pull her further on his cock, “oh, fuck me.” The girl beneath him, Sophie, gagged around him loudly and then popped off of him, strings of her saliva connecting her to him. She smirked up at him, twisting her hand over his length as she gave her mouth a break.
“Yeah? You like the way I suck your di—”
He didn’t bother to hear the end of her poorly executed attempt at dirty talk and groaned, shoving her back on his cock. The action took her by surprise, and a wet filthy sound came from her throat as she swallowed around him desperately. Harry whimpered a little, head falling back on his shoulders. He held her there for about twenty seconds, throbbing in her mouth and letting his hair tickle her nose. When he saw tears prickle in her eyes, he decided to let her off for a bit. He loosened his grip on her hair and opted to softly scratch his nails against her scalp as she returned to bobbing her head.
It didn’t take much longer after that to make him come, a train of curses falling from his mouth as he held onto the counter tightly and whined, “fuck, fuck— Sophie, fu—” Hot, white ropes of his come spilled into her mouth which she took in willingly, eyes screwed shut and tongue out. He came for a while, and he came a lot; some of it dripping down the side of her mouth and on her chin. When he was finally done, his hand in her hair slipped to her jaw which he held tightly, prying her lips open.
Harry let a glob of his spit fall into her mouth, mixing in with his come on the well of her tongue. Sophie whined highly as he did, and moaned when Harry slapped her right cheek, soft enough that it didn’t seriously hurt her but hard enough that the zap went straight to her clit. He pushed her cheeks together and closed her mouth, “swallow.”
She did so obediently, before Harry backed up and let her stand to her full height. His eyes raked shamelessly over her figure, adorned in nothing but his office button up, legs bare and chin spit-slicked. Her blonde locks were a mess as she put her hands on his chest and giggled, “did you like that?”
Harry pulled her wrists off and thumbed at her cheek, “mhmm. I have to go to work,” he told her. Sophie pouted, “can’t you take one day off? You must be so tired after such a long flight…,” she ran her clean hand through his curls, “don’t go today? For me?”
He could have laughed in her face for that. If she thought she was anything more than an easy fuck for him, she was sorely mistaken. It didn’t matter that he had known her for over a year now— Harry didn’t date or commit. He hadn’t for a couple of years now. One night stands and fuck-buddies were more than enough to satiate his needs.
Sophie frowned when he stepped away from her and pulled his pyjama pants back up over his hips. He sighed, “I can’t stay, Sophie, I’ve a company to run.” She huffed and stomped her foot like a child, “but I missed you so much, H.” Her voice was nasally, suddenly annoying him to no end, especially when she tried to wrap her arms around him again. Harry dodged her and picked up his phone instead. “This was nice, Soph, but you have to go. I’ll call you a car and have Jared drop you off,” he patted her hip, “talk soon.”
He didn’t wait to hear her response and slipped upstairs to his large bedroom, shutting and locking the door in case she tried to follow him up. He really was tired and jet-lagged after the twelve hour flight. A couple of days off might do him some good, but as much as he hated to admit it, he was a workaholic who would choose a productive day at the office over a day off ninety percent of the time. He took a quick shower and got dressed, tugging on a crisp, dry-cleaned navy blue suit. His eyes flitted about his room as he sprayed on some cologne.
The sheets were awry and there were silk ties hanging off his headboard. Memories of the past night flooded his mind as he put on his cuff-links and gelled his hair. The way she felt around him, wet and soft, gushing on his cock. The way she tasted and writhed beneath him, coming over and over until Harry had to tie her down and force her to take what he gave her. Fucking her over and over again, bruise marks on her round ass, a warm mouth wrapped around his cock. It really was a lot of fun.
After making sure he had his phone and wallet, Harry rushed down the stairs and was glad to see that Sophie had left. At least he was safe from another awkward goodbye where she would whine about her feelings for him and he would have to let her down gently. She kept saying Harry was leading her on, but he didn’t see how.
He told Sophie from the beginning that he only wanted sex and she was fine with it. The first time she alluded to any sort of feelings, Harry told her he wasn’t interested in that way. She was hurt and she cried a bit, (which was Harry’s worst nightmare because he really had no idea how to react in situations like that), but she still showed up the next time he called her. He just assumed she was over him. Harry was a huge perfectionist, and if he wanted a relationship, he would have to put a lot of time and effort into it for it to be the sort he was looking for; time that he unfortunately did not have, since he was so busy making sure Grapejuice Inc ran smoothly.
As he left, he made sure to leave a note on his fridge for his cleaner letting her know that his sheets needed changing and the clothes on the floor needed to be dry cleaned. He put down what he wanted the chef to meal-prep for and called the elevator to go down to his car. He lived in the top floor penthouse apartment of a luxury accommodation in the middle of the city— a location which was convenient for him in more ways than one. It was close to where he worked, and he enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the city below him. The large windows in his place were his favourite since he could people-watch all he wanted (and he enjoyed the occasional fuck against it when it was dark enough).
He greeted Tomas, his driver, as he pulled the door open and let Harry into the car. They made small talk and Harry asked Tomas about his son who just started high school and his wife who was battling an illness. Tomas was Harry’s father’s driver as well, and he watched Harry grow up in front of him. He would drive Harry to daycare when he was a baby, soccer practice when he was a schoolboy, concerts when he was a teenager and now here he was, driving him to the same office he used to drive his father to. Harry felt oddly connected to Tomas, and couldn’t let him go no matter how much his age persisted.
They reached the building pretty quick and Harry thanked Tomas as he stepped out. Sheila smiled and greeted him as he walked in, and every cubicle he passed on his way to the elevator mumbled a ‘good morning, Sir.’
He made the familiar walk to his office, hand stuffed into his pocket and phone secure between his fingers. The lights were on, from what he could see from the outside, and the blurred glass made way for a figure standing right by his desk. Confusion lurked in Harry’s head as he wondered who could possibly be in his office without his permission. Without a second thought, he threw the door open and walked right in, “who are you?”
His voice was gruff and cold, a complete opposite to the sugary sight before him. Stood by his desk was a girl— a very pretty one, in fact. Big, round eyes looked at him, resembling a deer, and a plush mouth was left agape as she eyed him up and down. She was wearing a sweet ensemble; a pretty pastel blue dress that fell just past mid-thigh and had a tiny slit on it. Her hair was swept back over her neck, tamed and neat, perfect for an office atmosphere.
He lingered his gaze on her as she straightened up from where she was bent over his desk and cleared her throat, “hi, Mr. Styles, it’s nice to finally meet you,” she extended a hand for him to shake, “I’m Y/N. Your new assistant.” The slight rise and fall of her chest gave her nerves away but her eye-contact never faltered. Her hand was warm and soft when he took it, and only then did the last-minute text from Mitch come back to him.
By the way, you’ve got a new assistant starting this week. Be nice to her.
This was her. Of course. He gave her a firm handshake, “Harry.”
She smiled at him softly, a strand of her hair falling over her eye. Harry itched to tuck it behind her ear, maybe feel how soft her skin might be under her jaw, but he refrained. “I was just sorting out some of your files. I know you’ve been away so I—”
“What did you touch?”
He spoke sharply, eyebrows furrowed as he set his phone down on his desk and sat on his chair. “Just the documents in the filing drawers. I didn’t touch your desk, don’t worry.” Harry hummed. He watched as she stood in the middle of the room, twiddling her hands behind her back, “I… I colour coded and arranged them alphabetically. Cleaned up your schedule and added the reminders feature to your Teams as well,” she trailed off. She took his silence as her queue to continue. “I also re-recorded your voicemail for the phone and—”
“You can clean whatever you want, just don’t touch my desk. I take my coffee at nine, black, no milk and no sugar. Nine-fifteen, you’ll be in my office with my schedule. You will take orders from me and me only, and I should not have to buzz you twice if I need to see you. You’re off when I say you’re off, and don’t worry about lunch breaks, I tend to have them outside.”
He explained all this sternly, eyes sturdy and fixated on her. She let out a quiet breath and nodded, firm, “Noted. I’ll…” she glanced at the clock above his head. 8:47AM. “I’ll go and get your coffee, sir.”
With that, she smiled once again and scurried out of the room. Harry could tell she was a sweet little thing, just eager to please. Maybe it would be nice to have a pretty face in the office. His days might become less dull. He knew she was getting paid a lot for this job as his assistant, so he had a lot of expectations from her too. Hopefully she could bring a little warmth to his frigid reputation.
-
As the days passed with Y/N acting as Harry’s senior assistant, he had come to realise she executed the role much better than most of his previous assistants. The instructions he gave to her on the first day she seemed to have tattooed on her heart, and she stuck to them diligently. His coffee was at his desk everyday at nine sharp, she had a printed schedule she would read to him and then leave with him once she was done, she would organise some new cabinet of his or folder in his emails everyday and she was on top of his meetings and notes. Harry thought he might have to take Mitch out for a drink or something for managing to hire such an efficient assistant for him.
On top of all that, she had a pretty face which Harry occasionally enjoyed to ogle at. Though he wasn’t one to mix business and pleasure, he figured a little eye-candy never hurt anyone. It was not like he would ever act upon it, no matter how badly he wanted to bend her over his desk and fuck the life out of her.
Today was one such day as she came in wearing a tiny little red dress and matching heels. It was like she walked right out of a hot office fantasy, pencil in her hair and glasses on her nose. She was wearing a blazer on top earlier, but she took it off soon after arriving at work.
When she was reading out his schedule and setting his coffee on his desk, Harry struggled to not stare shamelessly at her figure which filled out the dress just perfectly. A few minutes in, she dropped a pencil on the floor and Harry felt like a teenage boy seeing boobs for the first time as she bent to pick it up.
Unsurprisingly, her pretty face didn’t go unnoticed by many. He realised that when they went into the monthly Senior Leadership Team meeting today, and most of the managers and team directors said hello to her tits first and then her face. It wasn’t even like the dress was provocative in any way— it was summer and a gazillion degrees out, Harry didn’t expect her to walk in wearing a wool jumper and sweats. Plus, the dress did cover most of her skin, it was just her legs that were bare, and that was only a little before her knees. Although Harry did think she was gorgeous (particularly today) he didn’t stare so blatantly and deliberately make her uncomfortable.
Once they said their greetings to everyone, Y/N settled in next to Harry with her notebook and pen on the table before her. He could smell her since she was right beside him, warm vanilla and caramel, a sweet scent that could put him to sleep. She was really testing him today, and the worst part was that Harry didn’t think she knew she even had that effect on him and almost everyone she met.
She asked him if he was okay when he didn’t move for a bit, to which Harry clenched his jaw and nodded tightly. Willing away his scandalous thoughts, Harry cleared his throat and pulled open the meeting notes Y/N prepared for him beforehand, “I hope you’re all having a good morning,” he looked around the room, “we’ve got a couple of important things to go over today, so make sure you’ve got your ears open. I need fresh ideas on the table…”
He listed off the BAU for the week and they went around the table to hear monthly updates from each of the department heads. Y/N penned every important detail vigorously with her lip between her teeth, but one particular discussion had her ears perking up. “I think it’s better if we stick to our suppliers in China and Bangladesh. It’s cost efficient and we’re meeting all of our KPIs,” one of the team members spoke up. Harry watched as another retorted, “I understand that it’s cost efficient, but we have to draft our yearly financial report in two months where we have to talk about our suppliers and sustainability. Large shipments of textiles every year is anything but.”
Next to him, he could feel Y/N’s nervousness wafting off in waves as she sat up straight and cleared her throat. Her soft voice quietly followed, “I… I think we can try switching to internal suppliers instead of external,” she glanced around the room looking for reassurance and settled her eyes on Harry who nodded at her. Although it wasn’t in her exact line of work to advise on this matter, she was still a valued member of the team who brought new input to the company. She continued, “it would be good for our brand image and we won’t have to fabricate our annual report. It’ll be ethical and sustainable, and that’s what consumers are looking for nowadays. We can even market it a—”
“Who are you?” Jerry, one of the team heads, suddenly cut her off. His eyes dug daggers into hers as he raised his brows. Y/N stuttered, “Y/N…I—I’m Mr. Styles’ senior assistant. I just had a few ide—”
“Save it,” he raised his palm, dismissing her thought, “I was thin—”
Harry’s loud voice cut Jerry off, “I believe Miss L/N was saying something before you so rudely interrupted her, Jerry. I do not permit anyone but me to give orders to any of my personal staff. Next time, I suggest you learn how to respect your peers in a meeting before walking into an esteemed room such as this.”
Y/N’s chest rose and fell nervously as she watched the exchange with wide eyes. Jerry immediately dropped his shoulders and darted his eyes away from both Harry and Y/N, now looking down at his notebook, “apologies, Mr. Styles.”
“Don’t apologise to me. Apologise to her.”
Now it was Jerry’s turn to have wide eyes as he looked at Y/N, “but she’s a—”
“We don’t have a lot of time here.”
A few moments passed as Y/N twiddled with her hands and looked at Harry before looking back at Jerry who didn’t meet her eyes as he quietly mumbled, “sorry.” She smiled softly. “It’s okay.” Harry could feel the heat radiating off of her; her face had gone pink and she was squirmy under the attention of the whole meeting room. He decided to close the chapter, “good. Keep these etiquettes in mind next time you walk into another meeting. Y/N, draft your initiative and send it to Analytics. I want to see the pros and cons of switching to internal suppliers by next week. You’re all dismissed.”
-
The whole exchange at the meeting had Y/N’s heart beating like crazy as they left the conference room. “Are you okay?” Harry checked in on her as they walked to his office. “Yep.”
She didn’t want to bother Harry with her anxious thoughts and worry him more than he already was as a CEO of such a big company. Her heart was still racing, “I’m gonna go for a quick walk,” she told Harry before grabbing her phone and heading to the elevators. Hopefully a little fresh air would do her some good. As she stepped outside into the bustling city, she took a deep breath and began walking to the courtyard where there was a big water fountain. She liked sitting by it and hearing the pitter-patter of the water. Her phone pinged when she sat down. It was Landon. The notification made her heart drop just slightly. Ever since she told him about her new job, he had been very distant. There was an initial excitement, but then he asked her how much she was getting paid. That’s when things went downhill. Grapejuice Inc was a big firm, and she had an important position. Her bank account was going to fatten up a little, but his reaction just had her a little disappointed.
Plus he kept asking her all these questions about the people she worked with, and not in a cool, interesting way. It was very stalker-ish and accusatory. She didn’t like it one bit. With a sigh, she ignored the message and shut her eyes, feeling the breeze against her face and trying to forget what happened in the meeting today.
-
About a week later, Y/N finally began feeling more comfortable in her role. She was getting to know Harry’s needs better and better as the days passed, and she tried her best to exceed his expectations as much as she could. Ever since he stood up for her in the meeting, she felt like she owed him that at least. It had been a long week at the office, with Harry slipping in and out of meetings which Y/N had to join him for, so she was particularly happy today as the week ended and the weekend approached.
She set her stuff down on her desk when they walked out of the last meeting of the week, “I’m just gonna get a coffee really quick. Did you want anything?” Harry was distracted by his phone, his eyes never straying as he walked past her.
“I’m alright, thanks,” he replied. Once he was in the confines in his office, Y/N let out a deep breath. Her hands slid down her skirt as she made her way to the office kitchen on the third floor, walking in to see a handful of people heating up lunches and waiting for the coffee machine. She reached up to get a cup and was startled when she suddenly felt a presence behind her.
A very unladylike yelp left her mouth as she turned to see the same guy she saw at Bluebird cafe a couple of weeks ago. “I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!”
She held a hand to her chest and closed her eyes, a long breath escaping her lips, “you scared the living daylights out of me.” The man chuckled and backed up giving her space to lean back against the counter. “Sorry… though the sound you made was quite funny.” Y/N rolled her eyes and faked a dry laugh.
He grinned as he looked at her, before she saw his eyes narrowing, “wait, you’re the girl from the cafe a while ago. You made those twenty six drinks for the annual conference.” Y/N watched as realisation dawned upon him and he examined her like she was a bug under a microscope, “yeah. I remember you, mister so-nervous-I’m-shaking.” She watched as his cheeks turned pink. He looked down, making his dark hair flop over his forehead, “yeah. It was a big meeting, but they all really liked the drinks, so thank you for that.” It was then Y/N noticed how tall he was, towering over her with his brown eyes peering down at her.
“No problem. It was kind of my job at the time so…” Y/N turned to use the coffee machine, leaving him still blushing and staring at his shoes. She followed the prompts on the machine until her desired coffee poured out of the snout. “You’re Mr. Styles’ new assistant aren’t you?” He asked from behind her. Y/N hummed and nodded. “What’s your name?”
He giggled again, “oh right. I totally forgot to introduce myself. I’m Logan, I’m an administration coordinator.” Logan held out a hand for her to shake which she took, smiling, “nice to meet you, Logan. I’m Y/N.”
“I heard about what happened in the meeting last week,” this had Y/N turning around fully to look at him, an eyebrow raised, “word travels surprisingly fast in an office like this.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what he expected her to say after making that statement. She kind of hated that the first thing he associated her job title to was the speck of drama that went down in the meeting. Her heart hurt a little— she wanted to be recognised for more than just some petty spectacle.
Next to Y/N, another girl stood by the second coffee machine. She must have been listening to their conversation because she spoke up first, “we all heard what happened. Not gonna lie, it was a little bit shocking to hear that Mr. Styles told Jerry off for talking down to an assistant. He usually loves Jerry.”
Y/N’s lips parted, “he didn’t tell anyone off, he just… told him to somtimes let other people have the floor in meetings. It’s common manners.”
The girl smirked, “Mr. Styles doesn’t do that for just anyone. He’s very… cold.” Y/N furrowed her brows, “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say to me.” The blonde only scoffed and flicked her hair over her shoulder, “oh, I think it’s very clear what I’m trying to say. One doesn’t just score a job like yours and become Mr. Styles’ favourite little pet,” she raked her eyes up and down Y/N’s body, “compensation has to be… paid, somehow.”
What she was implying had Y/N’s stomach churning. Not only did she feel utterly disgusted at such an accusation, but she was hurt beyond belief. The words were disrespectful and not true. Y/N did not work her ass off to get into Grapejuice Inc just for it to be reduced to nothing by some employee.
Just as she was going to retort back with something fiery, a deep voice beat her to it, “I hope this little party is about the new marketing strategy your team is implementing, Becca.” Y/N turned to see Harry standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. The blonde girl— Becca’s eyes widened, “Mr. Styles! Yes, I was just asking Logan ab—”
“I hate a fibber.”
Becca stammered over her words. “Sorry, Mr. Styles. I was just getting back to my desk.”
“Good,” Harry said, stopping her in her tracks, “I also hate petty gossip, especially in my office. If I hear another word of false accusations about anyone from anyone’s mouth, you’ll be hearing from HR.”
Y/N raised her brows at his comment and saw how Logan passed her a look of surprise as well. Becca mumbled a ‘sorry’ and left the kitchen soon after, scurrying past Harry. He didn’t even spare a glance her way as he looked at Y/N. “Get back to work.”
“Yes, Mr. Styles.” She told Logan goodbye before leaving the kitchen. Her coffee was clutched tightly in her hands the whole way to her desk as she wondered what the fuck her day had been.
-
It was later on the same day as Y/N sat at her desk with her head in her hands. She had a long tiring day running around in meetings and scheduling appointments for next week. Plus, Becca’s earlier comments still weighed heavy in her mind. The words affected her more than she would like to admit. On top of all of that, Landon was still being cold over text. He gave her one-word answers after leaving her on delivered for ages. She was wracking her brain trying to figure out why he was acting this way— was it jealousy? Or did he just miss her? She hoped it was the latter.
Her head was pounding and she glanced at the clock to see it was six PM. Way past her home time. She just had so much to do. The pressure got to her head as she dug her fingers into her scalp, trying to relieve some pain. Things only got worse when she felt tears prickle her eyes and spill past her waterline. She just felt so stupid.
She felt pathetic crying at her workplace and letting her tears stain her to-do list which was littered with a bunch of little tasks. Taking a few breaths to contain herself, she didn’t even notice when Harry stepped out of his office for a breather. Her sniffling caught his attention. “Miss L/N? What are you still doing here?”
She quickly wiped her tears and straightened up, “I was just finishing a few things up,” she mumbled. She kept her head low but Harry saw right through her. The whole building was dark and quiet as everyone had gone home. The only light on her desk was from her lamp. Harry leaned against it and looked down at Y/N. “Y/N,” he called her by her first name, “what’s wrong? Are you… are you crying?”
A dry chuckle left her mouth. Her wet eyes met his and his shoulders deflated. This was his nightmare situation. He was the worst at comforting people. His hips shifted nervously. “A—are you alright?”
“Clearly no.” She shook her head and looked down into her lap, cheeks heating up. Harry didn’t want to overstep any boundaries but he also couldn’t just leave her sobbing at her desk. “Do… you wanna talk about it?”
She shot him an incredulous look. Even if she did want to talk about it, her boss was not the ideal person. Y/N tried to dismiss him without hurting his feelings. “I’m fine, really,” she sniffled and wiped one more tear. Although Harry was terrible with emotions, he wasn’t an idiot. Clearly something was bothering her to the extent that she had to cry at her desk. He sighed, deciding to ask one more time, “are you sure?”
If it was him in her shoes, he’d probably tell the other person to fuck off and mind their own business, just because he was terrible at being vulnerable. But this was Y/N— sweet Y/N who brightened up his mornings with her pretty smile. He might not know her too well, but he knew she had a good heart.
A long breath escaped her nose as she shut her eyes and held a hand on her forehead, “I just… it’s just been a lot recently.”
Harry’s eyes widen, “is it the workload? You can tell m—”
“No! No, it’s not that. Things have been shaky in my personal life and I… I can’t stop thinking about this morning with Becca a—”
“Did she say something again?” He cut her off, stern. Y/N’s head snapped up, “not after you warned her, no. But before you came she said some nasty things which obviously weren’t true and I can’t get them out of my head. It’s stupid.”
She sniffled and Harry frowned. He heard the conversation just as he was approaching the kitchen. Becca’s words were sharp enough to hurt someone, especially someone as educated and well-performing as Y/N. Harry knew what it was like when people tried to blame your success on things like sex and connections, having been from a big family. Older CEOs and managers often under-estimated him, assuming he was where he was because of his family. That just wasn’t true. He worked really hard to be where he was. It wasn’t like his father made it easy on him.
He took a step closer and hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder. The touch was awkward but he wanted to offer her some form of comfort, “what she said was obviously not true,” he watched as she winced, realising he heard the conversation, “it shouldn’t matter what she says. Or what anyone says. You can’t get hung up on petty things like that if you want to go far in this line of work. People will always talk down and project their failures on you but you can’t let that get you. Unless you want to get walked all over.”
Y/N’s shoulder burned where he touched her, his palm almost electric. Physical touch was something she rarely got since Landon was so far away, and really, how clingy could she be with Niall before he got pissed? She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes, “yeah,” sniffle, “yeah. You’re right.”
Harry watched as she closed her eyes and composed herself. He slowly took his hand off of her, noticing how she deflated with… disappointment?
A few moments passed and he heard her tummy grumble loudly. The sound brought a small barely-there smile to his lips as she blushed furiously, “sorry, I—”
“Why are you apologising? For having normal human functions? Have you not eaten yet?”
Y/N shook her head, twiddling with her hands. Not only was she embarrassed that she cried in front of her boss, but her stomach’s loud protests had her all red. She didn’t have time to get lunch today since she was so busy, running on coffees all day. Harry sighed, “c’mon. We’ll go get something to eat.”
Her eyes widened, “wh–what?”
Harry raised his brows, “let’s go.”
She couldn’t say anything after that as Harry left to grab his coat and phone from his office. Y/N watched as he shrugged it on, admiring his biceps bulging against the button up. The soft, dim lighting of the area wasn’t making things any easier. He cleared his throat, snapping her out of her thoughts, “I’ve called for Tomas, my driver.”
Nodding, Y/N grabbed her purse and phone. They took the lift together. There was an odd tension as they stood silently, stealing glances at each other occasionally. Y/N played with her fingers in the oddly long ride, filling the silence by humming quietly. Harry smiled to himself upon hearing her.
When they reached, he led her out and towards the car Tomas brought out front. Tomas smiled at both of them and Y/N shook his hand. His stare lingered on her puffy eyes but he didn’t say anything. “I hope you like Italian,” Harry murmured. He opened the door and let her sit first and then followed. There was a whole seat empty between them where Y/N settled her purse. She still couldn’t process what was happening as she nodded at his words.
“La Vita Vino, please, Tomas.”
“Yes, sir.”
A couple of beats of silence passed. Harry’s face was illuminated by his phone as he scrolled. In the meantime, Y/N’s lip faced the wrath of her anxiety. She decided to speak up, “you really don’t have to do this, Mr. Styles. I—I’m very grateful but I hate putting you through so much troubl—”
“It’s no trouble.”
He shut his phone and glanced at her. Just the look had her skin burning. Y/N blamed the nerves.
“Okay.”
A car honked.
“Thanks though,” Y/N said.
“You’re welcome.”
The rest of the drive was silent. Y/N saw how Tomas spared glances at the two of them, eyes lingering on the empty seat between them. She might have seen him smile, but that could be her imagination. She was feeling quite out of it, especially after that cry.
They soon arrived at a beautiful restaurant. It had soft, yellow lighting and an outdoor patio. It was oddly romantic for a CEO-personal assistant dinner, but Y/N bit her tongue. Just the fact that he bothered to take her out meant so much to her. She didn’t want to ruin the moment with anything. She said thanks to Tomas as he held the door open for her.
When they walked in, Y/N couldn’t help but look around in awe. It had a gorgeous interior with intimate seating. She watched as Harry walked up to the hostess and requested his ‘regular’ table. The hostess smiled, “of course, Mr. Styles.”
Y/N saw as Harry followed the waitress, looking back at her, “c’mon.”
She was snapped out of her daze, allowing the hostess to lead them to a small table around the back. Thankfully it wasn’t candle-lit. That would make the dinner look like something it most definitely was not. The hostess pulled out a seat for Y/N and then Harry. “Can I get you started with some wine, sir?”
Harry glanced at Y/N, “any preferences?’
“Oh, I don’t drink,” she bit her lip. His brows dipped just slightly but he didn’t say anything. “I’ll have a serving of Masseto, please.”
“Of course, sir. Perhaps water for the missus?”
Y/N’s eyes almost shot out of her skull when she heard the hostess. She stammered over her words, “Oh, we—I’m not—”
“Yes, please.”
The hostess smiled and left, promising to come back with their drinks. As she left, Y/N turned to Harry, still flustered, ‘“sorry! I don’t know why she said that.” He looked at her like she was crazy, “why are you apologising?” He repeated for the second time that night, “it’s not like you told her to say that.”
Her mouth shut at that. She relaxed into the seat, still unable to meet his eyes, “yeah… I guess you’re right.”
Harry hummed approvingly. He slid a menu towards her to have a look at. Wordlessly, she picked it up and scanned the items. They were all crazy expensive— almost a week's worth of her wages for one dish. Plus, she could barely even read some of these names. Nervously she glanced at Harry, “what do you usually get?”
“I like their Agnolotti del Plin,” he said, not looking up from the menu. She put hers down and sighed. His eyebrows furrowed as he met her eyes, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’ll get what you’re having. The agnal thing.”
“Agnolotti del Plin?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
The waitress came back to their table and asked them if they were ready to order. Y/N let Harry do the talking, afraid to mispronounce anything. She watched in awe as the Italian rolled off his tongue so easily. The waitress nodded and told them she’d be back with their dishes soon. When Harry turned back to her, his brows were still furrowed.
“Have you… ever had Agnolotti del Plin?”
“... yes,” she lied.
“Oh. Right.”
It was silent again. Their dynamic was so odd that Y/N didn’t know how to make conversation with him. What would they even talk about?
“Do you feel better?” He referred to her earlier breakdown. A breath escaped her mouth, “yes. Thank you Mr. Styles.”
“I don’t want to pry, but if there’s anything you want to talk about…” Harry said. Getting the sentence out was a feat. He was smart enough to know that talking about your feelings helped you feel better but he didn’t know what he would do once she started talking. Should he be touching her shoulder again? Rubbing her arm for comfort?
“I don’t want to bother you with my problems.”
“It’s no bother, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. But I understand if you don’t want to talk.”
“Thanks,” she said for the millionth time that night. She wasn’t quite ready to spill her guts in front of her boss yet, no matter how vulnerable the crying made her seem. They remained quiet until the food was placed before them.
The dish was amazing— ravioli packed with smoked pigeon and covered in truffle sauce. It was when she smelled it that she realised how truly hungry she was. Once it was presented to her, she had her head down, engrossed in the food. Harry could understand completely. He himself was starving when he walked out of his office earlier. The only reason he really left was to go see if there was anything in the office fridge he could snack on.
About midway through their meal, her phone pinged. She ignored it when it went off once. But then it pinged again and again and again. Ignoring it for the sake of having good manners, Y/N turned it over and tried to continue with the meal, except it began pinging even more. “I’m sorry,” she sighed, putting her fork down and picking up her phone. It was Landon.
Her eyebrows furrowed as she stared down at the texts. He demanded to know where she was since she hadn’t texted him in a couple of hours. She couldn’t believe the audacity of the man; he didn’t respond to any of her texts all day and still expected her to continue texting him even after he made it clear he didn’t want to speak to her. Her irritated expression didn’t go unnoticed by Harry.
“Is everything alright?”
“Yeah… yeah, it’s just my boyfriend.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You have a boyfriend?” He blurted out.
Y/N met his rounded eyes. “Yes. We’re long distance.”
“Oh.”
“He’s been weird ever since I started working at Grapejuice Inc,” Y/N continued. “I don’t know. It’s just stressing me out, I guess.”
Harry hummed. It wasn’t his place to say, but he knew that if a relationship was stressing someone out, then it probably wasn’t healthy. He bit his tongue when he saw her furrowed brows. She huffed and put her phone on silent, not bothering to respond as she went back to her food.
They finished eating soon after. Y/N insisted on splitting the bill but Harry looked at her like she had grown a second head, snatching the bill from her hands. He slid his platinum card inside and gave it to the waitress who found their exchange amusing. After she brought them the receipt, Harry called Tomas to come up front. “Where do you live?” He looked at her expectantly and held the door open for her.
“Oh, just down nine and fifth avenue. It’s the house with the purple mailbox.”
Tomas nodded at her words and began driving. This time, Y/N had her purse in her lap. Her hand was resting on the middle seat. Harry was looking out of the window as they sat in silence. She admired him for a little while, appreciating the cut of his jaw and his plump lips. It was almost aggravating how pretty he was. His hand, ringed and tattooed with a cross by his thumb, rested on the middle seat as well.
His eyes never wavered from where they looked outside at the passing lights. Y/N shut her eyes and rested her head back against the seat. It had been an insane day and she couldn’t wait to go home and get under her covers. She must have relaxed a little too much, though, because a few moments later she felt her pinky collide with his. Surprisingly, neither of them jumped at the feeling. His hand was warm and her heart was racing.
They grazed each other again. For a second, Y/N felt his pinky rest completely on top of hers, though he didn’t stop gazing out the window. They both jumped as Tomas suddenly sneezed, pulling their hands away. Harry cleared his throat and Y/N told Tomas ‘bless you.’ The whole interaction had her breathing erratic and lip worried.
She finally recognised her street when they turned around the familiar corner. A grateful smile graced her features. She thanked Tomas first and then turned to Harry. She was immensely thankful for his comfort and for providing her with a full belly by treating her to such a luxurious meal. “Thank you, Mr. Styles. I had a great time and I feel so much better.”
He met her smile with a small one. “It was my pleasure. Have a good night, Miss L/N.”
“Night.”
-
Y/N relayed the night's details to Niall the next morning over coffee. He gasped dramatically and went on and on about how this was Y/N’s ‘romcom’ moment and that she was the main character who had a hot CEO boss obsessed with her. Y/N only laughed at how ridiculous he was, smacking his head when he wouldn't shut up and began narrating detailed, graphic, office fantasies that he most probably saw in some cheap porno.
“It doesn’t matter, Ni. I have a boyfriend,” was what she told him, trying to brush him off. “A boyfriend who lives a million miles away and doesn’t care if you live or die.” Those words did make her frown a little bit. Maybe Landon was a little bit weird and possessive, but surely he would care if Y/N dropped dead out of nowhere. She tried to give no weight to Niall’s words. She had enough on her plate to worry about.
When she finally decided to confront Landon, he demanded she tell him where she was last night. Y/N lied and said she was having dinner with Niall, but Landon didn’t even like that response. Any friend of Y/N that was a male was automatically disliked by Landon. It was a stupid habit of his, but then Y/N put herself in his shoes and thought about how she would feel if he began hanging out with a bunch of girls. It would leave a sour taste in her mouth but would she really react like he did? So dramatic and accusatory?
She tried her best to ignore the pestering thoughts as she walked into work the following Monday. She wondered if the air between her and Harry would be any different now that he had seen her in such a vulnerable state. But then again, he was known for his cold exterior, so maybe not. She took a deep breath as she walked in with his coffee in hand at exactly nine AM. He was busy on the phone and typing something on his computer at the same time, sparing her a glance and a small nod.
Whispering a small ‘good morning’, Y/N set the coffee down on his table. It was then she realised how dark and stuffy it was in his office. He probably forgot to open up the windows again on Friday before leaving. Deciding to open them up to encourage some air circulation, she walked behind Harry’s desk. The blinds were behind his chair and Y/N tried to squeeze herself between the small gap to open them up. Harry was too preoccupied on the phone to notice her.
The space was quite narrow so she had to really get in there to get the blinds open, stretching slightly and getting on her tippy-toes. Behind her, she heard Harry put the phone down. Suddenly, she felt as she lost her footing, a yelp escaping her mouth as she prepared to collapse face-first on the floor.
Except she didn’t collapse.
A firm, warm pair of hands settled on her waist, preventing her from face-planting into the floor. She was standing in between Harry’s legs, leaning over him so his breath washed over her face. Her hands were planted on his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there and he held her waist tightly. Her breath was stolen from her lungs.
“You okay?”
For some reason, she struggled to tear her gaze away from his mouth as he spoke, mesmerised by the way his lips moved. She almost relaxed into his hold. “Y–yeah. Thanks.” Now it was Harry’s turn to stare at her mouth. He met her eyes, then her lips, then her eyes, then her lips. They were painted pink and parted, practically begging Harry to kiss them. It was like he couldn’t help it as he leaned in closer— like her lips personally called to him to be tasted.
His thumbs dug into her ribs. She made a small sound which sounded awfully close to a whimper. That was ultimately what pushed him over the edge as he threw all resolve out of the door and caved in to the taste of her mouth. He had been thinking about what she might taste like for the longest time now, the night at the restaurant not making things any easier as her mouth plumped up in constant pouts.
Now, though, Harry was in heaven. She was sweet, like mango juice as he kissed her more firmly, letting her relax in his hold. His grip on her waist was all that was holding her up now as she suckled on his bottom lip and grabbed his shoulders harder.
This was so, so wrong. It was so inappropriate for him to be making out with his assistant in his office, lost in the taste of her and the sight of her in that little floral sundress. He groaned against her when she slid her tongue into his mouth. Her movements were bolder than he expected as she bit his lip softly.
The shrill sound of his phone ringing was what made them part, a filthy sound resounding when they pulled away, and strings of spit connected their mouth. He looked into her eyes as she wiped his mouth with her thumb and finally stood up. She looked flustered and fucked out— cheeks flushed and lips spit-slicked. Her dress had ridden up but she quickly pulled it down. Harry tried desperately to will his hard-on away, eyes never leaving hers despite the sound of his phone ringing in the office.
She was a little out of breath, “you… you should probably get that.”
He nodded, snapped out of his daze. “Yes. Yep. I’ll, uh… I’ll get that.”
“Cool.” Cool?
Turning on her heel, she left his office. When the door shut behind her, Y/N slid a hand through her hair and bit her thumb. She just made out with her hot CEO boss. In his office.
Although the kiss was amazing and her heart was racing, she couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. She had a whole boyfriend who trusted her to remain loyal and this was what she decided to do? Her heart sank a little in her chest, but she realised it didn’t outweigh the giddiness in her body and wetness between her thighs, all because of a little kiss. She groaned.
Y/N was fucked.
-
It was nearing lunch-time and Harry was still hung up on that fucking kiss. He felt so stupid for letting himself slip like that. How could he have made such a big mistake? Getting hot with your employees was one of the biggest no-nos of being in-charge of running a whole company.
But he just couldn’t deny how good it felt.
How nice she tasted, how she felt under his hands. The sounds she made and her confidence as she slipped her tongue into his mouth. She was exactly how he thought she would be— addicting. He couldn’t stop thinking about her; not as he went about his day to numerous meetings, attended a morning tea and interviewed an important client.
His every thought started and ended with her ever since she cursed him with that fucking mouth. Soft, warm, wet… he could only imagine how she felt in other places. Running a hand down his face, Harry sighed heavily. This wasn’t healthy. He had to either stop thinking about her or figure out a way to deal with this situation head on. Somehow the latter seemed easier.
He thought back to a couple nights ago when she was stressed and crying right in front of him. He knew the poor girl had a lot going on in her life, and with her boyfriend being long distance, he assumed she didn’t have a lot of means to release some of her frustrations. Plus, from what she told him, her boyfriend sounded like an absolute shit-bag so Harry automatically assumed he wouldn’t be able to give Y/N the satisfaction she needed anyway.
Pacing in his office, a crazy idea popped into Harry’s head.
Since just buying her dinner made her so happy and stress-free, Harry wondered what else he could do for her to make her feel good again. He wasn’t just thinking about pleasuring her anymore. He wanted to spoil her. He wanted to make her feel special. Not only would it help with her frustrations, but it would be a good outlet for him as well. It was not like he had plans to marry and start a family soon and he had heaps of money just sitting in his bank accounts. Money that had no use apart from paying for his bills and groceries.
Money he was willing to spend and that would probably be appreciated more elsewhere.
He wanted to propose an arrangement to Y/N, like the business-man he was. He’ll spoil her to the ends of the world, till her heart’s content— till he pleases. In return he would request her time and affections. In the way he craves, like a starved man. It was crazy to think that just the touch of her lips was driving him to take such steps— he felt like a spell had been cast on him. He had to see her. He had to tell her.
Finally deciding to grow a pair, Harry threw his door open and strutted out of his office, hair messy thanks to his fingers and eyes wide. However, his stomach sank when he turned to see if Y/N was at her desk.
The good part was that she was there like he hoped, looking all pretty in her sundress and hair left down. The bad part was that there was a blonde man standing before her, handing her a bouquet of flowers and pulling her in for a kiss.
The same lips he kissed mere hours ago.
The same waist he caressed was being hugged tightly as the boy lifted her off her feet and she smiled into his mouth, blinded to the shattering of Harry’s heart as he stood there by the door, disappointment overcoming his hard features.
-
Kissing Landon was very different to kissing Harry.
Whereas Harry met Y/N gently, like she was made of glass, puckered his lips tenderly and pressed sweet little pecks against her pouty mouth, Landon was quite… harsh. His arm slithered around her waist the same time he kissed her; rough, oddly possessive and a little painful, if she was being honest. He smashed his mouth into her teeth too hard, and paired with the grip he had on her waist, Y/N almost felt like she was being punished for some horrific crime.
And well, now that she pondered over it, maybe she deserved a distasteful kiss. She wasn’t really the ideal girlfriend these past couple of days which she spent daydreaming about her hot CEO boss, wondering what his soft words and lingering touches meant. Then when he kissed her mere hours before Landon surprised her, for those couple of minutes, the fact that Y/N even had a boyfriend slipped her mind completely. All she could think about was the strong, caring man in front of her, kissing her with so much passion and his hands on her sides, which pressed into the warm skin, bunching up her dress, and maybe if the phone didn’t ring and they didn’t have to stop, he would have pulled her onto his lap and slipped his fingers beneath her dress—
She was truly a terrible person.
She was a horrible, nasty, disgusting person for cheating on her poor unsuspecting boyfriend and kissing another man behind his back. The moment she stepped outside of his office, breathless with swollen lips, guilt swarmed her belly and made her insides turn black. Like she was rotten. And she felt rotten, but that wasn’t the worst part. Something else dug into her whirlwind of a brain, rattled her bones and made her breath tremble.
Despite the guilt that ate away at her heart, Y/N couldn’t deny that she liked it.
She liked the way he latched onto her bottom lip, and she liked the way he held her like she was going to slip away if he loosened for even a second. She liked the sounds he made and she liked the look in his eyes when she pulled away— hazy, like he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her spit-slicked lips. And perhaps she liked all of these things a little too much… perhaps they outweighed the guilt in her tummy.
God, she was just an awful human. She spent the next three hours following the kiss internally fighting herself over this dilemma, going back and forth feeling guilty and then feeling horny. Her panties were uncomfortably soaked and she had to make an embarrassing trip to the mall by the office just to grab a new pair of underwear— over a fucking kiss.
A kiss. That was literally it. They didn’t do anything further, he didn’t slide his hands between her legs, didn’t kiss down her neck— just showered her in honeyed purses of his lips and she was such a fucking mess. In her defence, she hadn’t been touched in any way in a long, long time. With Landon living ages away, Y/N often had to go months upon months without any physical affection. Even when they did get to spend time together, he didn’t let their kisses get too frisky. Didn’t let it progress to anything further, no matter how much she wanted.
She asked him about it too, but he would always go on some long spiel about how he was saving it for marriage and how amazing their first night together would be once they were husband and wife and they could finally have sex. Outwardly, she’d agree. Landon was always sort of sentimental— someone who was sensitive and wanted everything to have some deep meaning they could uncover together.
But Y/N was only just a girl. She had needs. Needs which her boyfriend was not meeting and needs for which her vibrator was just not enough anymore! That was why she was so ready to take things further with Harry. She wouldn’t have minded if he yanked her on his lap and grinded her against his bulge. She wouldn’t have minded if he touched her ass and pushed her dress up, tucked his fingers into her panties an—
This was becoming a problem. Her fucking boyfriend was standing right in front of her yet all she could think about was what Harry’s palms would feel like on her thighs.
Her fucking boyfriend was standing right in front of her and— wait. Why was he standing right in front of her?
Her jaw dropped when he stepped out of the elevators and came into her view; tall, beaming, blonde hair pushed back and a bouquet of roses in his hands. Her jaw stayed dropped when he sauntered towards her, one arm stretched wide like he was presenting himself, “surprise!”
And then:
“Oh my god! Landon!”
She stopped lagging and forced herself to a stand, watching as he jogged towards her and engulfed her into his chest. Landon felt familiar. He was warm, sturdy, built with strong muscles and broad shoulders which she wrapped her arms around. Citrus and musk invaded her senses; a scent which usually brought her comfort. Usually reminded her of home and date nights, cuddles and walks in the park.
Now it made her sick. Nauseous. Her stomach had been churning ever since she left Harry’s office that morning and his harsh cologne was not helping. Her nose was squished into his neck and his arms were wrapped around her like cling-film, nearly smothering her. She felt like she was suffocating, and she would have, had she not put her hands on his chest and gently shoved him off of her. Then came the initial shock, “wh–what are you doing here? How did y—”
“I wanted to surprise you, sweets. I missed you and I barely heard from you. Are you not happy to see me?”
Now, how could Y/N ever tell him she was anything but?
AN: BHHEHE GUYS SORRY I COULDNT HELP MYSELF WITH ALL THE TOUR CONTENT AND THE BUSINESS CASUAL VIBE IT WAS DRIVING ME NUTSSS!!! I HAD TO PULL TIS ONE OUT OF THE BAG!!! I THINK IMMA CONTINUE THIS SERIES I HAD SM PLANNED AND IT IS ONE OF MY FAVS!!!! HOPE U ENJOY!!! LET ME KNOW UR THOUGHTS!! also i know my fic plans are ALL OVER THE PLACE just trust im waiting to be done with uni and IM LOCKING INNNNN
This is a video that I wanted to create ever since I got into this fandom. The old lady is more worried about a guy that fucked up her fence than about the damage. I'm happy to have finally done that, sorry for traumatizing you all with the Polish language.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦
It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.
But he’s everywhere.
There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.
That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.
“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”
You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”
“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“
“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m not-“
“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.
“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.
“Congratulations.”
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
“I was busy.”
“Too busy for your job?”
“It’s not my job-“
“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
“Have you been carrying that around all day?”
“That doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it really does-“
Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“
“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“
“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“
“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”
“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
“Why’re you skipping.”
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.
“I have a date.”
“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.
“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”
“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.
“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“
The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
“What’s-“
“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.
“No, he’s not-“
“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.
You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.
“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.
You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But they’re back early.
And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all.
You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just… Finish early.
You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
“You need to go, Buck-“
“I’m fine-“
“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“
“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
“Hi.” You whisper.
His throat bobs. “You’re back.”
“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“
“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”
Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“
“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”
Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.
“How was your date?” He grunts.
“Bucky-“
“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”
And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”
Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.
“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.
You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.
“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehow—just barely—fight it.
“Why can’t I access these files.”
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.
“Barnes-“
“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”
You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“
“Steve should change that.”
God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.
He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.
“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
“You want hot chocolate?”
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.
Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”
You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
It’s almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘
But it is Bucky.
And he’s never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.
“Hi.” You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“
“Bucky, are you-“
“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.
“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“
“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
“Bucky-“
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”
You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.
But you do go right to Steve.
“What happened on the mission.”
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.
“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“
“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“
“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”
You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”
Steve sighs. “Is it you?”
“Yep.”
He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“
“I really don’t care.”
“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.
“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“
“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
“No, you just won’t tell me-“
“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“
“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“
“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”
“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.
“I know how it sounds-“
“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“
“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole.
“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Steve-“
“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”
Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“
You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.
And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”
You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”
Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”
You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.
But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.
“What are the symptoms?”
Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”
“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”
“But- Bucky-“
“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”
“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”
Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”
“Before or after the mating?”
Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“
“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”
“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
“What-“
“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
“Steve-“
“I didn’t say anything-“
“Yes, you did-“
“Nope.”
You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”
Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.
“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesn’t turn you down…
You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
“Fuck off, Stevie-“
“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response.
Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
“You shouldn’t be here-“
“Steve said you need me.”
You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.
“I- I made him.”
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”
“I was worried about you-“
“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“
“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“
“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”
He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.
“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“
“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“
“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.
“Who says?”
“You’re an ass to me-“
“You’re an ass to me.”
“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.
“Me neither.”
You nod. “But…”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”
And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didn’t know you could want him more.
“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
“You- You got no idea, do you?”
Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“
“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.
“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”
“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.
“Didn’t you?”
You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“Bet I imagined more.”
And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.
You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.
“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”
Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.
“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“
He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.
You can’t have that.
“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
“How?”
“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.
“You think this is funny?” He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“
“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“
Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.
“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.
“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”
You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.
You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”
And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“
“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“
His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.
He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
“Aren’t you?”
“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“
“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.
“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
He’s jerking off while he eats you out. He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.
You don’t want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.
“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
“Good girl.” He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.
“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.
“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But you’re at an advantage.
Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”
If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“
“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And he’s not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.
You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
They’re blue again.
“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
“I’m back.”
You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”
Oh.
Or that. That’s nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”
You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.
“Yeah. I’m staying.”
✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Pairing: Zuko x Fem! Reader (specifically thinking about the Zuko in the photo above)
Word Count: 22k
Warnings: Major Angst, Past Toxic Breakup Dynamics, Mentions of Parental Abuse & Financial Control (Ozai), Depictions of Panic Attacks/Anxiety, Intense Emotional Vulnerability, Crying During Intimacy, and Explicit Sexual Content towards the middle (NSFW/Smut) MDNI 18+
A/N: Writing this was essentially just me holding Zuko by his shoulders and shaking him until the truth fell out of his mouth. A year of mutual pining and digital exile because this boy literally does not know how to perceive love without assuming it’s a threat. Suki represents my exact inner monologue throughout the entirety of writing her parts. Enjoy the emotional wreckage.
A low, concussive bass thrums through the floorboards of Jet’s off-campus house, rattling the soles of Zuko’s shoes and settling into the heavy ache in his chest. The entire living room is submerged in a suffocating, low-fidelity blue light that turns the crowded space into a blur of bruised shadows, thick with the sharp tang of stale beer and drifting vape smoke. It’s a sensory overload designed for forgetting.
It’s exactly the kind of party Zuko usually avoids, but Sokka had dragged him out under the guise of "celebrating the end of finals," which really just meant Sokka wanted an excuse to drink out of a red solo cup that wasn't in their own messy apartment.
Zuko leans against the doorframe of the kitchen, his fingers hooked into the front pockets of his jeans. He feels entirely out of place, a dark smudge against the neon-soaked canvas of the room. Beside him, Sokka is loudly debating some trivial sports statistic with Katara, who is crushing a lime into her drink with a look of concentration. Aang and Toph are somewhere in the thick of the crowd, Toph likely causing a hazard on the makeshift dance floor while Aang tries to ensure no one actually gets hurt.
It’s the Gaang. It’s always been the Gaang. Except it hasn’t been, not really, for exactly three hundred and sixty-five days.
Zuko takes a slow sip of his lukewarm beer, the bitterness coating his tongue, doing absolutely nothing to wash away the phantom taste of regret. He shouldn't be thinking about the timeline. He shouldn't have the exact date burned into his skull like a brand, but every time May rolls around, the air gets too heavy to breathe.
"Hey, man, you're doing that thing again," Sokka’s voice cuts through the thumping bass, a heavy hand dropping onto Zuko’s shoulder. "The brooding thing. Drink your beer. Look alive. Jet actually bought the name-brand chips for once."
"I'm fine," Zuko mutters, twisting his shoulder slightly to shake off Sokka's hand. He isn't fine. He hasn't been fine in a year, but admitting that aloud feels like picking at a scab that took twelve months to form.
"You're a terrible liar," Katara says, not unkindly, though her blue eyes scan his face with that sharp perception she always uses when she thinks he's spiraling. "If you want to leave, Zuko, we can go. Honestly, Jet’s parties always end with someone putting a hole in the wall anyway."
"No, it's fine. Stay," Zuko says, his eyes drifting away from his friends, scanning the shifting sea of bodies under the blue strobes.
And then, his heart stops.
It isn't a metaphorical sensation. It is a violent, physical halt, a sudden, freezing vacuum in his chest that makes his breath catch in his throat. The noise of the party—the laughter, the screeching bass, Sokka’s voice—instantly drops into a dull, underwater hum.
Across the room, standing completely static against the faded wallpaper of the living room wall, is you.
Zuko’s grip on his beer can tightens until the aluminum dents beneath his knuckles. He freezes, staring through the haze of blue light and drifting vapor clouds, convinced for a terrifying second that he is finally hallucinating from the sheer weight of his own guilt.
But it’s you.
It’s undeniably you.
You’re nursing a red solo cup, your fingers wrapped loosely around the plastic, holding it near your chest like a shield. Two girls from your major—girls Zuko vaguely remembers meeting at a campus coffee shop a lifetime ago—are standing on either side of you, laughing dramatically, their mouths moving in animated sentences. But you aren't laughing. You’re just nodding along, polite, as your eyes stare blankly out at the throngs of dancing college students.
You look entirely different. And yet, you look exactly the same.
The first thing that hits Zuko like a physical blow is your hair. The soft, familiar dark strands he used to spend hours twisting around his fingers late at night, burying his face into when the nightmares got too real, are gone. In their place is a sharp, striking platinum blonde that catches the blue neon light and turns almost silver. It changes your entire aura, sharpening the soft edges he knew by heart, making you look distant, and untouchable.
As you tilt your head back to take a slow, measured sip of your drink, the strobes flash, catching the glint of silver on your face. Zuko’s breath hitches. A small, delicate silver hoop is pierced through your right eyebrow. It’s tiny, but on you, it looks incredibly rebellious, a mark of a life lived entirely outside of the boundaries he had once drawn around the two of you.
"Zuko? Hellooo? Earth to Zuko—" Sokka starts, trailing off as he follows the unwavering, dead-eyed trajectory of Zuko’s stare.
Sokka goes quiet. Beside him, Katara gasps softly, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Oh my god," Katara whispers, her voice sounding small, cracked beneath the weight of the bass. "Is that...?"
"Yeah," Sokka says, his usual boisterous energy instantly evaporating, replaced by a tense, uncomfortable sobriety. "Yeah, that's her."
The silence that settles over the three of them is heavy, a thick, suffocating blanket of history that none of them know how to lift. For three years, you hadn't just been Zuko’s girlfriend; you had been the glue of the group. You were the one who remembered everyone's birthdays, the one who bought the specific snacks Toph liked, the one who sat on the porch with Katara talking about life until the sun came up, the one who validated Sokka's ridiculous theories. You had been woven into the very fabric of their lives, a golden thread that held their chaotic, mismatched group together.
And then, a year ago, the thread had been violently burned.
Zuko remembers the breakup not as a single conversation, but as a series of shattering impacts. It had been loud. It had been ugly. It had been a slow-motion car crash fueled by his own deep-seated insecurities, his toxic habit of pushing people away before they could leave him, and the suffocating pressure of his family's expectations. He had screamed words he didn't mean, words meant to cut deep enough to ensure you wouldn't come back, because a sick part of his brain believed he didn't deserve a love as pure as yours anyway. He had broken your heart on the floor of his bedroom, watching you cry until your chest heaved, watching the light completely die in your eyes.
The next day, you were gone. Not just from his apartment, but from the group. You hadn't made them choose—you had just quietly, completely extracted yourself. You stopped showing up to the diner you would spend late nights studying at. You changed your route to class. You ghosted and then left the group chats completely.
Zuko remembers the agonizing weeks that followed. He remembers checking your Instagram every single hour, desperate for any sign of how you were surviving the wreckage. One night, three weeks after the split, he had opened the app to find your profile completely hollowed out. Every single photo—the anniversaries, the candid shots of you laughing in the passenger seat of his car, the group photos at the beach, the silly selfies—had been deleted. Cleaned out. A digital scorched-earth policy. All that remained was your profile picture, a small, distant shot of you looking out at the ocean, and your name. No bio. No highlights. Just a ghost town.
Now, seeing you standing there in the flesh, the reality of that year-long absence crashes over him.
You aren't wearing the oversized, comfortable hoodies you used to steal from his closet. Tonight, you are wearing a cropped, tight black top that clings to your skin, exposing a sliver of your midriff, paired with dark, form-fitting jeans that accentuate every curve of your hips and thighs. You look stunning. You look grown. You look like a woman who has entirely reconstructed herself from the ashes of a fire he lit.
"She looks... different," Katara says softly, her eyes welling with a sudden, sharp nostalgia.
Sokka rubs the back of his neck, shifting his weight uneasily. "She looks good, Katara. She looks really good." He glances sideways at Zuko, his expression a mix of pity and warning. "Zuko. Don't."
Zuko doesn't hear him. He can't. His eyes are locked on the way your fingers trace the rim of your red solo cup. He knows that habit. You only did that when you were anxious, when you felt overwhelmed by a crowd but were forcing yourself to stay anyway. You were playing a part tonight, pretending to be the cool, detached girl in the blue light, but he knew the girl underneath. Or, at least, he thinks he used to.
Suddenly, your eyes shift.
It’s as if some invisible current passes through the crowded, sweaty room, a sudden drop in atmospheric pressure that alerts you to his gaze. Through the shifting bodies, through the haze of smoke and the flashing blue strobes, your eyes lock onto his.
Zuko’s chest tightens so hard it hurts.
Your expression doesn't change. You don't look angry. You don't smile. Your eyes, dark and unreadable simply hold his. The silver hoop in your eyebrow catches the neon light once more, a tiny spark between them. For five agonizing seconds, the world completely stops. The music dies. The party vanishes. It is just him, bleeding internally in the kitchen doorway, and you, standing like a beautiful, distant statue against the wall.
Then, you look away.
You turn your head back to your friends, nodding at something she said. It is the most brutal thing Zuko has ever experienced. It isn't hatred; it is complete, total indifference. It is the realization that you have learned how to look directly at the man who broke you and feel absolutely nothing at all.
"Zuko," Sokka’s voice is firmer now, his hand gripping Zuko’s elbow, pulling him back a fraction of an inch. "Seriously, man. Let it go. It's been a year. You guys had a mutual disaster. Don't go over there and make it weird for her."
"It wasn't mutual," Zuko says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounds raw even to his own ears. "I ruined it. You know I ruined it."
Katara sighs, a deeply sad, tired sound. "We know, Zuko. We all know. But she made her choice to leave the group. She didn't want to see us. If you go over there now, after all this time..."
Across the room, Jet appears out of the crowd. He’s holding a fresh drink, his usual arrogant smirk firmly in place, his backward cap casting a shadow over his eyes. He walks straight up to your group, throwing an arm casually over the shoulder of one of your friends, before turning his attention entirely to you. He says something close to your ear, leaning down to be heard over the bass.
Zuko watches, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle tethers in his cheek, as you look up at Jet. You give him a small, genuine smile—not the fake one you gave your friends, but a real, soft amusement. You raise your solo cup to him in a silent toast, and Jet laughs, tapping his cup against yours.
A dark, hot wave of jealousy and pure, unadulterated panic surges through Zuko's veins. It’s a toxic, ugly feeling, because he has absolutely no right to it. He gave up the right to be jealous the moment he slammed his apartment door and let you walk down the stairs alone in the rain, carrying your life in two cardboard boxes. But seeing another guy—especially Jet, who always circled like a vulture around anything beautiful—in your orbit makes him want to tear the house down.
"I need to talk to her," Zuko says, stepping forward, his boots clicking against the linoleum kitchen floor.
"Zuko, stop!" Katara reaches out, snagging the sleeve of his dark jacket, her face tight with worry. "Look at her. Look at how much work she’s done to move on. Don't pull her back into your mess just because you're lonely tonight."
Her words cut deep, sharp and accurate as a knife. Your mess. That’s all he ever was to you at the end, wasn't he? A vortex of unresolved trauma, anger, and constant pushing away. You spent three years trying to heal a boy who refused to believe he was broken, and in the end, the shards of his identity had just cut you to pieces.
He looks back across the blue-lit room. Jet is still talking to you, his hand gesturing wildly as he tells some stupid story, but your eyes have drifted again. You aren't looking at Jet. You’re looking down at your drink, your thumb tracing the plastic rim over and over again, your shoulders slightly hunched.
You look so lonely in that crowd of people. You look like you're throwing a party in your own head, but no one turned up except the ghosts.
Zuko remembers a lyric from a song you used to play on repeat in his car during the quiet, late-night drives when neither of them could sleep. A song about throwing a party just for someone who wouldn't show up. He had thought it was a pretty, melancholic pop song back then. Now, looking at you, he realizes you had been living in that song long before the final breakup. You had been standing in the blue light of his dark moods, waiting for him to finally show up for you, until you simply ran out of breath.
"I'm not trying to pull her back," Zuko says softly, his voice cracking, his eyes never leaving the silver glint of your eyebrow piercing. "I just... I just need to tell her I'm sorry. I never got to say it. Not properly."
Sokka looks at Katara, an uncharacteristic gravity in his eyes, before looking back at Zuko. "And if she doesn't want to hear it? If she tells you to go to hell, or worse, if she looks right through you again?"
Zuko swallows the massive, painful lump in his throat, his knuckles white against his sides. "Then at least she'll know I'm the one standing in the dark this time."
He pulls his arm gently out of Katara’s grip. She doesn't reach for him again, but her eyes follow him with a heavy, prayerful sadness as he steps out of the kitchen and into the suffocating blue heat of the living room.
The bass thuds against his chest with every step he takes, a physical barrier he has to push through. The crowd is a blur of sweaty skin, laughter, and spilling drinks, but Zuko keeps his eyes locked entirely on the platinum blonde hair across the room. With every foot he closes between them, the ghost of their three years together grows heavier, pressing down on his shoulders until it’s almost impossible to move forward.
He remembers the way you used to smell like vanilla and fresh rain. He wonders if you still do, or if you’ve changed that, too, along with your hair and your clothes and your digital footprint.
Ten feet away. Jet is still there, laughing at his own joke. Your friends are taking a selfie, their phones creating a brief, harsh white flash in the blue darkness. You aren't in the photo. You’ve stepped slightly back, your back pressed firmly against the wall, a solitary figure in a crowded room.
Five feet away. Zuko’s heart is hammering so loudly against his ribs he thinks everyone in the room must be able to hear it over the speakers. His mouth is completely dry. He opens his lips to speak your name, to voice the word that has been a silent prayer in his mind for three hundred and sixty-five days.
You choose that exact moment to look up.
Your eyes meet his again, much closer now, completely devoid of the distance of the room. Up close, Zuko can see the faint, dark circles under your eyes, masked carefully by makeup, and the slight, nervous tremor in your hand as you hold your cup. You see him coming. You know exactly what he’s doing.
You don't run. You don't hide. You just set your red solo cup down on a nearby windowsill with a slow, deliberate finality. You look at Jet, pat him once on the arm to interrupt him, and whisper something in his ear. Jet glances over at Zuko, his smirk instantly dropping into a hard, protective scowl, but you place a hand on Jet's chest, shaking your head gently.
Jet hesitates, then spits on the floor, turning his back to Zuko, taking your friends with him as they move deeper into the kitchen.
And suddenly, the space between Zuko and you grows once again as he retreats back to his friends.
The memory of that blue-lit living room doesn’t fade; it stains. For seven days, Zuko carries the image of you standing against Jet’s wall like a phantom limb, an ache that flares up every time he closes his eyes. He had stood five feet away from a girl who looked like a stranger, watching the silver hoop in your eyebrow catch the neon light, watching the way your platinum hair turned silver under the strobes. He hadn't spoken. Sokka had pulled him back, or maybe his own cowardice had finally frozen his boots to the floor. Either way, you had walked out of that house with Jet's friends, and Zuko had gone home to an apartment that smelled like old take-out and silence.
A week later, the humidity of the late semester gives way to the biting, damp chill of a campus winter. The university is emptying out, turning into a ghost town of concrete and bare trees as finals wrap up and winter break descends. Most students have already dragged their rolling suitcases to the airport or packed them into the trunks of their parents' cars.
Zuko walks down the perimeter of the campus, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his heavy black coat. The air is so cold his breath blooms in white clouds before him, vanishing into the gray dusk. He’s exhausted. The skin under his eyes is bruised from sleeplessness, his mind a chaotic loop of history and the sharp, sudden reality of seeing you alive and breathing in the world without him.
He turns the corner near the commuter lot, intending to just head straight back to his apartment, shut the door, and let the darkness take him until next semester.
Then, he sees the light.
A single, flickering halogen streetlamp illuminates the concrete pad of the campus bus stop. The light is harsh, buzzing slightly in the winter quiet, casting a cone of pale yellow through the encroaching evening.
And standing directly beneath the sign, perfectly centered in the glow, is you.
Zuko stops dead in his tracks, his boots crunching softly against the thin skim of frost on the pavement.
You’re waiting for the campus shuttle, likely heading back to the dorms to grab the last of your things before the university shuts down completely for the holidays. You look so small underneath the massive, rusted metal sign. You’re snuggled deep into a heavy, oversized coat that swallows your frame, a stark contrast to the tight, revealing black top you’d worn to Jet’s party. Big, padded over-ear headphones are clamped over your ears, the faint, tinny vibration of a baseline leaking out into the cold air. Your hands are stuffed securely into your pockets, your shoulders slightly hunched against the wind.
But it’s the scarf that makes the air leave Zuko’s lungs.
Wrapped twice around your neck, pulled up so high it almost touches your chin, is a thick, forest-green knit scarf. It’s slightly frayed at the edges, a little worn from years of use.
He knows that scarf.
He bought it for you two years into your relationship, during a weekend trip to a tiny mountain town when the weather had turned unexpectedly brutal. You had been shivering, your teeth chattering as you tried to pretend you were fine, and he had marched into the first local shop he found, spending the last fifty dollars in his checking account on the heaviest wool they had. He remembers the look on your face when he wrapped it around you himself, tucking the loose ends under your chin, his fingers lingering on your cold cheeks until you smiled up at him with that fierce, unshakeable devotion that used to terrify him because he didn't know how to hold something so precious.
You were still wearing it.
After the shouting matches, after the slammed doors, after deleting every single trace of him from your digital life, after bleaching your hair and piercing your skin to rid yourself of his ghost—you were still wearing his scarf.
The sight of it does something violent to his chest. It’s a contradiction that tears him apart. You had looked right through him in the blue light a week ago, a vision of complete and total indifference. But here, in the quiet winter gray, you were carrying a piece of him close to your throat, letting it keep you warm.
Don't do it, Sokka’s voice echoes in his head. Don't pull her back into your mess.
Look at how much work she’s done to move on, Katara had said.
Zuko takes a step backward, his heel skidding on the ice. He tells himself to turn around. He tells himself that if he walks away right now, he can leave you with your music and your quiet, letting you go home in peace. He forces his muscles to tense, attempting to steer his body back toward the path to his apartment. He grips the fabric inside his pockets until his nails dig into his palms.
Leave her alone.
But his feet don't obey. Like a man caught in a undertow, he finds himself stepping forward into the light. The distance between them shrinks—twenty feet, ten feet, five feet—until he is standing inside the yellow cone of the streetlamp, the heat of his breath mingling with yours in the freezing air.
You don't move. Your eyes are closed, your head tilted slightly back against the cold metal post of the bus stop sign, lost entirely in whatever song is spinning through your headphones. The platinum blonde of your hair looks ethereal under the halogen light, glowing like spun silver against the dark collar of your coat. The silver eyebrow piercing glints sharply, a tiny, defiant star on your face.
Zuko stands there for a full thirty seconds, utterly paralyzed. He is close enough to see the small crystals of frost caught on the wool of the green scarf. Close enough to smell the faint, ghostly trace of vanilla that still lingers around you, cutting through the crisp winter air.
His hand trembles as he lifts it out of his pocket. His fingers are numb from the cold, but as he reaches out, they feel heavy as lead. He hesitates, his palm hovering just an inch above the thick material of your shoulder. Every instinct in his body screams that this is a mistake, that he is trespassing on ground he traded away a year ago.
He closes the distance. He places his hand on your shoulder.
The moment his fingers press into the heavy fabric, you flit your eyes open.
A sharp, violent gasp hitches in your throat, and you flinch away from the touch, your body tensing instantly as your hands yank out of your pockets. Your head snaps around, defensive, ready to confront a stranger who crossed a line at a deserted bus stop.
But the anger in your eyes instantly freezes over.
The color drains from your face so fast it leaves your skin looking almost translucent under the yellow light. Your lips part slightly, the green scarf slipping down an inch, exposing the pale skin of your throat. For a second, just a fraction of a second, the cool, detached mask you wore at Jet’s party isn't there. Instead, your eyes widen with a raw, bleeding shock that mirrors the agony in his own.
Slowly, deliberately, you reach up and slide the headphones down around your neck. The tinny sound of a melancholic synth track leaks into the space between you, a rhythmic, hollow heartbeat.
"Zuko," you say.
It’s the same name, but out here in the cold, without the bass to hide behind, it sounds entirely different. It sounds heavy. It sounds like a word that has been buried in a shallow grave for twelve months, suddenly dug up by the roots.
"I'm sorry," Zuko says immediately, his voice cracking on the syllables. He doesn't even know what he’s apologizing for first—touching her, stopping her, or the entire year of wreckage behind them. "I saw you from the path. I didn't mean to scare you."
You don't break eye contact. Your gaze drops down to his hand, which is still hovering near your shoulder, before rising back to his face. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself, burying your hands back into the sleeves of your coat, pulling the green scarf back up to your chin as if trying to shield yourself from the sheer presence of him.
"What are you doing here, Zuko?" you ask. Your voice is quiet, steadying itself with a visible effort that makes your shoulders tremble slightly.
"I was just walking home," he says, stepping back a single inch to give you space, though every cell in his body wants to do the exact opposite. He wants to reach out and pull the scarf down, to see if the skin beneath it still remembers the heat of his mouth. "I recognize that scarf."
The words leave his mouth before he can filter them, raw and clumsy.
Your eyes flicker down to the green wool tucked against your chin. A small, bitter line forms at the corner of your mouth, and for the first time, the indifference from the party begins to settle back over your features, a protective armor against the cold.
"It's cold," you say, your tone dropping into a flat, matter-of-fact register that makes his chest ache. "It’s a good scarf. I didn't see a reason to throw away twenty percent of my winter wardrobe just because of how it got into my closet."
The words are a calculated strike, a reminder that to you, he has been reduced to a transaction, a historical footnote that can be compartmentalized and utilized for warmth without any emotional tax. But Zuko can see the way your fingers are tightening against your elbows through the fabric of your coat. He knows you. He knows that when you are lying, your left eyebrow twitches just a fraction of a millimeter.
It doesn't twitch tonight, but your breathing is too fast, the white clouds of your breath coming in short, jagged bursts.
"You look different," Zuko says softly, his eyes tracing over you appearance. "The hair. The... everything."
"A year is a long time," you reply, your voice lifting slightly, carrying the faint edge of someone who has spent twelve months explaining their reinvention to people who didn't care. "People change their hair, Zuko. They get piercings. They move on. They don't stay frozen in the exact shape they were when someone broke them."
"I know," he says, the guilt settling into his stomach like a stone. "I saw you at Jet's. A week ago. I was... I wanted to come over. Sokka stopped me."
"Sokka always had better judgment than you," you say, and though the words are sharp, there is a faint, exhausted sadness in them that cuts deeper than any insult. You look away from him, your eyes scanning the empty campus road, watching for the headlights of the shuttle that will save you from this conversation. "You shouldn't have come over tonight either."
"I couldn't help it," Zuko says, stepping back into the cone of light, his voice growing desperate as the reality of the approaching bus threatens to cut his time short. "I've spent a year looking at an empty Instagram profile, trying to figure out if you were even still in the same city. You deleted everything."
"Because there was nothing left to look at," you say, your head snapping back to him, your eyes flashing with a sudden, hot spark of the anger he remembers from the very end. "What did you want me to do, Zuko? Leave the pictures up? Leave the reminders of every time you screamed at me to leave because you couldn't handle someone loving you? Leave the evidence of the three years I wasted trying to pull you out of your own head while you threw everything away?"
The words hit him like a physical blow. He actually recoils a step, his breath hitching. The silence that follows is deafening, filled only by the low, tinny hum of the music still leaking from the headphones around your neck.
"I didn't mean those things," Zuko whispers, his face contorting with an old, familiar agony. "The things I said that night... I was angry. I was scared. My family—"
"Don't blame your family," you interrupt, your voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet hiss that shakes with a year’s worth of suppressed tears. "Do not use your father or your sister as an excuse for how you treated me at the end. I took every single blow your moods dealt. I stayed through the silence, I stayed through the drinking, I stayed when you wouldn't look at me for days. I didn't leave because it got hard. I left because you looked me in the eye and told me I was a burden."
A tear finally escapes your eye, hot and bright, tracking rapidly down your cheek before freezing in the biting air. You don't wipe it away. You just stare at him, your chest heaving under the heavy coat.
"You told me I was dragging you down," you whisper, the words sounding small and broken in the winter night. "You told me you didn't love me anymore. You said it so clearly. And I believed you."
Zuko feels the tears welling in his own eyes, hot and blurring his vision until the yellow light of the streetlamp smears into a jagged halo around your head. He reaches out automatically, his hand moving toward your face to wipe the tear away, to touch the skin he used to know better than his own.
"I lied," he chokes out, his fingers stopping just inches from your cheek as you flinch back again, your teeth clenching. "I lied because I was drowning, and I thought if I didn't push you away, I'd take you down with me. I loved you. I've never stopped loving you. Not for a single second of this miserable year."
The admission hangs in the frozen air between them, a heavy, bleeding thing that neither of them knows how to fix.
You look at his hovering hand, your eyes dark and unreadable. Slowly, you shake your head, a single, definitive gesture that feels like the final turn of a key in a lock.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Zuko," you say softly. The anger is gone now, replaced by that terrifying, hollow exhaustion that he had seen a week ago at the party. "It doesn't change anything. You think you can just show up at a bus stop, tell me you lied, and expect me to undo a year of rebuilding myself? You think this scarf means I'm waiting for you?"
She reaches up, her fingers wrapping around the forest-green wool, pulling it slightly away from her chin.
"I wear this because it's cold," you say, your voice cracking, but your eyes remaining steady. "And because I wanted to prove to myself that I could carry the things you gave me without breaking anymore."
In the distance, the sharp, bright glare of two high-beam headlights cuts through the commuter lot. The low, rumbling engine of the campus shuttle grows louder, its brakes squealing as it rounds the final turn toward the bus stop.
Zuko looks at the approaching lights, panic rising in his throat like bile. This is it. The bus is going to stop, the doors are going to hiss open, and you are going to step inside, disappearing back into the winter break, back into your new life, leaving him alone under the halogen bulb.
"Please," he rasps, stepping closer, his boots touching yours now, the heat of his body close enough to challenge the winter air between them. "Just let me buy you a coffee. Ten minutes. Just let me talk to you without the shouting. Let me apologize properly."
The shuttle pulls up to the curb with a heavy, concussive sigh of its air brakes, the bright white interior light spilling through the glass windows, washing over the two of you, obliterating the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp. The doors hiss open. The driver doesn't look at you two bickering, they just stare straight ahead into the dark road.
You look at the open doors of the bus, then look back at Zuko.
For a long, agonizing second, the girl he loved for three years looks out through your eyes—the girl who used to laugh into his neck, the girl who used to hold his hand until the nightmares stopped, the girl who threw a party in her own head just hoping he would show up.
"Goodbye, Zuko," you say softly.
You don't wait for him to answer. You turn around, your heavy coat swirling around your legs, and step up onto the stairs of the bus. You don't look back as you pull your headphones back up over your ears, clamping the music back down over your head, shutting out the sound of his voice before he can even try to call your name.
The doors hiss shut with a definitive thud.
Zuko stands perfectly still under the flickering halogen light as the shuttle pulls away from the curb, its red taillights bleeding into the dark winter night until they vanish completely around the bend. The green scarf is gone. The platinum hair is gone. You're gone.
The rhythmic, rubbery smack of the neon pink sticky ball hitting the popcorn ceiling was the only sound competing with the frantic clacking of Suki’s mechanical keyboard.
Smack. Drop. Catch.
You lay flat on your back across Suki’s mattress, your head hanging completely off the mattress edge so the room was entirely inverted. From this angle, Suki’s small off-campus bedroom looked like an upside-down sanctuary. Her fairy lights hung upward like luminous vines; her posters of local indie bands were flipped on their heads; and Suki herself was an inverted silhouette, her auburn hair falling toward the ceiling as she aggressively hunched over a final term paper for her sports medicine major.
Smack. Drop. Catch.
"If you leave a grease stain on my ceiling, I'm making you paint over it by yourself," Suki muttered, not looking away from her monitor. Her fingers flew across the keys, executing a vicious sequence of citations.
"It’s silicone. It doesn't leave grease," you droned, your voice sounding slightly nasal from the rush of blood to your inverted head. You tossed the ball again. It stuck for a fraction of a second longer this time, dangling precariously above your face before gravity reclaimed it. You caught it blindly in your palm. "Besides, it’s a distraction. I’m practicing hand-eye coordination. A basic survival skill."
"What you're practicing is sulking on my bed," Suki corrected, finally hitting a final, aggressive keystroke and letting out a long, theatrical sigh. She spun her black mesh swivel chair around to face you, crossing her legs. She was wearing an oversized University sweatshirt—one she had undoubtedly stolen from Sokka—and a pair of thick-rimmed blue-light glasses that sat crookedly on her nose.
Suki had been your anchor since your sophomore year of high school, long before the chaos of college dorms, changing majors, and catastrophic breakups had entered the equation. She was also, by extension of her four-year relationship with Sokka, the only remaining bridge between your current life and the ghost town of your past. When you had severed ties with the Gaang a year ago, Suki was the only one you hadn't cut loose. You couldn't. To lose Suki would have been to lose your own reflection.
She looked at you now, really looked at you, her sharp green eyes taking in the view of your upside-down face. Your platinum blonde roots were starting to show just a fraction of a millimeter of your natural dark hair.
"You look like a bat," Suki observed, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. "And you’ve been throwing that stupid ball for forty-five minutes. Sit up before your brain starts leaking out of your ears."
With a dramatic sigh, you let your momentum carry you, swinging your legs down and shifting until you were sitting cross-legged in the center of her unmade duvet. The sudden rush of blood leaving your head made the room tilt for a brief, dizzying second. You squeezed the sticky ball in your fist, feeling the tacky material deform between your fingers.
"Finals are done," Suki said, removing her glasses and tossing them onto her desk. "Which means I am officially off the clock, and you are officially out of excuses. Talk to me."
"About what?" you asked, aiming for a tone of breezy indifference and failing spectacularly. "I'm fine. Just ready to start moving in here for the break."
"Right. You're so fine that you ran into Zuko at a deserted bus stop at seven o'clock on a Tuesday night, had a cinematic crisis in the freezing cold, and then texted me a single string of incoherent emojis at two in the morning," Suki said, her voice dropping into that grounded, no-nonsense register that usually meant she was about to lay out your life right front of you. "Sokka told me Zuko came back to their apartment that night looking like he’d been hit by a semi-truck. He hasn't left his room in three days."
The mention of his name felt like a cold finger tracing the length of your spine. You looked down at your lap, your thumb brushing against the silver ring on your thumb. "He shouldn't have come up to me. I was just trying to go back to my dorm."
"But he did," Suki countered softly. "And you didn't run away. Not immediately."
"I took the bus, Suki. I left."
"After you let him see you wearing the scarf."
You flinched, the accusation landing cleanly. You pulled the collar of your sweater up instinctively, even though the forest-green wool scarf was currently tucked safely away inside your duffel bag across the room. "It’s a piece of clothing. It was like zero degrees outside."
"You have four other scarves, babe. I helped you pack them when you moved places," Suki said, her expression softening from clinical to deeply empathetic. She slid off her swivel chair and moved to sit on the edge of the bed beside you, her shoulder brushing against yours. "Look, I’m not lecturing you. God knows I watched the two of you burn that bridge down from space. I know how bad it was. I was the one holding the box of tissues while you cried in my bathroom for a month."
"Then why does it feel like you're taking his side?" your voice cracked, the raw, jagged edge of an old wound tearing open in the quiet of her bedroom. The anger came up fast, a defensive shield against the sheer vulnerability of the memory. "You know what he said to me, Suki. You know how he made me feel. Like I was some kind of... some kind of anchor dragging him into the bottom of the ocean just because I wanted him to talk to me. I spent three years trying to decode his silences, trying to make up for the fact that his dad is a monster and his sister is a psychopath. And the second things got hard for him, he threw me away like I was the problem."
"I know," Suki whispered, reaching out to place her hand over yours, stilling your frantic squeezing of the silicone ball. "I’m not taking his side. Zuko was an idiot. He was toxic, he was defensive, and he handled his survival by hurting the only person who actually had his back. I wanted to punch him in his stupid face for months after you guys split. Sokka had to physically hold me back from keying his car."
A small, wet laugh escaped your lips at that, a single tear slipping past your eyelashes. You wiped it away quickly with the back of your hand, cursing mentally. "Then what are we talking about?"
Suki let out a breath, her fingers gently squeezing yours. "We're talking about the fact that it's been a year. A whole year of you bleaching your hair, getting pierced, deleting your social media, and trying to pretend that three years of your life just... vanished. But you're still carrying it. You're carrying it in the way you look at the floor when someone mentions the others. You're carrying it in that green scarf. And you're definitely carrying it in the way I know probably you looked at him under that streetlamp."
You kept your eyes fixed on the floorboards, your jaw tight. "He told me he lied."
Suki paused, "What?"
"At the bus stop," you whispered, the admission tasting like copper in your mouth. "He said he lied. He said he told me he didn't love me anymore because he was drowning, and he thought he’d take me down with him if he stayed. He said he’s loved me every single second of this year."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the distant hum of the apartment building's heating system. Suki didn't interrupt. She just sat there, processing the words, her mind working behind her eyes.
"And what did you say?" she asked finally, her voice incredibly gentle.
"I told him it didn't matter," you said, your voice shaking. "I told him it didn't change anything. Because it shouldn't, right? You don't get to destroy someone for their own good. You don't get to decide what I can handle. That’s not love. That's just... isolation."
"You're right," Suki said, and the absolute certainty in her tone made you look up, surprised. She wasn't giving you a platitude. She was validating the anger you had cultivated like a garden for twelve months. "It is selfish. Zuko has a massive, deep-seated savior complex mixed with a martyr fixation. He thinks the only way to keep things safe is to burn them down before anyone else can touch them. It’s what he did with his family, it’s what he did with his old friends, and it’s what he did with you."
She got off her chair, sitting beside you, forcing you to meet her gaze directly.
"But here is the piece you’re missing," Suki continued, her hand moving to rest on your shoulder, right where Zuko’s hand had been a week prior. "He didn't run away this time. For three years, every time Zuko got overwhelmed, he withdrew. He went silent. He pushed people out. But a week ago, he saw you across a crowded room looking completely different, totally untouchable, and his first instinct wasn't to hide. He wanted to go to you. Sokka had to stop him. And then, a week later, he saw you alone at a bus stop. He touched your shoulder. He told you the truth, even knowing how much you probably hated him for it."
You shook your head, a defensive instinct. "So what? I'm supposed to just forget everything? Go back to his apartment and pretend he didn't break me into pieces?"
"No," Suki said firmly. "Absolutely not. If you went back to him right now, I’d lock you in this room. You worked too hard to find your feet this year to let him knock you over again. But..." She hesitated, searching your face. "You haven't moved on, babe. You’ve just built a very high wall. And you're standing behind it, freezing to death, holding that damned green scarf."
A sob caught in your throat, hot and agonizing. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely now, the weight of the past year crashing down on your chest all at once. Suki pulled you into her arms, wrapping her limbs around you tightly, letting you bury your face into the stolen sweatshirt.
"It hurts so much, Suki," you choked out, your hands clutching the fabric of her back. "Seeing him... he looked so tired. He had the same dark circles he gets when he doesn't sleep for days. And I wanted to hate him. I wanted to look at him and feel nothing, like I did at the party. But the second he touched me, it was like the last year didn't even happen. I was just... I was just back on that floor, watching him walk out."
"I know," Suki murmured, rubbing your back in slow, soothing circles. "I know, sweetie. Because you loved him with everything you had. You don't just turn that off because he screwed up."
She let you cry for a long time, until your breath slowed and the heavy, ragged sobs turned into quiet, occasional hitches. The room grew darker as the sun set completely outside the window, casting long, gray shadows across the bed.
Finally, Suki pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands resting on your upper arms.
"Here is my advice," Suki said, her green eyes steady in the dim light. "The best advice I can give you after watching this disaster play out for twelve months. Give him a chance to explain himself."
You blinked through your tear-blurred vision, your mouth dropping open slightly. "What?"
"I don’t mean get back together with him," Suki clarified quickly, her tone sharp and authoritative. "I don’t even mean you have to forgive him. But you need to let him sit down, face-to-face, without a bus arriving in five minutes, and tell you exactly what happened in his head a year ago. You need to let him speak his piece, not for his sake, but for yours."
"How does that help me?" you muttered, wiping your nose with a tissue Suki handed you from her nightstand.
"Because right now, you're ghost hunting," Suki said. "You're fighting a version of Zuko from twelve months ago—the version that yelled at you and left. You haven't allowed yourself to see the guy who has been living in the aftermath. If you let him explain, one of two things will happen. Either you’ll look at him and realize he hasn't changed at all, and you’ll finally get the closure you need to drop that scarf in a donation bin... or you’ll see that he’s actually trying to fix his own broken parts, and you can decide, on your own terms, if you want him in your life again. As a friend. As an ex. As whatever."
She leaned back, crossing her arms, a small, knowing smirk starting to form on her lips as she watched the realization dawn on your face.
"You're in control now," Suki added softly. "A year ago, he made the choice for both of you. He ended it. He drew the line. But right now? He's waiting on you. The ball is in your court. You get to decide if you want to hear him out or leave him in the dark. But staying in this middle zone—where you're running away from him at parties and crying over his clothes—is killing you."
You sat in silence, the neon pink sticky ball rolling out of your limp hand and settling onto the duvet between you. You hated it when she did this. You hated how cleanly she could strip away the layers of your anger and expose the bleeding, frightened core of your pride underneath.
She was right. She was completely, entirely right, and it was infuriating.
"I hate you," you mumbled into your tissue, though there was no venom in it.
"I know," Suki smiled, leaning over to press a quick kiss to the side of your head. "That’s why I’m the best friend you’ve ever had. Now, wash your face. Sokka’s coming over with Thai food in twenty minutes, and if he sees you've been crying, he's going to think we fought, and then he’ll try to give us a lecture on conflict resolution using spring rolls as a visual aid."
You let out a genuine, wet laugh, shifting off the bed to head toward her small bathroom. As you turned on the faucet, letting the cool water pool in your palms before pressing it against your swollen eyes, you looked at yourself in the mirror. The platinum blonde hair, the silver piercing—they were still there. They were part of you now. But as you stared at your own reflection, the wall behind your eyes felt just a little bit less heavy.
The ball wasn't stuck to the ceiling anymore. It had fallen, and for the first time in a year, you were actually looking down at your hands, realizing you were the one holding it.
The white screen of the notes app cast a stark, digital glare over your face, illuminating your dark bedroom with a ghostly hum. You had been staring at the same ten-digit number for exactly ten minutes, the cursor blinking rhythmically at the end of the line like a tiny, mocking pulse.
Three hundred and sixty-five days. That was how long this number had sat exiled in the graveyard of your phone's utility folder. You had deleted his contact the morning after the breakup, your hands shaking so violently you’d nearly dropped your phone. It had felt like a necessary exorcism at the time—a frantic attempt to scrub his name, his custom ringtone, and his existence from your life. But a small, terrified part of your subconscious hadn't been strong enough to let the line go completely dead. You had copied the digits, pasted them into a blank note titled simply with a period, and buried it beneath grocery lists, and class schedules.
In case.
It was a pathetic safety net, an admission that even when you were screaming at the walls of your empty room, you weren't ready to let the universe completely erase him.
Now, your thumb hovered over the screen. You highlighted the number, copied it, and dropped it back into the empty 'To:' field of a fresh text message thread. The bubble was blank. The gray text read Text Message, an empty chasm waiting for you to bridge it.
Your heart thudded an irregular, heavy rhythm against your ribs. Suki’s words from the night before echoed in the quiet space of your skull, scraping against your pride. You haven't moved on, babe. You’ve just built a very high wall. And you're standing behind it, freezing to death.
You closed your eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath of the stale dorm room air, and let your fingers move before your brain could sabotage the impulse.
Let's talk. The Daily Grind near Suki's place. 2:00 PM?
You hit send.
The blue bubble shot upward with a soft swoosh. You instantly flipped the phone face-down on your comforter, pressing your palms against your eyes as if the sheer physical distance could shield you from the reality of what you had just done. Your skin felt hot, the adrenaline spiking through your veins so quickly it left a metallic taste on your tongue. You expected to wait. You expected him to take hours, to let the message fester in his notifications while he brooded or debated with Sokka about whether it was a trap.
Buzz.
The phone vibrated against the mattress before you had even drawn your next breath.
Your hand flew out instantly, flipping the device over.
Zuko
I'll be there. Thank you.
The response was instantaneous. It was so fast it was almost terrifying, an validation of Suki's theory that he had been sitting in his own dark room, staring at his own empty screen, waiting for the sky to fall.
The digital clock on your lock screen read 1:00 PM. You had exactly sixty minutes.
The bathroom mirror was a cruel witness to the civil war raging inside your own head.
You stood in front of the glass, a curling iron smoking slightly on the counter, staring at the version of yourself that stared back. You had spent the last forty-five minutes executing a meticulous, calculated transformation that made absolutely no sense given the thesis statement of this meeting.
This was supposed to be an eviction notice. This was supposed to be the final chapter, the heavy iron key turning in the lock of a three-year history so you could finally take off the forest-green scarf and finally breathe.
So why were you wearing baby pink?
You looked down at your outfit, a sudden, sharp spike of self-loathing twisting in your gut. You had chosen a soft, oversized pastel pink cardigan that fell off one shoulder, paired with a short, pleated skirt and thigh-high knit socks that met the hemline with a sliver of exposed skin. It was sweet. It was intentional. It was an outfit that screamed for attention in the softest, most vulnerable way possible.
"What are you doing [Y/N]?" you whispered to your reflection, your fingers tightening around the edge of the porcelain sink.
You had spent a year cultivating your armor. You had wanted to look like someone who could survive a wreck. But today, you had styled your hair into soft, tumbling waves that framed your face in romantic curves. You had spent ten minutes with an eyelash curler and a tube of expensive waterproof mascara, ensuring your lashes were perfectly fanned out, making your eyes look wide, and devastatingly familiar.
You were dressing for him.
The realization hit you like a bucket of ice water. You were standing on the precipice of a final closure, yet a pathetic, lingering part of your heart was still trying to curate the way his mind would hold your image after you left. You wanted him to see the new, untouchable girl, but you also desperately wanted him to remember the soft, sweet girl he used to hold on the couch on Sunday mornings. You wanted him to look at you and bleed from the sheer gravity of what he had thrown away.
"You're pathetic," you muttered, reaching for a nude lip gloss and applying it with an aggressive, defensive swipe.
You checked the silver hoop in your eyebrow, ensuring it was straight, a tiny glint of defiance against the soft pink of your sweater. You didn't change. You didn't put the heavy black boots back on or hide behind a leather jacket. You grabbed your keys, stuffed your phone into your pocket, and walked out into the gray winter afternoon, your heart hammering a relentless, terrifying rhythm against your breastbone.
The Daily Grind was a small, independent coffee shop tucked between a vintage clothing boutique and an old laundromat. It was the kind of place that smelled permanently of roasted espresso beans, cinnamon, and damp wool. Inside, the heating was turned up too high, fogging the large glass windows and turning the world outside into a smeared, gray watercolor.
When you pushed the heavy wooden door open, the brass bell jingled overhead, a sharp, cheerful sound that felt entirely inappropriate for the execution you were about to attend.
You stepped inside, pulling off your gloves, your eyes instantly scanning the dim, wood-paneled room.
He was already there.
It was 1:50 PM. You were 10 minutes early, a strategy to ensure you could choose the table, establish your territory, and be the one waiting. But Zuko was already sitting in a corner booth near the back, half-hidden by a large, leafy fiddle-leaf fig tree.
A heavy, aching sorrow settled into your chest at the sight of him.
He looked like he had been carved out of charcoal. He was wearing his heavy, dark canvas jacket, the collar turned up against a draft that didn't exist inside the heated cafe. A paper coffee cup sat untouched in front of him, the plastic lid off, a faint wisp of steam rising into the air before dying out. He wasn't on his phone. He wasn't reading. He was just staring fixedly at the grain of the dark oak table, his large, scarred hands flat against the wood.
Up close, as you walked down the narrow aisle between the tables, the details of his exhaustion became brutal. Suki hadn't been exaggerating. The skin beneath his amber eyes was dark, a bruised, violet shade that spoke of days spent staring at the ceiling in the dark. His dark hair was messy, longer than it used to be, falling over his forehead in jagged strands that almost touched the old, puckered scar on the left side of his face.
He looked small. For a guy who used to carry himself with a defensive, rigid intensity that filled every room he entered, he looked entirely hollowed out.
As your presence drew closer, Zuko’s head snapped up.
The breath caught in his throat, a distinct, audible hitch that you could hear even over the low acoustic indie music playing from the cafe's speakers. His eyes widened, his gaze sweeping over you in a frantic, unblinking rush. He took in the soft waves of your hair, the glint of the eyebrow piercing, and then, his eyes lingered on the baby pink cardigan slipping slightly off your shoulder.
A look of profound, agonizing recognition passed over his features, followed immediately by a flash of deep, internal pain.
"You're early," you said, your voice sounding detached, a protective mechanism you had practiced during the walk over.
Zuko scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking his untouched coffee over in the process. His hand shot out to steady the cup, his movements clumsy, frantic. "I—yeah. I wanted to make sure I got a table. The one in the corner. I know you don't like sitting with your back to the door."
The fact that he remembered that—a tiny, trivial preference from a lifetime ago—made the wall behind your eyes tremble. You didn't acknowledge it. You just slid into the vinyl booth opposite him, setting your keys on the table with a soft clink.
Zuko sat back down slowly, his eyes never leaving your face. He looked like a man who had been granted a temporary reprieve from a life sentence, terrified that if he blinked, you would vanish back into the gray mist outside.
"Thank you for coming," he said, his voice low, gravelly, and thick with an emotion he was trying desperately to suppress. "I didn't think... after the bus stop, I didn't think you'd ever want to see me again."
"Suki gave me a lecture," you said plainly, resting your forearms on the table, the pink wool of your sleeve bunched around your wrists. "She thinks I'm ghost hunting. She thinks I need to hear what you have to say so I can finally move on."
Zuko flinched at the words move on, his head dropping slightly. He looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing the rim of his paper cup over and over again, the exact same anxious habit you had noticed at Jet's party.
"She's right," Zuko whispered. "You shouldn't have to carry any of it. It was my mess. It's always been my mess."
"Then talk, Zuko," you said, your voice softening just a fraction, the anger from the previous week beginning to melt under the sheer, heavy sadness radiating across the table. "You told me you lied. Why? Why would you look me in the eye after three years and tell me I was a burden? Do you have any idea what that does to a person?"
A single, jagged breath left his lips, and when he looked up, his amber eyes were bright with unshed tears, reflecting the warm amber lights of the coffee shop.
"My father called me two days before I broke up with you," Zuko said, his voice shaking so violently he had to lock his jaw to force the words out. "He... he found out about the academic probation. He found out about the money I was trying to save to get our own place next semester. He told me if I didn't pull my grades up, if I didn't come back home for the summer to work at the firm, he was going to cut off my tuition. All of it. He was going to pull the apartment lease."
You sat frozen, your fingers curling into the pink fabric of your sweater. You knew Ozai was a CEO tyrant—you had spent years helping Zuko navigate the text messages that left him shaking in bed—but this was different. This was total economic and emotional leverage.
"I went into a panic," Zuko continued, a hot tear finally breaking free and tracking down the scarred side of his face. "I felt like the walls were closing in. Azula kept texting me, telling me how much of a disappointment I was, how I was going to ruin everything and to just come home during the summer. And I looked at you. You were sitting on my bed, studying for your finals, laughing at some stupid video on your phone, looking so... so completely pure and safe. And a sick part of my brain just clicked."
He reached out, his hand moving an inch across the table before freezing, remembering his boundaries, and pulling his fingers back into a tight fist.
"I thought about what my father does to things I love," Zuko choked out, his chest heaving under his dark jacket. "He destroys them. He uses them to hurt me. And I convinced myself that if I stayed with you, if I kept dragging you into my family's psycho-drama, my father would find a way to break you too. I thought... I thought I was being a martyr. I thought if I cut you loose, loud enough and mean enough that you’d hate me, you’d run away and stay away from me for good."
He wiped the tear from his cheek with the back of his hand, a frustrated, angry motion.
"But it wasn't about saving you," he whispered, looking directly into your eyes, his gaze raw and entirely devoid of pride. "It was cowardice. I was terrified of failing you. I was terrified of you seeing me lose everything and realizing I wasn't enough. So I broke your heart before my family could break us both. It was the most selfish, disgusting thing I’ve ever done. And the second I walked out that door... I knew I had destroyed the only good thing I had ever built."
The silence that settled over the table was heavy, suffocating, and deeply, profoundly sad.
You sat there, staring at the boy who had spent twelve months living in a prison of his own design. The anger you had nurtured like a shield for a year didn't feel like armor anymore. It felt like ash in your mouth. Suki had been right. You had been fighting a ghost—a cruel, unfeeling shadow from a year ago. But the boy sitting in front of you wasn't a monster. He was just a broken kid who had grown up in a house without love, trying to navigate a world he thought was permanently rigged against him.
You looked at his hand—the one flat on the table, the knuckles still white, a slight tremor running through his fingers.
The weight of the year—the loneliness of the parties, the bleaching of your hair, the digital ghost town, the tears shed on Suki's bathroom floor—it all seemed to converge into this tiny, wood-paneled corner. It was so sad. The entire situation was just a tragedy born of silence and fear.
Without thinking, driven entirely by an ancient, instinctual muscle memory that your pride couldn't stop, you reached across the wood of the table.
Your fingers, small and soft against the oak, slid forward until your palm rested over his trembling knuckles.
Zuko froze. He looked down at your hand, his breath stopping completely, as if he were looking at a miracle he didn't have the right to touch.
Slowly, gently, you turned your hand over, sliding your palm beneath his, threading your fingers through his large ones. His skin was freezing, cold from the winter air he had walked through, but as your fingers locked together, the heat of your body began to transfer into his.
"Zuko," you whispered, your own tears finally blurring your vision, turning the coffee shop into a smear of warm, golden light.
With a ragged, broken sob, Zuko collapsed forward, his forehead coming to rest on his free arm against the table. His grip on your hand tightened until it was almost painful, his fingers clinging to yours like a drowning man catching a rope in the dark. His shoulders shook violently under the dark canvas jacket, the quiet, suppressed sounds of a year’s worth of isolation finally breaking out into the open space between you.
You didn't pull away. You sat in the baby pink sweater you had chosen for him, your eyelashes wet and clumped together, holding his hand tightly across the table while the acoustic music hummed and the winter gray pressed against the fogged windows.
It wasn't a fix. It wasn't an erasure of the last twelve months. But as you squeezed his cold fingers, letting him cry into the dark wood of the booth, you knew the wall had finally come down, and neither of you had to freeze in the dark anymore.
The warmth of the coffee shop stayed with you even after the brass bell jingled behind you, cutting you both loose back into the sharp, gray winter afternoon.
Outside, the air was still bitingly cold, but the heavy, suffocating tension that had defined the last twelve months had finally lifted, leaving a strange, fragile quiet in its place. Zuko walked on the outside of the sidewalk, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark canvas jacket, his shoulder occasionally brushing against the soft wool of your cardigan. It was a rhythm your bodies hadn't forgotten—the instinctive way you slotted together when navigating a crowded street, matching each other's stride without a single word.
"Are you... do you have to get back to the dorms right away?" Zuko asked, his voice still carrying that low, gravelly scrape from the tears he’d shed in the corner booth. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking straight ahead, his jaw slightly tight as if he were bracing himself for you to tell him that the coffee was all he was going to get.
You looked down at your boots, watching your breath form a soft, white cloud in front of your face. "Suki doesn't expect me back until later. Sokka's bringing food, but... I have time." You paused, a small, tentative feeling fluttering in your chest. "We could walk. Go down by the lower campus."
Zuko’s head snapped toward you, his amber eyes wide with a quiet, disbelieving gratitude. "Yeah. Let's do that."
For the next three hours, the last year seemed to blur, dissolving into the familiar geography of a history you had both spent twelve months trying to pretend didn't exist. You didn't talk about the breakup. You didn't talk about the screaming matches, or his father, or your empty Instagram profile. Instead, you let the old spaces do the talking for you.
You walked down to the small, gravel-paved courtyard behind the humanities building—the exact spot where you used to hide between classes during your sophomore year. The stone benches were dusted with a thin layer of frost, but Zuko immediately pulled a spare flannel shirt out of his backpack, folding it neatly and placing it over the cold stone so you could sit down without getting your pleated skirt wet.
"You still carry extra layers everywhere," you noted, a soft, genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you sat, pulling your knees up toward your chest.
Zuko rubbed the back of his neck, a faint, dark flush creeping up his neck, contrasting sharply with the pale skin near his scar. "Old habits. Sokka always forgets a jacket, and... well, I used to always make sure I had something for you in case the weather turned."
The admission was quiet, completely stripped of the defensive armor he usually wore. You looked at him—really looked at him in the clear, honest light of the winter afternoon. The platinum waves of your hair caught the pale sunlight, and as you tilted your head. Zuko’s eyes traced over your features, his expression soft, almost reverent.
"It suits you," he said softly, gesturing vaguely toward your face. "The piercing. When I saw you at Jet's, I thought... I thought you looked incredible."
"I needed to change," you admitted, shrugging, your fingers tracing the knitted pattern of your cardigan. "I felt like if I kept looking at the girl in the mirror who had dark hair and wore your old hoodies, I was never going to stop crying. I needed to build someone who could survive without you."
Zuko’s chest heaved with a slow, painful breath. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to rebuild yourself from scratch."
"Don't," you whispered, reaching out to touch his sleeve, the canvas rough under your fingertips. "We're not doing that right now. Let's just... let's just be here."
From the courtyard, you walked to the tiny, subterranean convenience store off the main quad—the one that sold the specific brand of sour gummy candy Toph always stole from your purse. The elderly man behind the counter recognized the two of you immediately, his eyes crinkling as he rang up a single coffee and a bottle of tea.
"Ah, the long-distance travelers return," the old man chuckled, entirely unaware of the twelve months of wreckage that had transpired between his last sighting of you. "I haven't seen you two together in months. I thought you forgot about my shop."
"Just busy with finals, Mr. Chen," you said quickly, your heart doing a strange, aching flip in your chest.
Zuko didn't say anything, but as he handed over a crisp five-dollar bill, his hand was steady, his eyes catching yours in a silent, shared understanding. It was a bittersweet sting—realizing that the world had kept a space reserved for the two of you, completely unchanged, while you had been busy tearing each other apart.
By the time you reached the edge of the campus, the gray dusk had deepened into a dark, bruised violet, the streetlamps flickering to life one by one along the avenue. The wind was picking up, rattling the bare branches of the oak trees overhead.
"The shuttle should be here in five minutes," Zuko said, standing beside you at the exact same bus stop where you had confronted him a week ago. This time, however, there were no headphones shielding you, no green scarf pulled up to your chin to act as a barrier.
When the large, white campus bus rumbled up to the curb, its air brakes letting out a familiar, heavy hiss, Zuko didn't step back. He let you climb the stairs first, and then he followed you, his heavy boots clicking against the rubber matting of the aisle.
The bus was nearly empty, a ghost ship sailing through the final evening of the semester. You picked a row near the back, sliding into the vinyl seat beside the window. Zuko sat down next to you, his large frame instantly making the cramped space feel warm and secure. He didn't crowd you; he kept his hands folded in his lap, giving you the space you had fought so hard for over the last year.
As the bus pulled away from the curb, shifting gears with a low groan a heavy, incredibly comfortable silence settled over the two of you. The interior lights of the shuttle were dim, casting a soft, yellow glow over the rows of empty seats. Outside, the storefronts and university buildings smeared into long lines of neon and shadow against the dark glass.
The steady, rhythmic motion of the bus, combined with the emotional exhaustion of the afternoon, made your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Your head began to loll slightly with the swaying of the vehicle.
You didn't think about it. You didn't debate the pride of it, or the boundaries Suki had outlined on her bed. You just let your body weight shift, leaning sideways until your cheek pressed softly against the thick, dark canvas of Zuko’s shoulder.
Zuko stiffened instantly. For a terrifying half-second, you thought you had made a massive mistake, but then, you felt the air leave his lungs in a long, shaky sigh. The rigid tension in his frame completely melted away. He shifted his weight slightly, leaning into you, his head dropping down to rest against the top of your head, his shoulder forming a perfect, solid cradle for your head.
Your eyes drifted shut. The scent of him—old smoke, cedar, and the sharp, clean winter air—enveloped you completely, a familiar blanket that instantly quieted the restless ache that had lived in your chest for a year. In the quiet, dark space of the moving bus, you let yourself believe, just for twenty minutes, that the wreck had never happened.
The bus ride ended too quickly. When the driver announced your stop over the intercom, the sudden halt of the vehicle made you blink your eyes open, the bright street-lamps outside the window scattering the shadows.
You pulled your head back slowly, feeling a sudden, sharp coldness where his shoulder had been. Zuko looked down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, a quiet sadness lingering in the amber depths as he realized the sanctuary of the bus ride was over.
He walked you out into the night, down the short, concrete path that led to your off-campus apartment building. The building was quiet, most of the residents having already left for the winter break, some of the windows dark and empty.
He rode the elevator with you, walking you to your door and stopped in front, the yellow lights above casting long, stark shadows across the floor. You turned to face him, your keys heavy in your hand, the baby pink cardigan offering little protection against the biting winds.
"Well," you said softly, your voice carrying a strange, floating quality. "This is me."
Zuko stood a foot away, his hands still shoved in his pockets, looking at you as if he were trying to memorize every line of your face. "Yeah. This is you." He took a slow breath, his chest expanding under his jacket. "Thank you for today. Seriously. You didn't have to give me ten minutes, let alone the whole afternoon. It was... it was the best day I’ve had in a year."
"Me too, Zuko," you said honestly, the truth slipping out before you could filter it.
He hesitated, then pulled his hands out of his pockets. He stepped forward, his movements cautious, giving you ample time to pull away if you wanted to. When you didn't move, he reached out, wrapping his large arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a tight, heavy hug.
It was the same hug he used to give you when he came home from a long shift at his campus job—solid, grounding, and desperate enough to make you almost suffocate from the lack of air. You buried your face into his chest, your hands coming up to grip the fabric of his jacket, absorbing the heat of him.
"Have a good break," Zuko whispered into your hair, his voice thick. "Take care of yourself."
He began to pull back, his hands sliding down your arms, his fingers lingering on your wrists for a fraction of a second before he started to turn away, his boots pivoting to head back toward elevator.
The space between you instantly turned freezing cold.
You looked at his back, at the sharp lines of his shoulders beneath the dark jacket, moving away from you once again into the winter night. A sudden, violent panic surged through your veins—the exact same panic you had felt a year ago, watching him walk out on you, but this time, the door wasn't locked from the inside.
The ball is in your court, Suki’s voice echoed sharply. You get to decide.
Before your brain could formulate a single doubt, your hand shot out.
Your fingers wrapped firmly around Zuko’s left wrist, your grip tight enough to stop him in his tracks. Zuko froze, his head snapping back over his shoulder, his amber eyes wide with a sudden, breathless confusion as he looked down at your hand on his sleeve.
You didn't say a word. You turned around, slid your key into the lock of your door. Your hands were shaking so badly as you opened the heavy wooden door. The apartment inside was dark, smelling faintly of vanilla and linen, the blinds drawn against the city lights outside.
The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light from the hallway cutting a sharp line across the dark linoleum of your entryway.
You turned around to face him, standing in the threshold, the heat of the apartment rushing out to meet the cold air on your skin. Zuko stood right outside the line of the door, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts, his eyes searching yours with a raw, terrifying vulnerability.
"Zuko," you whispered.
You reached up, your fingers wrapping around the lapels of his dark canvas jacket, and pulled him forward into the dark room.
Before he could even draw a breath to ask, you leaned up on your tiptoes, tilted your head back, and brought your lips directly against his.
The impact of the kiss was a physical shock to both of your systems. It wasn't the slow, cautious reconciliation you had imagined during your walk; it was a desperate, starving collision of two people who had been living in a drought for three hundred and sixty-five days.
Zuko let out a low, ragged sound—a mix of a sob and a gasp—and his hands instantly flew out of his pockets. His large palms slammed against the sides of your face, his fingers burying themselves into the soft, tumbling waves of your hair, holding you against him as if he were terrified you would dissolve into smoke if he didn't anchor you to the earth.
The kiss tasted like the tears you had both shed at the coffee shop—salty, raw, and heavy with the profound sadness of a year wasted in silence. His mouth was hot, moving against yours with a frantic, trembling intensity that made your knees buckle beneath your pleated skirt. You gripped the rough canvas of his jacket, pulling him deeper into the dark entryway, your bodies slamming against the wall beside the coat rack with a soft, heavy thud.
The door to the hallway swung shut behind him, clicking into place, plunging the room into complete, velvety darkness, save for the blue neon glow of the city lights leaking through the gaps in the blinds.
Zuko’s lips trailed down from your mouth, his breath hot and frantic against your cheek, before burying his face into the crook of your neck, right beneath your ear. His chest heaved against yours, his entire body shaking so violently you had to wrap your arms around his waist just to keep him steady.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed into your skin, his hands gripping your waist through the baby pink sweater, his fingers digging into your hips. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think... I didn't think I'd ever get to hold you again. I've been so cold."
The sheer sadness of his voice broke something final inside you. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting your own tears fall into his dark hair, your fingers tracing the sharp, familiar lines of his shoulder blades through his jacket.
"I know," you whispered, your voice cracking as you pulled him deeper into the apartment, leading him toward the quiet dark of your bedroom. "I know, Zuko. Just stay."
And there, in the quiet, neon-streaked blue shadows of your room, the wall didn't just come down—it vanished entirely, leaving only the heat of two broken people finally learning how to piece themselves back together in the dark.
The first sensation that filtered through the heavy fog of Zuko’s consciousness was the heat.
For twelve months, he had slept in a bed that felt permanently frozen. No matter how many heavy blankets he dragged from Sokka’s couch, no matter how high he cranked the radiator in his cramped, off-campus apartment, he had spent three hundred and sixty-five nights shivering beneath the sheets, his own skin feeling cold and hollow. It was a phantom winter, a perpetual chill that had settled deep into his marrow the moment he let you walk out of his life.
But right now, his skin was burning. A deep, radiating warmth enveloped him, thick and heavy, pressing down on his chest like a weighted blanket.
Zuko blinked his eyes open, his long eyelashes brushing against a pillowcase that didn't smell like his cheap, unscented laundry detergent. Instead, the air was thick with the gentle, unmistakable scent of vanilla, linen, and the faint, crisp tang of the winter air that had clung to his clothes the night before.
He didn't recognize the ceiling.
He lay perfectly still, his heart instantly doing a sharp, panicked flip against his ribs. The ceiling above him wasn't the water-stained, cracked plaster of his own bedroom. It was smooth, painted a soft, muted cream color that caught the pale, silver light of a winter morning leaking through a set of closed blinds.
Slowly, deliberately, Zuko turned his head on the pillow, his amber eyes scanning the unfamiliar room. There was a small white desk in the corner, a stack of textbooks neatly arranged beside a laptop, a plush rug on the floor, and a duffel bag sitting open near the closet.
And then, his gaze landed on you.
The breath left his lungs in a sharp, silent gasp, his entire body locking up as the reality of the previous night rushed back into his brain like a tidal wave.
You were asleep beside him, lying on your side, your back turned completely toward him. The heavy duvet had slipped down to your waist, exposing the smooth, bare expanse of your back to the warm morning air. In the dim, silver light, your skin looked almost translucent, a flawless canvas framed by the tumbling, messy waves of your platinum blonde hair.
Zuko stared, his eyes wide and unblinking, a terrifying wave of vertigo washing over him.
He was convinced, with a sudden, agonizing certainty, that he was still asleep. This was a nightmare disguised as a sanctuary. He had lived through a dozen variations of this exact dream over the past year—dreams where he would wake up, reach out, and find you breathing beside him, only for his fingers to pass through empty air as the morning light dissolved the illusion, leaving him utterly alone into the silence of the shared apartment.
He felt a desperate, almost violent urge to pinch himself, to dig his nails into his own palm until he bled, just to force his brain to wake up before the crushing weight of the reality could destroy him again.
But then, he felt the weight on his arm.
His left arm was completely outstretched across the mattress, acting as a cradle. Your head was resting perfectly in the crook of his elbow, your platinum hair spilling across his bicep like spun silver. And beneath the heavy covers, your small hand was wrapped tightly around his, your fingers threaded securely through his large, scarred ones, holding on even in the deep vulnerability of sleep.
He could feel the slow, rhythmic pulse of your blood against his palm. He could hear the faint, soft whistle of your breath escaping your lips, your chest expanding and contracting against the mattress.
It wasn't a dream. You were actually there.
A heavy, incredibly aching sorrow mingled with a profound, terrifying joy in his chest. Zuko swallowed the massive lump in his throat, his eyes welling with a sudden, hot burst of tears that blurred the image of your bare back into a soft, glowing smear of silver. He didn't deserve this. He knew, with every shred of his being, that he didn't deserve to be lying in your bed, holding your hand, absorbing the heat of the body he had willfully cast out into the cold a year ago.
Yet, you hadn't pushed him away. Last night, in the dark entryway of your apartment, you had pulled him into a kiss that had entirely obliterated the twelve months of wreckage behind them. You had led him into this room, your hands frantic as you stripped the heavy canvas jacket from his shoulders, your lips never leaving his as you both collapsed onto the mattress, desperate to burn away the isolation in a fire of tangled sheets and whispered, tearful apologies.
Slowly, carefully, as if trying not to disturb a fragile glass statue, Zuko shifted his weight.
He slid his body closer across the mattress, the sheets rustling softly in the quiet room. He closed the tiny, gap between them, pressing his chest directly against the bare skin of your back. The contact was an instant, electric shock of warmth. He curled his larger frame around yours, tucking his knees behind your legs, slotting his body into yours like a missing puzzle piece his muscles had remembered perfectly.
He buried his face into the soft curve of your neck, right beneath your ear, where the scent of vanilla was the strongest. He let his nose brush against the short, soft hairs at the base of your skull, his eyes closing as the absolute reality of your presence anchored him to the earth.
As the heat of his breath hit your skin, you stirred.
You let out a low, soft, incredibly contented hum—a small, sleepy sound that vibrated through your throat and straight into his chest. You didn't pull away. Your fingers tightened their grip around his hand beneath the duvet, pulling his arm just a fraction of an inch closer against your stomach, anchoring him to your side.
Zuko squeezed his eyes shut, a single, hot tear slipping past his lashes and vanishing into the waves of your hair. He held your hand tighter, pressing his forehead against the space between your shoulder blades, finally letting himself believe that the winter was over, and he was finally allowed to come inside as he fell back asleep.
An hour later, you blinked your eyes open, the silver-gray winter light filtering through the blinds and painting the bedroom in quiet, muted tones. For a long, disorienting second, your brain tried to latch onto the usual morning routine—waking up alone, checking your phone to see a blank screen, adjusting to the hollow ache that had lived beneath your ribs for three hundred and sixty-five days.
But the air was warm. The scent of vanilla and linen was entirely compromised by something heavier, darker, and devastatingly familiar.
You felt the solid, radiating heat before you even shifted. Zuko’s chest was pressed flush against your bare back, his large frame curled around yours so perfectly it felt as if your muscles hadn't spent a single day apart. His breath was a steady, warm puff against the nape of your neck, a rhythmic reminder of the reality you had voluntarily pulled into your bed the night before. Beneath the covers, your fingers were completely locked in his, your hand wrapped around his knuckles with a desperate, sleeping grip.
Slowly, carefully, you untangled your hand from his, the sudden absence of his skin leaving your palm feeling instantly frozen. You shifted your weight, rolling over on the mattress to face him, the duvet rustling softly in the quiet room.
Zuko didn't wake up, but as you moved, his brow furrowed slightly, a faint, anxious line appearing between his eyes as if his subconscious were already panicking that you were slipping away. His left arm remained outstretched where your head had just been, his bicep bare and marked by the faint shadows of the room. Without the heavy canvas jacket, without the defensive, rigid posture he used to navigate the campus, he looked incredibly vulnerable. The puckered, uneven skin of the old scar on the left side of his face was pressed into the pillow, his dark hair falling in messy, jagged strands across his forehead.
You lay there, resting your cheek on your hand, your eyes tracing every familiar line of his face.
You didn't regret it.
The thought formed in your mind with absolute, unshakeable certainty. You knew what Suki would say when she found out; you knew the entire communication major cohort would think you were insane for letting the guy who broke you back into your bed after a single afternoon. But looking at him now, in the honest, unfiltered light of the morning, you knew last night hadn't been a mistake. It hadn't been a weak lapse in judgment or a cheap attempt to seek comfort. It had been an exorcism. You had needed to burn down the wall you spent a year building, and you had needed him to be the one to help you do it. Sleeping with him wasn't a regression; it was the first time in twelve months you had felt entirely alive, entirely embodied, rather than just surviving behind a mask of platinum hair and silver piercings.
But as the initial warmth of the morning began to settle, a cold, heavy knot of anxiety started to tighten in your stomach.
You looked at the sharp line of Zuko’s jaw, your eyes dropping to the way his lips were slightly parted. A familiar, terrifying question began to circle in your head, peckish and cruel: Does he regret it?
Your heart did a slow, painful twist. Zuko was a creature of intense, agonizing guilt. You knew him better than anyone else in the world, and you knew how his brain functioned in the aftermath of a crisis. He had spent the previous afternoon crying into the wood of a coffee shop booth, pouring his heart out about his father, his cowardice, and the protective, twisted lies he had told to keep you safe from his family's wreckage. He had been raw, bleeding, and entirely defenseless.
What if he woke up today and realized he had crossed a line he shouldn't have? What if the gravity of sleeping with his ex-girlfriend—the girl he had spent a year trying to save by destroying her—felt like a mistake? Zuko’s savior complex was a living, breathing thing, and you knew how quickly his comfort could curdle into self-loathing if he believed he had hurt you again by dragging you back into his orbit.
You bit your inner lip, a sudden, sharp panic making your chest tighten. You couldn't handle him waking up and looking at you with apology in his eyes. You couldn't handle him pulling the blankets up, scrambling out of your bed, and retreating back into that defensive, silent shell because he thought he had compromised your healing. If he looked at you with regret today, it would break you in a way the initial breakup hadn't even managed.
As if sensing the sudden spike of adrenaline in your system, Zuko’s eyelids fluttered.
Zuko froze. The sleep instantly vanished from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, breathless intensity that made your heart stop. He didn't move a single muscle, his gaze locked onto your face.
"Hi," you whispered, your voice small, cracking slightly in the morning quiet.
Zuko swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He reached out, his large, calloused hand trembling slightly as he lifted it from the mattress, his fingers hovering just a millimeter away from your cheek before he hesitated, his knuckles tensing.
"Hi," he rasped, his voice incredibly deep, rough from disuse. He looked at his own hand, then looked back into your eyes, his expression twisting into a look of such intense, concentrated worry it made your stomach drop. "Are you... are you okay?"
The question was loaded with a year’s worth of fear. He was checking the damage. He was looking at you as if he expected you to start crying, to tell him to leave, to realize that the previous night had been a catastrophic mistake.
"I'm okay, Zuko," you said softly, shifting slightly closer to him, trying to close the emotional distance that was already threatening to open between you. "I'm really okay."
Zuko didn't look convinced. He let his hand drop back down to the mattress, his eyes falling to the space between you, his jaw clenching. "You don't... you don't have to say that just to make me feel better. I know last night... I know we didn't plan on this. I know you’ve been trying to move on, and I don't want to be the reason you feel like you took a step backward."
There it was. The guilt. The immediate, suffocating assumption that he was a disease and you were the patient he was infecting.
"Zuko, look at me," you said, your voice firmer now, reaching out to place your hand flat against his bare chest. The heat of his skin was instantaneous, his heart thumping a frantic, rapid rhythm beneath your palm. "Do you regret it?"
The question hung in the quiet room, sharp and heavy as an axe.
Zuko’s head snapped up, his amber eyes wide, flashing with a sudden, fierce desperation that took your breath away. "What? No. No, absolutely not. I could never regret last night." He reached out blindly, his fingers wrapping around your wrist where your hand rested on his chest, his grip tight, almost bruising in its intensity. "I've spent a year wishing I could wake up like this. I've spent three hundred and sixty-five days dreaming about holding your hand in the dark. I could never regret a single second of being near you."
He stopped, his eyes searching yours with a raw, pleading vulnerability that made your own eyes well with tears.
"But I’m terrified that you do," Zuko whispered, his voice cracking completely, a sudden, heavy sorrow breaking through his defensive shell. "I'm terrified that you're going to look at me today and realize that I'm still the same broken guy who ruined everything. I don't want to hurt you again. I’d rather walk out of this room right now and never touch you again than be the person who breaks you twice."
A hot tear slipped past your lashes, tracking rapidly down your cheek and pooling on the pillowcase. You let out a small, wet laugh, a mix of pure relief and the deep, aching tragedy of how much you both still carried. You shifted your body forward, sliding your arm over his waist, burying your face into the warm, solid crook of his neck.
"I don't regret it, you idiot," you choked out against his skin, your fingers gripping the muscle of his back, pulling him down against you until there was absolutely no space left between your bodies. "I don't regret a single thing. I just... I was so scared you were going to wake up and tell me it was a mistake."
Zuko let out a long, shuddering sigh, a sound that seemed to come from his soul. His arms came around you instantly, wrapping around your naked back, his hands large and warm against your skin as he pulled you into a tight, desperate embrace. He buried his face into hair, his chest heaving as he let out a trembling breath.
"It wasn't a mistake," Zuko murmured, his grip tightening until your ribs ached, his voice sounding surer, stronger than it had in a year. "It's the only thing that’s made sense in a whole year. I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
Zuko’s hands remained splayed across your back, his fingers tracing the dip of your spine with a slow, almost disbelieving tenderness. The frantic, desperate edge of his morning panic had settled into something thick and heavy, a profound quiet that seemed to pool in the space between your chests. He didn't move his head from your hair for a long time, just inhaling the scent of vanilla and the clean, warm musk of you, his chest rising and falling against yours in long, steady increments.
For a moment of silence, he finally spoke. "In my apartment... the light is always gray. Even in the summer, it feels like the sun doesn't quite reach the floorboards. I used to wake up at three in the morning and just try to remember what color your skin looked like when the sun came through the window."
You tightened your arms around his neck, pulling him a fraction of an inch closer, your fingers tangling in the messy, dark length of his hair. "It’s just cheap blinds, Zuko."
"It’s not the blinds," he whispered, finally tilting his head back to look at you.
The proximity was intense, almost suffocating. His amber eyes were clear now, the glassy film of sleep entirely gone, replaced by a dark, concentrated focus that made your skin prickle with sudden, localized heat. The scar on the left side of his face was flush against the white pillowcase, the red, puckered tissue soft under the morning light. Up close, you could see the tiny silver flecks in his irises—the ones you used to count when the two of you were trapped in his bed during summer thunderstorms.
He looked down at your mouth, his jaw clenching slightly, a muscle tensing in his cheek. His hands slid down your back, his large, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your waist, his thumbs pressing into the small indentations above your hips. He didn't pull away, but his movements slowed, becoming heavy with a sudden, deliberate hesitation.
"Can we..." Zuko started, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat, his eyes rising to meet yours with a raw, almost painful vulnerability. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening against your skin. "Last night... it was so fast. I felt like I was losing my mind, like if I didn't touch you right then, the floor was going to open up. I want... I want to remember it this time. Without the panic. If you're okay with it."
The question was entirely him—clumpy, honest, and stripped of any game-playing. He was asking for permission to stay inside the boundary you had opened for him, his eyes pleading for a reassurance that he wasn't overstepping the fragile peace you had negotiated.
In response, you didn't say a word. You gave him a small, slow smile, the anxiety that had lingered in your stomach completely dissolving under the fierce, unwavering heat of his gaze.
You shifted your weight, the heavy down comforter rustling loudly as you pulled your legs out from beneath the sheets. In one fluid, deliberate movement, you slid your knees along the mattress, lifting yourself up and straddling his waist.
Zuko let out a sharp breath through his teeth, his abdominal muscles contracting instantly beneath your thighs as you settled over him. You were already bare from the night before, save for your black lacey thong, your skin completely exposed to the warm morning air, while Zuko was back in his dark boxer briefs, the thin cotton doing very little to hide the rigid, heavy length of his arousal.
You sat back on his lap, your knees pinning his hips to the mattress. From this height, you looked down at him, your platinum hair falling forward in soft, silver-blonde waves that shadowed your eyes.
Zuko’s hands found purchase immediately. His palms didn't slide or hesitate; they locked onto the plush, soft skin of your hips, his fingers digging in slightly, his thumbs tracing the line where your thigh met your torso. His skin was incredibly hot against yours, the heat of his palms transferring through the thin lace of your underwear like a brand. He stared up at you, his chest heaving under your hands as you rested your palms flat against his sternum, feeling the rapid, concussive thud of his heart.
"You look so beautiful," Zuko choked out, his eyes darkening until the gold in his irises seemed to catch fire. His thumbs pressured the fullness of your waist, his knuckles turning white against your skin. "You look like a dream I'm not supposed to have."
"I'm not a dream, Zuko," you whispered, leaning down slowly, letting your hair fall across his cheeks like a silk curtain. "You can touch me."
He didn't need the invitation twice. His hands slid up from your hips, his fingers tracing the outer curve of your ribs, his palms rough and warm as they slid beneath your back, lifting you slightly. He didn't even bother pulling his boxers down; instead, his trembling fingers reached for the button fly, parting the dark cotton. With a low, ragged breath, he took out his cock at the hole of his boxers, the thick, fully erect length springing free, slick with a bead of pre.
The sight of him, thick and heavy between your thighs, made a sharp, electric ache flare in your lower belly. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his, the contact of your bare skin against his warm, pectoral muscles sending a violent jolt of adrenaline down your spine. You pressed your lips against his, capturing his mouth before he could say another word, before his brain could cycle back into the guilt that always threatened to tear him apart.
The kiss was entirely different from the desperate collision in the hallway last night. This was slow, heavy, and drenched in a deep, agonizing luxury. His mouth opened beneath yours, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythmic friction that made it dizzy for the both of you. Zuko let out a low, vibrating groan into your throat, his arms wrapping completely around your torso, his large hands flat against your shoulder blades, pulling you down until the entire weight of your body was supported by his chest.
His hand moved down to the space between your thighs, his fingers calloused and warm as they slid along the sensitive inner skin of your legs, making your thighs tremble against his ribs. When his hand found the damp, covered aching heat between your thighs, your eyes squeezed shut, a low, gasping breath escaping your teeth as his thumb found the small, sensitive bud of your clitoris, slicking your own moisture over your thong in long, heavy strokes.
"Look at me," Zuko rasped, his voice breaking on the syllables. His free hand reached up to grip your chin, his fingers firm but gentle, forcing your head up until your eyes met his through the blur of your tears. "Please. Look at me."
Your vision was swimming as you stared down into the golden intensity of his gaze. He was breathing through his mouth, his cheeks flushed, the scar over his eye looking dark and stark against his pale skin. He was watching your face with an intensity that felt almost holy, his thumb continuing to stroke you until you were dripping, completely slick and ready for him.
He slid his hand away with a wet, heavy friction that left you shivering, gasping for the space to be filled. Zuko gripped your hips again, his large hands guiding your body upward. You lifted yourself, pulling your panties aside, feeling the tip of his hot length brushing against your wet opening. The heat radiating from him was incredible.
Slowly, you lowered your weight.
The sensation of him entering you was a slow-motion rupture, a thick, stretching fullness that made your breath catch in a choked gasp. Your head fell back, your throat exposed to the silver light as you took him in, inch by inch, your body tight and resisting for a fraction of a second before your muscles remembered the exact dimensions of him, melting around his thickness until your pelvis clapped against his with a soft, heavy thud.
Zuko let out a long, ragged groan into the quiet room, his head throwing back into the pillow, his back arching off the mattress as he buried himself completely inside you through the parted cotton of his shorts. His hands on your hips tightened until his nails left small, white crescent marks in your skin, his eyes squeezing shut as his jaw locked in pure, physical agony.
"Oh my god," he whispered, his chest heaving beneath your palms, his voice a broken, trembling thread. "You're so tight... you're so warm. I forgot... I forgot how perfect it is."
The ache in your lower belly had transformed into a driving, relentless friction that demanded movement. You lifted your hips, sliding up his length until you almost cleared the tip, before pressing down again, the wet, sliding heat of the motion making Zuko let out another low, guttural groan.
You established the rhythm, your hips rolling in long, slow circles that utilized the plush fullness of your thighs against his hips. Every time you dropped your weight, the friction of your bodies created a soft, wet sound that filled the quiet spaces between the sleet against the window. Zuko’s gaze was fixed on the way your breasts moved with the motion, watching how the platinum of your hair whipped against your shoulders as you moved over him.
He couldn't stay passive. His hands moved from your hips to your waist, his arms locking as he began to meet your descents, his hips thrusting upward with a sudden, powerful intensity that drove him deeper against your cervix, hitting the sensitive back wall of your vagina with a force that made your vision go white at the edges.
"Faster," you gasped, your hands flying from his chest to grip the wooden headboard behind him for balance, your fingers slick with sweat. "Zuko, please—"
His thrusts became shorter, harder, a relentless, concussive rhythm.
The friction built rapidly, a tight, coil-spring tension gathering at the base of your spine. Every stroke of his length felt like a match striking against dry wood, the heat spreading through your thighs, your stomach, your throat, until your entire body was shaking with the approach of the cliff.
Zuko was close, too. His breathing had devolved into short, ragged hitches, his teeth bared, his neck muscles tensed as he drove himself into you over and over again, his movements frantic, desperate, as if he were trying to dissolve the last twelve months through the sheer, physical force of his collision with you.
"Look at me," he gasped out again, his eyes wide, wild, and swimming. "Look at me... while I finish. Don't look away."
You forced your eyes open, your breath coming in small, pathetic squeaks as the tension inside you snapped.
Your orgasm hit you like a physical blow, your walls contracting around his length in a series of violent, involuntary spasms that left you entirely breathless. Your head fell forward, a cry tearing out of your throat as the pleasure rippled through your hips, your body shivering against his chest.
The tight, crushing grip of your climax was the final straw for him. Zuko let out a low moan, his hips lifting off the mattress in one final, deepest thrust. He froze there, buried to the absolute root, his body shaking violently as he came inside you, the thick, hot pulses of his release filling you up, a heavy, radiating warmth that seemed to anchor your souls back to the center of the bed.
He stayed inside you for a long time, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, the tension left his muscles, and his arms came around your waist, pulling your limp, sweaty body down against his chest as he rolled the two of you over onto your sides, never breaking the connection between your hips.
The duvet was dragged over your shoulders by his large, trembling hand, shutting out the cool morning air once again. You buried your face into his neck, your skin wet with sweat and tears, your legs tangled with his beneath the heavy covers.
The metal-on-metal scraping of a wire whisk against a ceramic mixing bowl was the loudest sound in your apartment, entirely drowning out the soft, muted patter of the snow outside.
You stood at the kitchen counter, wrapped in a plush, oversized cream-colored shirt that swallowed your frame. Your hair was pulled up into a messy, structural topknot held together by a silver hairstick, a few loose, tendrils falling around your face and sticking to the faint sheen of sweat on your neck.
You added a splash of buttermilk to the batter, a small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you worked. For the first time in a while, the heavy, suffocating static in your head had vanished. The apartment didn't feel like a digital graveyard anymore. It felt grounded. It felt real.
From the hallway, the heavy, distinct sound of a floorboard creaking perked up in your ears.
Zuko emerged from the bedroom, his tall frame cutting a striking silhouette against the narrow corridor. He was shirtless, his chest and broad shoulders bare, exposing the hard, clean lines of his muscle. He was wearing only his dark canvas pants from the day before—wrinkled, slightly rumpled from being cast onto the floor, and riding low on his hips. His long, dark hair was an absolute disaster, completely uncombed and sticking up in jagged, chaotic directions from the pillows, falling over his eyes and shadowing the puckered, red tissue of the scar on the left side of his face.
He looked incredibly soft, entirely stripped of the rigid, defensive armor he usually wore to face the world.
"Smells good," Zuko rasped. He walked into the kitchen with slow, heavy steps, his bare feet silent against the linoleum.
"Buttermilk," you said softly, setting the whisk down.
Before you could even draw your next breath, Zuko closed the remaining distance between you. He slid his large, warm arms around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against his bare chest. Through your shirt, you could feel his skin emit a sleepy warmth that enveloped your back. He buried his face into the side of your neck, his nose brushing against your skin as he let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute contentment.
"Stay right there," you murmured, leaning your head back against his shoulder, your fingers coming up to rest over his large, calloused hands where they were locked across your stomach. "The griddle is hot. If you crowd me, I’m going to burn the first batch."
"I don't care about the pancakes," Zuko mumbled into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction of an inch, his thumbs tracing the plush curve of your hip through the thick fabric of the robe. "I just want to stay like this. I feel like if I let go, the room is going to change again."
"I'm not going anywhere, Zuko," you whispered, turning your head just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to his jawline, tasting the faint, familiar salt of his skin.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sudden, aggressive pounding on the front door shattered the quiet of the apartment like a brick through a glass window.
Zuko stiffened instantly, his chest locking up against your back, his eyes flying open. His hands dropped from your waist, his jaw clenching as his head snapped toward the short entryway.
"Who is that?" Zuko muttered, his voice instantly dropping into a low, territorial hiss. "It’s barely nine in the morning."
You blinked, your brain scrambling to catch up with the sudden intrusion before a memory from the previous night hit you like a bucket of ice water. Sokka’s coming over with Thai food... No, that was last night. Suki and Sokka are coming over to help you pack the rest of your duffel bags before the building shuts down.
Your eyes widened in pure, unadulterated panic. "Oh my god. It’s Suki. And Sokka."
Zuko blinked, his expression completely blank for a fraction of a second. "Sokka? Why would Sokka be—"
"They're helping me move the last of my things to Suki’s place for the holidays," you scrambled, your hands flying out to push against his bare chest, trying to steer his massive frame back toward the bedroom. "Zuko, you need to hide. Go to the bedroom. Put a shirt on. Go out the window—"
"I am not jumping out of a second-story window in my pants," Zuko countered, his stubborn, rigid pride flaring up instantly as he resisted your pushing, his boots—no, his bare feet—planted firmly on the floor. "Why do I have to hide? We’re adults. We talked."
"Because Sokka has the emotional processing power of a teaspoon and Suki thinks I spent the last twelve months building an impenetrable wall against you!" you hissed, your face turning bright red. "If they see you like this, they’re going to think—"
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Hey! Open up!" Sokka’s booming, cheerful voice cut straight through the wooden door, entirely too loud for the quiet morning. "We brought the big rolling cart from the dorm lobby! And Suki has bagels! The good ones from downtown, not the cardboard ones from the dining hall!"
"Just open the door, Zuko," you groaned, throwing your hands up in complete defeat as you realized the battle was already lost. "But for the love of god, pull your pants up."
Zuko rolled his eyes, a faint, dark flush creeping up his neck as he walked out of the kitchen and into the tiny entryway. He didn't look back at you. He reached out, unlocked the deadbolt with a sharp, metallic click, and pulled the heavy wooden door open.
The silence that followed was absolute, heavy, and loud enough to be cut by a knife.
Sokka was standing mid-knock, his hand holding the handle of a blue plastic rolling cart filled with empty cardboard boxes. He was wearing a ridiculous, bright yellow University beanie pulled low over his ears and a heavy winter coat. Beside him, Suki was holding a brown paper bag that smelled intensely of toasted garlic and cream cheese, her green eyes going wide.
The second the door swung back, revealing Zuko—shirtless, hair completely wild, wearing only his rumpled pants from the day before, and looking thoroughly, unmistakably like a man who had just crawled out of your sheets—Sokka’s mouth remained perfectly open, the words dying a violent death in his throat.
Suki's eyes darted from Zuko’s bare chest, down to the low-riding waistband of his canvas pants, up to his messy hair, and then shot straight past his shoulder into the kitchen where you were standing, frozen like a deer in high beams, holding a wire whisk.
Safe to say, they were thoroughly, entirely, and completely SHOCKED.
"I—" Sokka started, his voice squeaking a full octave higher than normal. He dropped the handle of the rolling cart, the metal bar clattering against the linoleum hallway with a deafening bang. He pointed a trembling, gloved finger at Zuko’s chest. "You. What? Zuko? Why are your... why are your nipples out?"
Zuko crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw clenching as he tried to maintain an aura of dignity while being completely bare from the waist up in front of his roommate and his roommate's girlfriend. "Good morning, Sokka. Suki."
Suki didn't say a word for a full five seconds. She just stared at him, then slowly turned her head to look at you in the kitchen.
"You," Suki said accusingly, her voice dangerously quiet, carrying the exact same tone she used when she caught Sokka trying to eat raw cookie dough from her fridge. "What happened to, talking it out?"
You let out a small, pathetic squeak from the kitchen counter. "Suki, it's not what it looks like."
"It looks like he slept here," Sokka accused, his eyes practically popping out of his skull as he stepped into the apartment, completely bypassing Zuko and slamming the front door shut behind them. He grabbed his own head with both hands, his yellow beanie shifting crookedly. "Zuko! You told me you were going for a walk on Tuesday night! That was three days ago! I thought you were dead in a ditch or doing something else weird! I didn't think you were... you were here!"
"Sokka, shut up," Zuko grunted, his face turning an incredibly dark, bruised shade of crimson as he rubbed the back of his neck, his defensive pride finally crumbling under the sheer absurdity of the interrogation. "We talked. We met at the cafe, and we talked."
"And the talking involved losing your shirt?" Sokka yelled, his arms flailing wildly. "Because when I talk to people, Zuko, my shirt stays firmly on my body! Suki, tell him! Tell him about the rules of communication!"
Suki didn't look at Sokka. She walked past Zuko, her boots clicking sharply against the floor, and stopped at the threshold of the kitchen. She looked at the preheating griddle, looked at the bowl of buttermilk batter, and then looked at the faint, unmistakable red mark on the side of your neck that your shirt hadn't completely covered.
A slow, knowing, and incredibly smug smirk began to spread across Suki’s face, her green eyes twinkling with the absolute satisfaction of a best friend who had been proven entirely right, even if the execution was chaotic.
"Well," Suki said, leaning her shoulder against the refrigerator, crossing her arms. "I did tell you to give him a chance to explain himself. I just didn't realize Zuko’s explanation was so... persuasive."
"Suki, please," you groaned, burying your face in your hands, the warmth in your cheeks hot enough to cook the pancakes without the griddle.
Zuko looked between Sokka’s frantic flailing and Suki’s smug expression, letting out a long, defeated sigh. He looked over at you, his amber eyes catching yours through the chaos, a tiny, subtle glint of a smile finally breaking through his stoic expression.
The wall was definitely down. And apparently, the entire apartment building was about to hear about it.
A little bit after pancakes, the heavy plastic rolling cart sat in the center of the living room like an awkward monument to the sudden shift in the apartment’s atmosphere. Sokka was currently wrestling with a roll of packing tape, the loud, aggressive shhhk-shhhk-shhhk of the adhesive tearing echoing off the walls as he tried to construct a cardboard box with maximum structural integrity.
"I’m just saying," Sokka muttered, his voice slightly muffled because he was holding a pair of scissors between his teeth, "there is a proper way to do this. If you don't tape the bottom joints with a cross-weave pattern, the whole thing loses its integrity. And when your shoes fall through the bottom in the parking lot, don't come crying to the guy who literally has an engineering minor."
You let out a soft laugh, shifting on your knees beside a stack of sweaters. "Sokka, they’re just shoes, not bricks. If the box breaks, they’ll just fall softly onto the concrete."
"It's the principle of the thing!" Sokka spat the scissors out into his hand, pointing them at you dramatically. "We are packing for winter break. This is a strategic operation."
You smiled, but your eyes kept flickering toward the closed door of your small bathroom. Zuko had finally been banished there to put on a shirt—specifically a clean grey University hoodie he’d unearthed from the bottom of your laundry hamper—and to do something about the wild, static-induced bird's nest that was his morning hair. Suki had vanished toward the back of the apartment, ostensibly to "check for loose scarves" in your bedroom, but her sharp green eyes had given you a look before she left that said everything.
When the bathroom door finally clicked open, Zuko stepped out. He looked significantly more put together, though the dark circles under his amber eyes were still prominent. He caught your eye across the living room, a brief, silent question passing between you, before Suki stepped out of the hallway, intercepting him neatly near the entrance to the living room.
"Zuko," Suki said, her voice dropping into a calm, authoritative register that instantly made Sokka freeze mid-tape-rip. "Walk with me to the lobby. We need to grab the extra luggage dolly from the front desk."
Zuko blinked, his shoulders tensing under the grey hoodie. He looked at you, then at Suki’s unblinking green gaze. He knew exactly what this was. It wasn't about a luggage dolly.
"Yeah," Zuko said, his voice gravelly. "Okay."
The heavy wooden door of the apartment clicked shut behind them, leaving the living room in a sudden, thick quiet, save for the hum of the old refrigerator.
The metal walls of the elevator was freezing, the damp chill of the winter morning rising up from the lower levels.
They reached lobby, exiting the elevator and walking towards the extra dolly but Suki stopped, turning around to face Zuko. She crossed her arms, her expression completely unreadable beneath her auburn bangs.
Zuko stopped two steps away from her, his hands buried in his pockets, his chin tucked slightly into the collar of his hoodie. He looked like he was preparing for a physical blow.
"I don't know the full context of what you two discussed at the coffee shop," Suki began, her voice quiet but carrying an unshakeable weight that reverberated softly against the lobby walls. "I don't know the details of why you did what you did a year ago, and honestly, Zuko, I don't care. That's between you and her. But I was the one who spent the last twelve months watching her try to put herself back together. I was the one who sat on my kitchen floor with her when she couldn't breathe because she saw an old photo of you on her phone she thought she deleted."
Zuko flinched, his head dropping. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles along his scar twitched. "I know."
"No, you don't," Suki countered cleanly, her green eyes narrowing. "She gave you a chance to explain yourself because she has a good heart—too good, if you ask me. But I swear to you, Zuko, if you hurt her again—if you pull that defensive, self-sacrificing martyr act because things get heavy with your family and you decide she’s a burden—I won't just be disappointed. I will do everything in my power to keep her so far away from you that you won't even remember the sound of her voice. Do you understand me?"
The threat wasn't delivered with anger; it was delivered with the absolute, chilling certainty of a best friend who had high-school-level roots of loyalty.
Zuko looked up, his amber eyes locking onto hers. The defensive, stubborn pride that usually flared up when he was challenged was entirely absent. Instead, his face was dead serious, his posture straightening.
"I swear on my honor," Zuko said, his voice thick. "I don't intend on ever hurting her again. I was a coward a year ago. I thought I was protecting her from my father, but I was just protecting myself from failing. I've spent a year realizing that the dark doesn't go away just because you push the light out of the room. I’m not letting her go again."
Suki searched his face for a long, agonizing five seconds, looking for any trace of the old, volatile boy who used to slam doors and disappear for days. All she found was a tired, fiercely determined man who looked like he had finally grown into his own skin.
Slowly, the tension left Suki’s shoulders. The terrifying, protective older-sister aura faded, replaced by a soft, weary sigh.
"Good," Suki said, a small, faint smirk returning to her lips. "Because Sokka really likes having her around, and if you screw this up, he’ll try to fight you, and we both know you’d destroy him, which would just make my weekends very annoying."
Zuko let out a short, surprised breath—a ghost of a laugh—and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay."
Back up in the apartment, the atmosphere had shifted into something lighter. Sokka had finally managed to tape three boxes, and he was currently sitting on one of them, using an empty cardboard tube like a telescope to watch you fold a blanket.
"So," Sokka said, his voice echoing slightly inside the tube. "Are we, like... official again? Is the Zuko-and-[Y/N] dynamic restored? Am I allowed to invite you back to group chats again?"
You rolled your eyes, tossing a balled-up pair of socks at his face. He caught it with his telescope tube, grinning. "Sokka, we’re just... talking. We’re figuring it out."
"Right, right. 'Talking.' With the shirts off and making pancakes session," Sokka nodded sagely. Then, his expression softened, the goofy, flippant mask slipping away to reveal the genuine, fiercely loyal friend underneath. He set the cardboard tube down on the box beside him. "Honestly? I missed you. Like, really missed you."
You stopped mid-fold, looking up at him.
"The last year was weird," Sokka admitted, looking down at his sock covered feet. "When you left, it felt like this huge chunk of our high school life just got deleted. Zuko was a miserable zombie, which, you know, is his default setting, but it was worse. And the rest of us... we felt like we had to choose sides, even though nobody wanted to. Katara was mad at him, Aang was stressed, Toph kept complaining that the vibe was ruined because nobody was there was no one to steal the good snacks in between classes."
He looked back up, his blue eyes bright with an honest, puppy-dog earnestness.
"If you guys are actually doing this—if you're letting him back in—it means you have to come back to the group," Sokka said, a massive, genuine grin spreading across his face. "You have to come hang out with me, Aang, Katara, and Toph. We’re doing a big reunion thing at Suki’s place next week before everyone flies out for the holidays. You’re coming. No excuses."
A heavy, incredibly warm wave of relief washed over your chest, the final lingering shards of your isolation turning to dust. "Yeah, Sokka. I’d love to come."
The front door clicked open, and Suki walked back in, followed by Zuko, who was carrying a completely unnecessary second luggage dolly with an expression of intense focus. Suki caught your eye and gave you a single, subtle nod.
A week later, the silver-gray sleet had turned into a thick, heavy blanket of snow that quieted the entire city.
You had spent the last seven days settled into Suki’s apartment, which was significantly larger than your own place and smelled permanently of cinnamon tea and the lavender wax melts she kept in the living room. It had been a week of quiet transition—texting Zuko at night without the notes app, cheesy texts, clumsy photos of his morning tea.
Tonight was the night. The reunion.
You stood in front of Suki’s bathroom mirror, adjusting the collar of a soft, dark green sweater you’d chosen—a subtle nod to the color that used to define you without letting it control you. Your platinum hair was pinned back with two simple silver clips, and the hoop in your eyebrow glinted under the warm vanity lights.
"They're downstairs," Suki called out from outside the closed door, her voice accompanied by the muffled sound of Sokka shouting something about calling dibs on the bean bag chair.
Your heart did a quick, nervous flutter against your ribs. You hadn't seen the entire Gaang in one room since the night of the wreck a year ago. You had seen Suki, obviously, and Sokka occasionally through her, but Katara, Aang, and Toph had been distant figures, names you avoided on socials and at school.
"Ready?" Suki asked, when you left the bathroom. She was wearing a comfortable flannel shirt, her auburn hair tied back in a low ponytail. She reached out, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "They’re practically vibrating through the floorboards."
"Ready," you said, taking a deep breath and following her down into the living room.
The front door was already wide open. Sokka was in the middle of welcoming Aang and Katara, who were completely bundled up in heavy winter coats, their faces flushed red from the walk up the stairs.
"The queen has arrived!" Sokka announced dramatically, stepping aside and pointing a hand toward you as you descended down the stairs.
"Oh my god, [Y/N]!" Katara’s voice broke the air first. She didn't even take off her gloves before she lunged forward, bypassing Sokka entirely and throwing her arms around your neck. She smelled like the cold winter wind and expensive body lotion, her dark curls brushing against your cheek as she squeezed you tightly. "I missed you so much!"
"I missed you too, Katara," you whispered, the warmth of her embrace instantly melting the last bit of ice in your stomach.
Aang was right behind her, his bright gray eyes crinkling as he gave you a huge, enthusiastic hug that nearly lifted your feet off the floor. He had a massive knitted scarf wrapped three times around his neck, looking exactly like the golden retriever of a human being he had always been. "It’s so good to have you back. Seriously. The group chat hasn't been the same without your specific emoji usage."
"Yeah, yeah, enough with the emotional sap," a sharp, raspy voice cut through the room from the couch.
Toph was sitting cross-legged on Suki’s oversized beanbag chair, casually tossing a small rubber ball up and caught it—exactly the way you used to do. She didn't look up, but a massive, rare smirk was plastered across her face. "Took you long enough to come out of hiding, Sparky's girl. The vibe in this circle was getting dangerously boring without someone to balance out Katara’s mothering."
"Missed you too, Toph," you laughed, walking over and nudging her shoulder with your hand. She reached up, giving your hand a quick, affectionate slap before returning to her ball-tossing.
The apartment door opened one final time, and the room went completely quiet for a brief second.
Zuko stepped inside. He had walked over from his own apartment, his nose and cheeks flushed a dark red from the biting cold outside. He took off his heavy black coat, revealing a simple black sweater that fit his broad shoulders perfectly.
He stood in the entryway, his amber eyes instantly scanning the crowded room until they locked onto you.
A year ago, a moment like this would have ended in a defensive comment from him or a sharp, hurt look from you before he retreated to the kitchen to wash dishes alone. But tonight, Zuko didn't hide. He walked straight through the living room, navigating past the shoes near the door until he was standing right in front of you.
He reached out, his large, warm hand finding yours in the space between you, his fingers threading through yours with a quiet, unshakeable certainty.
"Hi," he said softly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that was meant only for you.
"Hi," you smiled, your fingers tightening around his knuckles.
"Alright, everybody!" Sokka shouted, clapping his hands together and breaking the spell as he dragged a massive box of pizza onto the coffee shop table. "The Gaang is officially back together! Nobody talk about finals, nobody talk about GPA, and for the love of god, someone give Toph a soda before she starts throwing something!"
The apartment dissolved into a loud, chaotic symphony of laughter, shouting, and the familiar, beautiful noise of the people who had known you since the beginning. You sat on the couch beside Zuko, your shoulders touching, his hand a constant, radiating source of heat against your thigh. The winter was still cold outside the glass, but inside, the fire was finally burning exactly the way it was supposed to.
mdni- afab reader (no explicit pronouns used), massage, edging, handjob, oral (male receiving), Zuko is oiled up and kinda subby sorry , overstimulation, reader and Zuko are married, slight spoilers (not detailed) minimal dialogue, detailed descriptions of oral sex. Yall ngl i did NOT edit this
Your husband's leadership in the Firenation helped bring forth a new era of peace to the world. Through his and the Gaang's back-breaking work, they have made it possible for all of the elements to live together in the Republic City.
However, Zuko's responsibilities to his country alone was taking a toll on him, and you noticed very quickly that your husband needed some kind of reprieve.
While he sat through long council meetings and diplomatic negotiations, you handled the general public, making sure the needs of your people were met. However, the constant trips far from home meant he came back to you drained and exhausted. Sometimes even injured.
His latest excursion, a wild adventure somewhere far where he was at some point, brought back from the brink of death. He had written you a letter telling you all about it, sending your personal messenger bird days before his voyage back to you.
You barley waited for him to get off the airship before you leaped at him, bringing him close, kissing him before he could greet you.
Zuko’s tired body melted into yours, embracing you firmly against the hard planes of his body, he felt stiff— likely sore from the hard battles he fought. “Hey” he breathed, almost like a sigh of relief. You smiled, pecking him once again. “Hey, welcome home..”
Civilians whooped and cheered from a few feet away, and you waved them off with a smile, dragging your tired husband away to your quarters.
You waited while he bathed, pulling the thick canopy back and stripping the top layer of sheets from your bed, readying a warm pot of oil and steaming a few towels for a surprise massage you were sure Zuko would appreciate.
When he came back to your room, Zuko let you guide him to the bed with no complaints. His hair was pulled back and away from his face, but you couldn’t see the tender look is his eyes watching you as you scurried around, lighting candles and burning incense to set the mood.
“Okay. Scooch” You chirped, grabbing your husband’s shoulder and nudging him to roll onto his stomach. Zuko complied, lazily lying face down, and you bit back a comment about how nice his ass looked wrapped up in just a loose towel.
Years of combat training shaped your man up to be lean and muscular, his back told stories of hard work and unwavering discipline. But you could feel the knots under all that discipline, and so you quickly got to work.
You rubbed some of herbal oil onto your hands, sitting on your husband’s lower back as you worked at his shoulder blades and upper section first.
Zuko wheezed and groaned as you rubbed his muscles. The pain felt so good, and he felt like he could fall asleep right there. You moved down to his lower back and up again before you made him roll over, straddling his hips to rub him down.
Now, it was getting harder to concentrate on the relief. Zuko knew you meant well, but he was just a man. A man who just came back from weeks of being several miles away from his beloved wife.
It was so sweet, you were so focused on making him feel relaxed, kissing his face and rubbing his chest. Zuko basked in the affection, failing to stop his body from reacting.
You shifted backwards and finally felt him, hard and peeking out from under the towel. "Zuko?" you turned to your husband, shocked. His cheeks were flushed red, but he didn't look the slightest bit ashamed. He met your gaze steadily, big hands coming up to squeeze your thighs.
"Sorry," you could tell he didn't mean it, his wandering hands came back down to palm your ass, unapologetically feeling you up while you were still sitting over his hard dick. He sat up, kissing you sweetly. " I feel so much better already, honey."
Oh, so he thought he was funny.
You let him cop another feel before he was on his back again, you stripped the towel he had completely off, settling yourself right next to him. your hands caressed his stomach, feeling his hard abs and creeping lower, ghosting over his pelvis.
Zuko’s body followed your touch, raising his hips to meet your hands as they slid down the length of his dick. In a display so needy, he thrusted into your fist, breathing out curses while you just held him, your other hand caressed his chest and collarbones, your touch so teasing and nurturing it melted him.
You rubbed your thumb over his nipple, enjoying how the candle light defined every ridge and plane of your husband’s body. The oil from earlier added an erotic sheen to his skin that made your mouth water, providing the perfect lubricant for one last massage.
Zuko’s body jolted as you began to stroke him, the slick sounds of your hand jerking his cock made him dizzy. He laid back, relaxing into the pile of extravagant pillows behind him, surrendering to your touch.
“you’re so good to me, honey.” He groaned, his arm came up to rest over his eyes “fuuck, you’re so so good.”
You giggled, bringing your other hand down, cupping his balls while your other hand kept its pace. “Isn’t it my duty as your wife to make sure you’re always healthy?”
Zuko’s arm came down quick, grabbing the sheets, hips jerking. You kept twisting your wrist up and down in a steady rhythm, occasionally pausing to give the tip of his cock the attention it deserved, rubbing his sensitive glans with your palm, relishing as your husband became defenseless. His chest rose and fell in rough inhales. He was close, but you weren’t ready to be done yet.
Right on the brink of his orgasm, you pulled away. Zuko sat up on his elbows, panting and staring at you like you had just slapped him across the face. You looked away from his eyes and stood, grabbing one of the extra towels to clean your hands off. “Baby..w-what are you doing?” he sounded like he was begging, his voice broken and pleading. His dick felt so heavy and swollen, pulsing with the phantoms of his ruined orgasm.
“Shhh.” You were back to his side, wiping the oil off of his pelvis and cock. Zuko hissed, almost trembling. He was still sensitive but miles away from where he was just a few seconds ago. “Just let me help, sit back.”
Stars blurred in his vision as your mouth descended downwards, swallowing him little by little, dragging it out to make it sweet and painful. He could only tense, all his muscles freezing in place as you began to suck him properly. Closing his eyes and gripping the sheets was Zuko’s only defense, sweet whines and whimpers escaping him that he didn’t even recognize.
Quickly, his orgasm built back up again, he jerked his hips up, moaning and chasing the tight suction your lips had around his tip “augh, fuckfuckfuck.” Zuko made the mistake of looking down at you, meeting your scalding gaze as you took him all the way down, gagging around him as your throat swallowed around his cock. Tears welled up in your eyes as you still bobbed your head, nose coming up flush against his pelvic bone.
Zuko just couldnt hold it anymore. He came so hard it felt like he buffered, choking out your name while his hips stuttered and jerked. The sheets twisted and wrinkled under his grip, and he barely had the self control to not burn holes through the mattress.
But you just kept going, he could only feel you there, between his legs. Sucking every ounce of cum you could. The rest of his body felt hot and numb, as if all his nerves had traveled to his dick and nowhere else.
He sat up, fingers threading through your hair, desperate to be grounded as you overstimulated him.
Your husband whined and gasped for mercy. You swallowed him again and again, making a sloppy mess of spit and cum smear on your chin and on his pelvis.
Zuko looked a mess, his long hair had come down from the loose tie he had it in, disheveled and messy. His body resisted against the searing pleasure from your mouth, but he planted himself in place, jerking around as you had your fill.
The second time he came, though, his body had simply become gelatinous. It was too much, his cum coming out in hot spurts that you swallowed with pleasure, enjoying the tremors of your husband’s body while you kitten licked his tip, cleaning him off. It almost felt like you were trying to kill him.
When you finally decided he’d had enough, Zuko might as well have ascended to the spirit world already. He laid there, limp and breathless. Just watching you with wet golden eyes, half lidded and shadowed by his bangs.
“You okay?” You laid next to him again, bringing up the sheets to cover his bottom half. He let you brush the hair out of his face, staring up at you like you were some kind of deity.
“Thank you…for all of this.” You smiled and his hand came up to cup your cheek, bringing your face down for a sweet kiss. He wrapped his arms around you, and you took your place, laying your head right under his chin. A few minutes later, you gave him a a repeat while in the bath, the two of you going on and on until you were sure your husband was completely stress free.
Later on, when the sky was darker and nobody was awake to disturb you, the two of you slept in for the first time in a while. Waking up later in the day and having a private breakfast, and enjoying a quiet stroll through the palace courtyards. Even if it’s just for now, Zuko could forget all his responsibilities and just be your husband.
A/N: this one is for my doctorry anon! hope you'll like it! i have put a trigger warning into the story for blood right before the scene starts, so if anyone gets easily triggered by that you can just jump to the end warning!
WORD COUNT: 12.1k
WARNING: sexual content, blood
SUMMARY: Y/N is determined to prove herself under the harsh supervision of Dr. Harry Styles, the brilliant but notoriously grumpy attending surgeon. The pressure to be the best is high, Dr. Styles seems to be living up to his reputation and Y/N can't help but think he pays extra attention to torture her. But can something else lie behind his cold behavior?
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
An excited buzz fills the conference room that’s packed with new, eager residents, nervous whispers, shuffling papers and whispered guesses about what’s gonna happen on their first day. They’ve dreamed of this day for years throughout medical school and today they will finally start doing what they studied so hard for.
Y/N is sitting in the third row in her brand new scrubs, heart thumping in her chest, she could barely sleep last night, nonstop dreaming of what this day will be like.
The door swings open and the room falls silent. A tall, broad-shouldered man walks in, a stone-cold expression on his handsome face. He hasn’t even said a word, but everyone knows who he is: Dr. Harry Styles, attending surgeon, a name every resident knows and… fears.
He puts his clipboard to the table, cold eyes sweeping over the room as he stands in front of them, arms crossed over his chest.
“Congratulations,” he says, voice low and clipped. “You made it through medical school. Now the real work starts. And let me be clear–” his eyes flick to the residents, sharp and serious, “you will not all make it as surgeons. Some of you won’t even last this year.”
The silence is almost deafening, the only sound in the room is the humming of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.
“I don’t care what honors you collected or how much your professors loved you. None of that matters in my OR. What matters is focus. Discipline. The ability to think faster than everyone else in the room. If you can’t do that, you’re a liability.”
His words land heavily. One of the residents shifts uncomfortably in their chair. Another swallows audibly. Harry’s gaze glides over the fearful residents, eyes landing on Y/N in the middle. Her stomach drops instantly.
“What’s your name?” he barks.
“Dr. Y/L/N,” she says, sitting a little straighter. She smiles, determined not to look intimidated. “Sir.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“Sir,” he echos, as if he is testing how it sounds. His gaze slips down to the front pocket of her scrubs that holds a few colorful pens. “Give me those.” He holds his hand out nodding towards the pens.
With a puzzled look she does as he requested. He holds the pens up, examining them as if they are from a spaceship, then he walks over to the trash can in the corner of the room, then drops them into the can.
“Surgeons don’t use glitter pens,” Harry says flatly, dusting his palms together as though ridding himself of the offense. “We use precision instruments. Black ink. Clear notes. Anything else is a distraction.” His gaze snaps back to her, unyielding. “Do you plan on distracting me, Dr. Y/L/N?”
Heat creeps up her neck, but she forces her chin high, her smile never quite faltering.
“No, Dr. Styles,” she replies, though her voice wavers just slightly. “I plan on learning everything I can.”
Something flickers in his expression, maybe amusement, maybe annoyance. It’s impossible to tell before his face shutters back to stone.
“She’s the type to leave stickers on lab results.”
The guy in the back wasn’t as quiet with his whisper as he thought and Dr. Styles heard every word. His gaze snaps to him, catching him grinning to himself, but when he realizes that Dr. Styles is looking at him, his face falls.
“What’s your name?”
“Dr. Scott.”
“Care to share your thoughts with the whole group?”
Dr. Scott’s cheeks turn pink, at first he just stares back at Dr. Styles, thinking he didn’t mean it, but when he doesn’t budge he realizes he was serious.
“I-I was just… I was joking that she would put stickers on lab results.”
Dr. Styles arches an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side.
“Dr. Scott, don’t bother to come in tomorrow. Pack your stuff and leave.”
Dr. Scott blinks at him, pure shock on his face. He looks to the side, as if his mate would help him out, but everyone is just as shocked as he is and they don’t even dare to look him or Dr. Styles in the eyes. But Dr. Styles just waits patiently until Dr. Scott finally starts moving. He grabs his backpack and then saunters down the stairs and out of the room.
“This is not a playground, not the place where you come to hangout. I don’t want to hear about drama or fighting or mockery. If that’s what keeps you going, you can follow Dr. Scott out the door. You’re here to learn how to save lives, probably one of the hardest things known to mankind. I need you focused and mentally prepared at all times. Understood?”
The residents nod and mumble their answer, but that’s not enough for Dr. Styles.
“Understood?” he repeats, raising his voice, to which the room replies loud and clear.
“Yes, Dr. Styles.”
He then nods, eyes glancing over to Y/N one more time before he checks his phone.
“Rounds in fifteen minutes,” he announces, already striding for the door. “Bring your brains. Leave your egos.”
And then the door shuts behind him.
For a moment, the residents sit frozen, as if afraid any sudden movement might summon him back. Then the whispers start, mutters of shock, nerves, dread.
“He’s even worse than the rumors,” Y/N hears someone whisper behind her.
Y/N exhales slowly, her shoulders tight, pulse still racing. This did not go as she planned, but she won’t let it ruin the experience for her. This is everything she dreamed of, an arrogant surgeon will not shatter everything in ten minutes.
***
The coffee still tastes awful, even after chugging at least three at every shift for the past month, but Y/N drinks it anyway. It’s like a ritual she needs to do before starting work.
She has another long day ahead of her, but she doesn’t mind it. She quickly found common ground with some of the other residents and she even won the nurses over with some home-baked goods on her first week. Even when they are swamped and the patients just keep coming, she still enjoys and loves what she does.
The only downside? Dr. Styles.
That first day truly set the tone for working with him and he hasn’t eased since then. If something, he’s proven to be even tougher.
Ten residents quit in the first week. He fired three more the week after and now there are only seven of them. He chews them up and spits them out every single day and though he teaches so much, more than probably anyone could, he also makes them work harder than anyone.
“Are you ready for another beautiful day?” Nelly rounds the corner as she is putting her hair up into a ponytail.
“I was born ready.” Y/N does a little silly dance, making Nelly chuckle.
“Do you think Master will make someone cry today?”
The nickname for Dr. Styles was born their first week. After a particularly tough shift some of the residents went to grab a drink and they ended up making up theories about Dr. Styles and what he must be like outside of the hospital and someone said he must be dominant and probably gets off on being called Master and then the name just stuck. Of course, only behind his back.
“I’m praying he is in a good mood today,” Y/N gives Nelly a look as they head over to the nurse station where they always start their rounds.
A few minutes later the group is full, talking and laughing, but it all dies down when Dr. Styles appears. His clipboard is tucked under his arm, hair a little messy, eyes cold as usual. Y/N only allows herself to examine him only for a couple of seconds before she turns her gaze down at the tiled floor.
She was once caught by him, staring at him probably longer than she should have and she had to answer every damn question during that round. She has learned her lesson.
It’s hard though, not to stare at him and not just because of his reputation but also because he is annoyingly handsome. Despite the constant unapproving look on his face, he looks quite pleasant with his chiseled jawline, unruly curls and piercing eyes, let alone the tattoos that sometimes peek out from under his lab coat. He’d been unfairly blessed with his looks, that’s for sure.
“Dr. Y/L/N,” he barks, stopping in front of the group. “Fifty-four-year-old male, post-op day three following an open cholecystectomy. Fever overnight. What’s your first concern?”
“Anastomotic leak,” Y/N replies immediately, heart thumping but voice steady.
“And labs?”
“CBC, blood cultures, liver function tests. I’d also get a CT with contrast to evaluate.”
Dr. Styles narrows his eyes at her, but then nods curtly. He then fires away a few more questions, two more at Y/N which she answers correctly, but merely gets another nod.
“Alright, that’s it for today’s question round. Let’s start the actual work.”
The residents breathe out in relief as they follow him down the hall to the first room. With each visited patient, he keeps throwing questions at the residents and whenever someone answers wrong, they get the next about ten questions or at least until Dr. Styles gets bored of hearing their voice.
Y/N is an exception, however. In each room she gets at least a third of the questions. it’s like he is testing her. way more than anyone else in the group.
Once everyone is sent on their way to their separate tasks for the upcoming few hours they all sigh with relief, except those who are going into surgery with Dr. Styles. Y/N today is signed up for some ER work along with Nelly and Jason, a good team to be stuck with in her opinion.
“Jesus, what did you do to him today?” Jason asks on their way.
“Nothing, I guess he just really hates me,” Y/N rolls her eyes.
“If he does, why hasn’t he fired you yet? He has the power. why torture you?” Nelly muses.
“Because she is the most brilliant out of all of us,” Jason points out.
“No I’m not,” Y/N protests, heat crawling up her neck. She knows she is good, she works a lot to be the best she can, but she doesn’t take praise well, it gets her all flustered and nervous, never knowing how to react.
“Whatever, Teacher’s Pet,” Jason teases her.
“I’m definitely not that!” She laughs, holding up a hand. “She probably has a woodoo doll of me at home and he prays for the day I answer something wrong so he can get rid of me.”
“Or,” Nelly starts with a sly smirk, “he is actually into you, but doesn’t know how to approach you so he is picking on you like a kid.”
They all grab their clipboards with patient cases as they get to the packed ER, carrying on the conversation.
“I highly doubt that,” Y/N scoffs, scanning over the papers on her board.
“Why? You’re hot, he is hot, it’s a no brainer.”
“Ah, he is so hot!” Jason moans. “It would be like the perfect enemies to lovers story!” he chimes in, already getting carried away with his fantasy. “The grumpy, highly respected and feared star surgeon falls for the cheery resident, but because of their power imbalance nothing could happen between them so he does what he knows best: be the biggest asshole to her!”
“Oh my God, stop!” Y/N laughs, covering her face with her clipboard. “I don’t want to hear about this again, okay? See you at lunch?” She is backing away, eager to escape this conversation.
“Yes! And then we can discuss how you’ll hook up with Master!” Jason calls after her, way too loud to her liking, so she sprints away, heat creeping up to her ears.
***
The pager goes off just as Y/N sinks into the stiff couch of the residents’ lounge. She groans, rubbing her face before glancing at the glowing screen.
Trauma bay, incoming in ten.
There goes her chance to have a break.
She jogs down the hall, adjusting her scrub cap, and sure enough, Dr. Styles is already there. He stands at the foot of the empty trauma bed, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes flick to her as she enters, then back to the doors. Like there’s something he wants to say, but he keeps it to himself.
The doors burst open and the patient is rolled in. Adrenaline surges through Y/N’s veins and within seconds they are working in tandem. Harry barking orders, Y/N inserting an IV, relaying vitals, answering his sharp questions without hesitation. For almost half an hour it is pure chaos, until the patient stabilizes and is whisked off to surgery.
Only then Y/N feels like she is breathing evenly again. She leans against the counter, sweat cooling on her neck.
“Well,” she says between breaths, “that was fun.”
Dr. Styles shoots her a look, one that usually gets all the residents silent immediately, but then Y/N notices the twitch in the corner of his mouth that almost resembles a smile. She files it away in her memories as a once in a lifetime sight.
“You think that was fun?” he questions.
Maybe it’s her exhaustion, maybe it’s the double espresso she drank an hour ago, but she feels bold instead of scared as she answers.
“Sure,” she replies with a tired grin. “You’re terrifying, the patient’s bleeding out and somehow I’m the only resident on call with you tonight. This is surely fun.”
He huffs and it’s almost a laugh, as he shakes his head at her.
“It’s a hospital, not a circus.”
And with that he walks off, a growing grin stretching across Y/N’s face, because this interaction wasn’t even half bad, almost kind of human, which is something she hasn’t experienced with him before.
Two hours go by, Y/N makes a quick round fixing IV’s and checking temperature before she finally heads to the break room at around two in the morning. She expects no one to be there, so she almost jumps in surprise when she walks in and finds someone lying on one of the beds. Well, not just someone, Dr. Styles.
He’s stretched out on the too-small cot, one arm thrown over his forehead, chest rising and falling steadily. In the dim light, with his scrub top rumpled and his jaw slack in sleep, he looks… different. Not the sharp, unyielding surgeon who makes residents sweat through their coats, but a man who’s just as exhausted as the rest of them.
Y/N freezes in the doorway, suddenly unsure if she should retreat. Her brain tells her to slip away quietly, but her feet don’t move. It feels almost like walking in on something private, like seeing a wild animal at rest.
The floor creaks under her shoe, and Harry stirs. His arm slides down from his forehead, and his green eyes blink open, heavy with sleep. For a second, he just stares at her, caught between dream and waking.
Then his brows knit.
“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, lower than usual, almost intimate.
“Sorry,” she whispers, raising her hands in surrender. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I’m just here for a nap too. But I can do that later, if you want some… privacy.”
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he sits up. His hair is messy, falling over his forehead and his voice is still husky when he says, “It’s a break room, not a hotel suite. You don’t need my permission to be here.”
Y/N hovers near the door for a beat, then crosses the room to the other bed, tossing her jacket down like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Still, her pulse hammers in her ears. It feels strange being in the same room with him like this, quiet, stripped of the chaos of the hospital and bleeding patients.
“Is this your second break?” he asks her, sitting on the edge of the cot.
“Um… no, first one.”
He frowns instantly.
“First? Y/N, you started at 8 am. It’s two am. You’re no good if you faint from exhaustion.” The scolding tone makes her feel like a kid who was caught doing something. She feels small and shameful as she buries her head more into the small pillow.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. But then she processes something else: he just called her Y/N instead of Dr. Y/L/N. There’s something oddly intimate in hearing him call her by her first name, it’s weird but warming as well and her first instinct is to tease him about it, but seeing his disapproving look she swallows her words.
Dr. Styles shakes his head as he stands from the cot.
“I don’t want to see you out in the halls before three am,” he orders in a low voice as he walks over to the door.
“Yes, Sir,” Y/N mumbles in reply and he freezes for a moment, hand on the doorknob, but then he twists the knob and walks out, leaving Y/N alone in the dimly lit room.
Eyes closed, she turns towards the wall, willing herself to sleep, but the way he said her name keeps replaying in her mind until her exhaustion really kicks in and she finally drifts off to sleep.
***
She emerges from the break room a little after three. She checks the time, making sure it really is past three so she doesn’t upset Dr. Styles before she returns to the trauma bay. After a few cases it calms down and she starts on some paperwork by the nurse station when Dr. Patel, one of the ER attendings, walks past and pauses.
“Dr. Y/L/N,” he says, glancing down at the file in his hands. “Good work in there earlier. That intubation you did? Smooth, efficient. You saved us precious minutes.”
Y/N blinks, caught off guard by the praise.
“Oh… thank you, Dr. Patel. I just… I just followed protocol.”
The doctor shakes his head with a soft smile.
“Plenty of people know the protocol, but not everyone executes under pressure like that. You’ve got great instincts. Keep it up.”
Before she could get a response out he is already shuffling down the hallway. Her cheeks burn as she clutches her chart to her chest. It was a simple compliment, but it got her all flustered and nervous, lips pressed together tight, fighting the urge to smile like an idiot.
From a few feet away, Dr. Styles watches the whole exchange. Leaning against the doorframe of one of the rooms, arms crossed, expression unreadable as the thoughts swirl in his mind and when Y/N ducks her head, obviously flustered and glowing from the praise, something stirs in his chest.
He’s used to residents either puffing up with arrogance or scrambling for validation when they get recognized. But Y/N… she looks like she doesn’t even know what to do with it. Like someone just handed her a gift she never thought she’d deserve.
When Y/N looks up and turns around, Dr. Styles is nowhere to be seen however.
***
A young patient lies on the table, a complicated trauma case that came in less than an hour ago. The room is packed with nurses and scrub techs, but it feels like everyone is holding their breath. A handful of the residents are standing at the edge of the room, watching the surgery, Y/N being one of them, eyes glued to Dr. Styles by the head of the operating table.
His gloved hands are steady, if you only saw his face you would never guess how complicated the surgery is he is doing right now. His focus is incredible, voice calm as he dictates each step.
“Clamp. Suction. Retractor. No, more to the left.”
Y/N can’t take her eyes off him, drawing in nervous breaths behind her mask. She has seen him work before, several times, she’s even assisted him before, but this seems different.
He’s in his element here, precise and unflinching, commanding the room without ever raising his voice.
When the bleeder comes into view, Y/N feels her stomach drop. It looks impossible, too hard to reach, at least for her. But it’s not her standing by the operating table, it’s Dr. Styles and he doesn’t even flinch.
“There you are,” he murmurs under his breath, like he just found a treasure he’s been looking for so long. His hands move with a speed and certainty that makes the impossible seem almost easy, the tension in the room just keeps growing as everyone waits for him to do his magic.
A couple of seconds and the bleeding slows, the levels on the monitors even out and a collective exhale sweeps through the OR.
Y/N stares, heart pounding, unable to hide her awe, she feels like she just witnessed a miracle.
Dr. Styles orders to start closing the wound up and his gaze flickers up and over to the residents. Or, to be more precise, to Y/N, who is still standing by the wall, hands over her chest as she is still coming off the high witnessing this operation gave her. Their eyes meet, he is even more unreadable than usual, since his face is almost fully covered, she can only see his eyes, but he is wearing glasses, so those are half hidden as well. Yet, she feels like there’s something in them, in the way he is staring at her from across the room, but she can’t make out the actual message.
He turns his attention back at the patient and finishes up the surgery, not looking her way again for the rest of the time.
Later that day Y/N sits wedged between Nelly and Jason in the cafeteria, her scrubs wrinkled from the long shift, a cold sandwich on her tray. Jason is recounting his last overnight call, arms waving as he tells the story of nearly fainting in the middle of a code. Nelly laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her fries, and Y/N can’t help but smile, warmth settling in her chest.
Her gaze wanders across the room though. Dr. Styles sits at a table near the windows, his posture relaxed in a way she rarely sees, but it looks good on him. Across from him is Dr. Rowe, one of the cardiothoracic attendings, a sharp, confident, undeniably beautiful woman everyone likes in the hospital. They’re leaning in slightly, heads bent together in a quiet conversation and when Dr. Rowe laughs softly, Dr. Styles’ mouth curves into an answering smile.
Y/N’s eyebrows furrow, a sharp feeling cutting into her chest, down to her stomach. She wonders what they talk about, what she said that made him smile, if they hang out outside of the hospital as well.
She’d seen him in the OR today, steady and brilliant, and she hasn’t been able to shake the image. And now, watching him look so… human with someone else, it stings in a way she doesn’t expect.
“Earth to Y/N,” Jason says, waving a fry in front of her face. “You spaced out. Who’re you staring at?”
Her cheeks flush instantly.
“No one,” she blurts, poking at her sandwich.
Nelly follows her gaze before Y/N could look away and hide her sudden interest. Her eyebrows shoot up, a sly grin tugging at her lips.
“Oooh! Dr. Styles and Dr. Rowe. Interesting.”
“That’s an unexpected pair, but I can see it,” Jason huffs, staring at them unapologetically.
Y/N forces a laugh, the sound a little too high.
“You watch too much reality,” she mumbles, biting into her sandwich, determined not to look at that table across the room.
***
The afternoon is dragging when Y/N gets paged to room 312, where a post-op patient is crashing. She sprints down the hall, heart hammering and bursts in, finding Dr. Styles already there along with two nurses.
The monitors are shrieking, the patient seems to be in immense pain and for a second she panics, but she is quick to shake the feeling and focus on what matters.
“Blood pressure is dropping,” one of the nurses calls out. Y/N’s eyes dart to the IV line, and she immediately spots that it’s dislodged.
“The line’s out!” she blurts, already grabbing a new catheter.
Dr. Styles glances at her once, sharp and assessing, then nods.
“Fix it, Dr. Y/L/N.”
Her hands move quickly, almost on autopilot, sliding the new line in place. The monitors steady within seconds and the room’s frantic energy simmers down. Relief floods her chest, though her hands start trembling just slightly as she tapes down the line.
Once it’s ensured that the patient is stable, the nurses take over while Y/N and Dr. Styles step back, getting rid of their used gloves.
“Good catch,” Dr. Styles says while Y/N is still watching the patient, but at his words she turns to him with wide eyes. He is looking at her, not with his usual gloomy expression, but with something that almost looks fond.
“You saw it before anyone else,” he continues. “That’s the kind of focus that saves lives.”
Her throat goes dry and suddenly she’s very aware of how hot her cheeks feel.
“I, uhh–I just… It was in front of my e-eyes,” she stutters.
“No,” he says firmly, his gaze still locked on hers. “You assessed the situation well, everyone missed the IV. Including me.”
“Well… Thank you,” she nods, or maybe more like bows to him. She becomes a nervous mess when someone compliments her, but now that it came from Dr. Styles, she has no idea what to do with herself. Her chest swells with a mixed feeling of nervousness, excitement, pride and… lust? Is that what she’s feeling at his praise?
In the meantime, Dr. Styles is watching her, intrigued. He can see the way her cheeks flush, the way her eyes flicker down before darting back up to his. She’s rattled, though not by the chaos of the patient or the emergency.
By him.
By his words.
His lips twitch, the barest hint of a smile tugging at them. He enjoys it, more than he probably should. The way her throat works as she swallows, the way she fumbles with her chart like it could shield her from his gaze that’s practically setting her on fire and burning her up.
When one of the nurses throws a question at him he snaps out of his awe though. Clearing his throat he answers and then walks out of the room, leaving Y/N a little confused about this tiny, but major interaction they just had.
But she’s not the only one, stuck on it. Because as Dr. Styles is walking down the hallway, he urges himself to forget about the sight of her as she reacted to his praise.
***
Y/N thinks of just going home when she arrives at the event, clutching her invitation in her hands like a lifeline. This whole gala is so out of her comfort zone with all those sparkly chandeliers, trays full of champagne everywhere and dresses that cost probably a thousand times more than her simple, long dress she bought in a vintage boutique a few years ago, but never got to wear.
Two days ago she wasn’t in on tonight on her own, Nelly and Jason swore to join her as well for the fundraising gala they hold for the hospital every year, but they both bailed kind of last minute. Nelly said it’s a family emergency, while Jason texted their group chat just two hours ago that he is deathly ill.
Aka terribly hungover probably, since he told them a million times the week before that he is going out with his old high school friends.
So now it’s just Y/N here, surrounded by surgeons and donors in expensive suits, and she feels wildly out of place.
She lingers near the edge of the room, sipping a glass of sparkling water, already planning to leave in about thirty minutes to spare her from having to be the weird resident no one really knows or wants to talk to. She tries the food which is at least good, she sees a few familiar faces, but none from her closer circle she spends her breaks with or eats in the cafeteria.
She then grabs a glass of wine, allowing herself that much fun and that’s when a familiar voice calls out her name.
“Dr. Y/L/N?”
The deep voice at her side makes her jump. She turns and nearly forgets how to breathe.
Dr. Harry Styles is standing there in a perfectly tailored suit, dark curls swept back, bowtie crisp. He looks nothing like the sharp, scrubs-clad figure she’s used to in the OR. He looks… devastatingly good.
“Dr. Styles,” she manages, forcing her eyes not to linger. “Hi.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying her.
“Where did you leave your friends?”
For some reason, she is surprised that he knows she made friends with some of her fellow residents, she always imagined that he has absolutely no interest in knowing any details about his students.
Y/N nods, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“The others… bailed. I’m starting to regret showing up.”
For a moment, she expects him to give a cutting remark about residents needing to network. But then he takes a sip of his drink, eyes scanning over the room as he nods.
“Yeah, me too.”
She blinks at him in surprise.
“You don’t like these? But everyone here must know your name and wants to talk to you.”
“That’s the problem,” he mumbles under his breath, making her laugh.
“So you don’t like the attention?”
“Not this kind.” His eyes cut to her, with a hidden meaning behind them, but she can’t translate it before it’s gone.
Before Y/N can press him, his gaze sharpens. He’s looking at someone across the room, a silver-haired man with a booming (and annoying) laugh making his way toward them, along with two other men. Dr. Styles’ composure changes rather quickly, his jaw tightens.
“Come with me,” he mutters, already placing a hand lightly at her elbow. It happens so fast she doesn’t even have the chance to freak out that his skin is touching her skin for the first time ever.
“W-What?!” she questions, but he just shakes his head. He steers her through the crowd with practiced ease, muttering a quick “excuse us” when someone tries to stop him and in moments they’re slipping through the glass doors onto the terrace.
The night air is cool, a relief after the heat of the crowded ballroom. String lights twinkle overhead, the muffled hum of conversation drifting from inside. Y/N blinks at him, breathless from being whisked away.
“Okay, what was that?!” she breathes out, placing a hand over her chest, feeling her heart thumping against her ribs.
He exhales, loosening his bowtie which alone would be enough to make Y/N forget about what she even asked.
“I needed to get away. That man–He talks so much and for so long and he always finds me at these events and I was just not in the mood to deal with him tonight.”
Her jaw drops slightly as realization settles over her.
“Wait. You used me as your escape?”
His mouth twitches the slightest.
“Well, it’s more excusable to walk off with someone and you happened to be standing there, so…” He shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets and Y/N is staring at him in awe. Not just because he just used her, but because he looks so different now, so mundane, so… approachable. It looks great on him, but she definitely has to get used to this version of him.
She lets out a soft chuckle, folding her arms over her chest.
“Wow. Maybe I should feel honored. Dr. Styles using me as cover.”
His expression twitches, but this time it looks more unpleasant and Y/N instantly panics that she said something wrong or went too far.
“S-Sorry, I’m…”
“Sorry? For what?”
“You just looked like you heard something you did not like.”
He presses his lips together, glancing down at his shoes before his gaze returns to her.
“I just don’t quite like being called Dr. Styles when I’m not working,” he admits.
“Oh.”
“You can call me Harry. Outside of the hospital.”
His offer shocks her and part of her wants to bring some teasing into their conversation, ask him if they will see each other more outside of work, but she definitely thinks that’s too much, so she just bites her tongue, nodding.
“Well, you have called me Y/N already, so I have nothing to offer,” she chuckles shortly.Something flashes across his face and it looks like realization, like he just actually realized that he did in fact already called her Y/N before. That makes her think it was unintentional, which is weird, because she hasn’t heard him call anyone by their first name before.
She shakes herself from the thought, taking a deep breath as she glances inside through the glass door.
“So… what now? Are we gonna hide out here for the rest of the gala?”
Harry follows her gaze toward the lively crowd inside.
“Wouldn’t be the worst idea,” he says, his tone dry, though there’s a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. Y/N just nods absentmindedly, but then a laugh bubbles from her mouth, earning a puzzled look from Harry.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, I just find it funny that the man who terrifies half the surgical floor hiding out on the terrace with a resident.”
He thinks about her words for a few seconds and she starts to regret saying that thought out loud, but then a faint smile appears on his lips.
“Well, that’s my strategy. If people fear me they won’t bother me.”
She raises her eyebrows at him, smiling wide.
“But you just revealed it to me, now I’ll just bother you anyway.”
“You’re way smarter than to do that,” he answers quickly and that shuts her up, because it was another compliment. Dr. Harry Styles just called her smart.
She nervously smoothes her dress with her hands and then tugs her hair behind her ears, avoiding his gaze that’s examining her quite closely.
“You don’t like to be praised?” he questions, but there’s no mockery in his tone, it’s filled with curiosity.
“No–I mean I do! I just… I never know what to say or how to react when I get a compliment. That’s it.”
Even talking about it makes her nervous and she wishes she could just switch to another topic. Harry hums, tilting his head as if he’s studying her, the same way he does when they are discussing a case. Only this time, his gaze feels warmer, heavier.
When she dares to look his way, she feels like he wants to say something and maybe it’s the champagne she has drunk or the unusual setting she is talking to him, but she actually speaks her mind this time.
“What?” she tilts her head gently with a curious smile. Harry shakes his head. “Come on, I know you want to say something.”
“I do,” he curtly answers, but doesn’t continue just yet. Though when he sees her determination, he gives in. “I just… You might not know how to react, but you already have a pretty standard reaction to compliments.”
“Brushing them off?” she huffs out a laugh.
“No,” he shakes his head, eyes glued to her face. “Your shoulders hike higher and you start fumbling with your fingers, like you need to occupy them. You start blink rapidly and press your lips together.”
Her mouth parts at his observation, a sense of warmth jumping through every spot he just mentioned. Starting from her shoulders, down to her hands, up to her eyelids and then to her lips. Heat crawls up neck to her ears and she keeps glancing away, but this time her gaze is pulled back to him every time, like it’s magnetic.
“Do you observe all your residents this closely?” she finds herself asking in a hushed tone and though she meant it as a rhetoric question, she gets a reply instantly.
“No.”
She swears sparks ignite between them and for a second she expects him to close the distance with a stride and she realizes she wishes he would do that.
She wants him to get closer, she desires him to press up against her and she aches to be wrapped up in him.
When the glass door opens somewhere behind them they both sober up from the moment. Y/N nervously clears her throat, rubbing her hands on her upper arms as the evening chill hits her skin. Harry then realizes that she is out there in just a dress.
“Let’s… Let’s get back inside,” he suggests.
“What about your cover?”
“I’ll suck it up and be a big boy,” he says with a tight-lipped smile that makes her laugh.
They head inside and Harry holds the door open for her, placing a hand to her lower back out of instinct as she steps through the door, a spark of electricity traveling down her spine instantly and even when his hand is long gone, she can still feel the warmth of his palm, indented into her skin even through the fabric of her dress.
There’s a beat of awkwardness as they stop, unsure how to go on and Y/N is the first to break it.
“I’ll go to the restroom. I’m sure many want to have a chat with you.”
“Probably,” he nods with absolutely no excitement on his face.
“I’ll… see you later, I guess.”
“Sure.” Another nod.
After a moment of hesitation she wills her legs to move and carry her over to the restrooms, putting a much needed distance between them.
Once inside, she leans onto the counter, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she takes at least a dozen deep breaths to calm her racing heart’s pounding. But her mind is turning against herself, because she can’t shake the sight of him when he said he doesn’t pay that much attention to other residents and then the feeling of his hand on her back…
“Fuck,” she mutters, splashing some water into her face as realization sets in.
She is in trouble.
***
The hospital is in its usual rhythm. Beeping pagers, squeaking sneakers on the linoleum, the low murmur of nurses exchanging updates. But to Y/N, something feels off.
She notices it on Monday morning rounds. Usually, Dr. Styles fires his toughest questions at her, his sharp gaze pinning her in place until she answers. But today, he barely glances her way, his questions scatter across the group, never landing on her and when she offers an answer voluntarily, his only response is just a barely noticeable nod before he moves on to the next person, paying her no questions until they are done.
At first she tries to shake it. There’s nothing unusual, maybe he just grew tired of hearing only her voice. That’s something she should be thankful for.
But by midweek, she can’t ignore it anymore. He doesn’t make eye contact with her in the OR, even when she assists. Checking up on a post-op patient he hands the charts over to the other resident by his side, something that doesn’t happen often and only then does she realize just how much attention he was paying her all along.
And now it’s gone.
By Thursday afternoon, Y/N is convinced she messed up. She replays the terrace conversation over and over in her head. Maybe she acted too friendly. Maybe she asked or said something she shouldn’t have. She picks it apart over and over again, finding new details she could have done wrong.
She sees him a few more times in that shift and almost musters up the courage to ask him, but whenever she sees his hard expression she talks herself out of it.
***
Two weeks pass by in that cold manner and Y/N starts to settle into it, but it doesn’t mean she has stopped worrying about it. Her mind is still gnawing at the strange distance between her and Harry.
When the ER calls up with a patient who needs surgical evaluation, she jumps at the chance to prove herself again. Maybe if she works harder, sharper, better, everything will get back to how it was before the gala.
The patient is a middle-aged man, disoriented and bleeding from an abdominal wound. He is sitting on the edge of the exam table when Y/N walks in and starts checking her vitals as always, doing her best to soothe him.
But then something shifts in him when she tries to check the wound from closer. His eyes get glazed and Y/N notices his hands jerking before everything goes to shit.
TRIGGER WARNING: BLOOD
An alarm goes off in her, but it’s too late, he lashes out.
A tray crashes onto the floor, Y/N stumbles back as his arm swings, catching her across the cheek with a brutal punch that sends pain flashing hot through her face. Then a sharp sting blooms across her forearm too, the punch threw her off enough that she didn’t realize he grabbed the scalpel and sliced through the air with it, nicking her arm with the motion.
Y/N stumbles towards the wall, back smashing against it and the man is already readying himself to launch at her again, eyes widen, a guttural growl bubbling from his throat and for a moment Y/N thinks this is it, this is how it all ends.
“Hey!” a nurse shouts, rushing forward. But the man is thrashing, shouting incoherently and Y/N is frozen, blood dripping down her arm, to the linoleum.
Then it all happens just as fast as the attack.
Harry burst into the room, throwing the man against the wall across, holding him down with one arm, the other one catching the man’s hand that still holds the scalpel, pushing it against the wall as well with so much force, his fingers let go of the tool and it falls to the ground.
“Sedate him! Now!” he barks the order to the two nurses that followed him inside. A moment later an injection is pinned into the man’s thigh and while he is still shouting, his muscles start to relax from the medication. Once it kicks in at full force, the nurses take over, lifting him onto the bed, restraining his arms and legs this time.
Then Harry is at Y/N’s side.
“Y/N,” he softly calls out, the distance is long gone from his tone. “It’s alright. Come on, let’s clean this up.” He gently takes her arm and that’s when she looks down at the cut. It’s not deep, she can see that, but the blood has painted her lower arm and hand red. Harry doesn’t care that her blood is staining his lab coat too, he carefully steers her out of the room and into an empty one down the hall, sitting her to the edge of the exam table while her hands are still shaking and the pain starts to set in now that the adrenaline has worn out of her veins. The cut stings and the whole left side of her face feels like it’s on fire. But the worst of it all is the shame.
END OF TRIGGER WARNING
She watches as Harry cleans her arm and then focuses on the cut, tending to the wound with such care she hasn’t seen from him with other patients before.
He disinfects it, takes a closer look to see if she needs any stitches, but luckily it’s not that deep, so he wraps her arm in a bandage before looking up at her face to see the damage there, but then he sees the expression on her face.
“Y/N…”
“I–I must have messed up,” she stammers, tears pricking her eyes. “I must’ve said something wrong, I should have handled him differently, maybe I didn’t see somethi–”
“Stop.” His tone is quiet but commanding, cutting through her panic. His hand takes hers, giving it a gentle squeeze that successfully zeroes her mind out, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down her spine.
“This wasn’t your fault,” he reassures her as her lips wobble and she bites into it to stop herself from fully sobbing.
“B-but–”
“You did everything right,” he insists, eyes locking on hers. “Patients like this… it happens. No one could have predicted it. Do you understand? You did nothing wrong.”
The weight in his words steals her breath. For once, there’s no criticism, no test, no impossible bar to clear. Just reassurance.
At last she closes her mouth and nods in defeat. Harry exhales sharply through his nose as his eyes start assessing her face. A bruise is already starting to form over her cheekbone and the left side of her lower lip is swollen with a little split. Under his scrutinizing gaze she runs her tongue over the wound and she swears his eyes darken just then.
He reaches up, palm cupping her jaw as he lifts her head as if he is examining the bruise, but his gaze stays glued to her eyes. Her breath hitches in her throat when he runs his thumb across her bottom lip, but it’s not because the split hurts.
She swallows, time has stopped moving around them as he leans in the slightest. She even questions if she saw it right, but when she does the same, he moves again and this time she is sure he is getting closer.
Her hand finds his lab coat, fisting the fabric in anticipation and she has already closed her eyes when something is dropped outside, the loud thump making them both jump and just like that, the bubble is popped.
Harry’s hand drops and when he takes a step back she lets go of his coat and she has to fight the urge to pull him back.
He looks away before his eyes flutter closed and when they open again, he is back to reality.
“Get an ice-pack for your face. Change the bandage after you shower tonight.”
They sound like orders, but come out softer than usual. Her mind is racing, still stuck on what was about to happen just moments ago and all she can do is nod, dazed and confused.
Then Harry walks out of the room, like he wasn’t about to kiss her just a minute ago.
***
Y/N is way too disoriented after the incident. And it’s not just because that patient attacked her, what happened, or more like almost happened afterwards is what has her all over the place.
Everyone starts asking what happened and how she is, the nurses get her an ice-pack and some soothing gel, though the bruising is already there, a vivid reminder of what happened.
She tries to get back to work, but patients give her weird looks when they see her beaten up face and she also notices that her focus is definitely elsewhere.
Because of the incident, she is let off early this time so she can rest. She changes out of her scrubs and heads out, but only reaches one of the benches just outside the hospital. She sits, her mind still replaying that scene with Harry, the touch of his hand on her face, his soft gaze, the way he leant closer, the kiss already hanging between them.
She won’t be able to get it out of her head and the more she thinks of it, the surer she gets that she needs answers. The gala could have been just her imagination, she could have just made up whatever she felt then, but today was not just in her head.
He almost kissed her and she wanted him to, she ached to be kissed by him.
When she glances towards the entrance, Harry walks out just then, backpack over one shoulder, still wearing his scrubs, he just threw his jacket over.
She moves like she’s on autopilot as she stands and starts walking towards him. When he spots her, the surprise on his face is obvious.
“Y/N,” he softly says, his steps coming to a halt. “I thought you already left. How… How are you feeling?”
She ignores his question, the urge to get answers is now taking over her.
“What was that?” she asks and his face gives him away just for a split second before returning to its unreadable state again.
“What was what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. In the exam room, when you were bandaging me up. What was that?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, looking away for a second before his eyes return to her.
“Y/N, don’t do this.”
“I want answers,” she demands, standing her ground. “Ever since I’ve started working here, it seemed like you were fixated on always questioning me, you were obviously harder on me than on any of the other residents. I thought that was just because maybe you hated me, or maybe… maybe you saw potential in me and expected more from me, whatever. But then at the gala…”
Harry’s jaw tightens, just like his hands on the strap of his bag, but he doesn’t interrupt, so she continues.
“I thought I just imagined it, the… the spark, I thought I was just an idiot for thinking there was more to it, but then you acted so distant, like you wanted to shut me out of your life and then today…”
Her throat is closing up, she is getting worked up, but she fights through it, she needs to say all of it out loud finally.
“You wanted to kiss me, didn’t you?”
She waits for an answer, but it never comes, he is just staring back at her, eyes darkening.
“Did you want to kiss me?” She repeats the question with more force and this time his answer comes instantly, like he’s been trying to swallow it down, but he couldn’t hold it down any longer.
“Yes.”
She was expecting this answer, but it still feels like something bursts in her. Her thoughts are racing and she can’t get a word out, but he takes over the talking.
“I wanted to kiss you even though I’m your supervisor. That’s… It’s one thing that I’m not supposed to do that, but I shouldn’t even think of that, Y/N.”
His voice is hard, clipped, but in a different way, he seems to be angry at himself this time.
“It’s messed up, I’m messed up. I’m trying everything I can to… get you out of my head, but I can’t. Not since… since…” He is breathing heavily, eyes on fire.
“Since when?” she questions, just as worked up.
“Since the first damn day I walked into that conference room!” he snaps. It’s like the wall he’s been building up around himself relentlessly is now falling apart. “I saw you with your… colorful pens and bright eyes and I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the day. And since then, with every right answer you gave me, every operation you assisted me, every shift spent together, it just grew inside me no matter what I did.
“Then I saw you at the gala, no scrubs, no… rubbing alcohol smell and… Fuck.” He rubs his face with his hands before continuing. “Today was a mistake, but it would have been an even bigger one if I let myself go further. I can’t want you this way, I’m your mentor, your teacher. This is… I need to keep a distance.”
This last part is more like it was said to himself rather than to her, but she hears it and speaks before she could think twice.
“But what if I want you the same way?”
There’s a whole storm raging behind his eyes when his gaze snaps back to her.
“Y/N, stop…”
“But I do want you the same way.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he shakes his head and tries to step away, but she grabs his hand, the physical contact immediately changing their balance. Involuntarily, his fingers hook together with hers.
“Please…” she whispers, but she’s not even sure what she is begging him for. Yet, he understands her.
There’s a few moments of hesitation, a staring contest and then he shakes his head and she thinks she lost, but then he gently tugs on her hand.
“Come with me.”
She follows him blindly, not even questioning where they are going. In the parking lot Harry unlocks his car and Y/N takes the passenger seat without a word. He starts the car and rolls out of the parking lot, the hospital shrinking in the mirror as Y/N sits in the heated seat, a little anxious, but more excited.
They don’t speak on the short ride, not even when Harry parks in front of an apartment building. She just follows him inside, up to the second floor where he stops in front of one of the doors and he unlocks it, holding it open for her.
She walks in, cautious but also curious. She never really thought of what Harry’s home looks like. Is it modern? Tidy or messy? A small and cozy place or a spacious, cold one?
When he flicks the lights on she is met with a mixture. She finds herself in an open concept kitchen that flows into a living room that’s just the right size. The furniture looks updated, but she spots several vintage pieces that bring character to the place. She sees colors, but not too many to overwhelm her, warm reds and oranges mixed with blue, purple and a little bit of yellow pops out here and there.
It fits him, oddly. Even despite his gruffness, she sees him in the apartment.
Behind her Harry closes the door and drops his backpack to the small bench by the door. She turns around, staring back at him expectantly, unsure what is going to happen next.
He starts moving closer, slow and calculated and Y/N feels like a prey. He stops, just a step away from her and reaching up his palm cups her face again, running his thumb across the bruise on her cheeks. She flinches, just a bit, but it makes him frown.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not that much,” she shakes her head lightly. “I’ll be fine in a few days.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, surprising her.
“For what? For saving me from him? For tending to my wounds?” she asks in disbelief.
“I… If I went in there with you this wouldn’t have happened. But I saw you go in and thought I would just take the next one, but I should have gone in with you, so he would have attacked me instead.”
He is visibly beating himself up and she wonders how long he’s been doing that. She reaches up, curling her hand around his wrist gently.
“None of it was your fault. You haven’t been coming to the exam rooms with us for weeks, there was no reason for you to come with me.”
“But I wanted to be close to you,” he admits, surprising her once again. “I always want to be around you.”
“You do?” she asks, almost in disbelief.
Harry nods and she leans into his touch, closing her eyes.
“You’re so smart and passionate about everything you do. You take care of everyone the best possible way you can, never exclude anyone. I have… never met anyone like you, Y/N.”
A shaky breath slips past her lips, the familiar heat crawling up to her ears already. When the blinking starts, Harry breaks out in a tiny smile.
“And I love how you react when I praise you,” he adds and she almost whimpers at his words. “Tell me, Y/N. Do you like to be praised? Does it feel good?” He reaches up with his other hand, cradling her face in both palms now, eyes grazing her face relentlessly.
“Y-yes.”
He nods, almost approvingly, running a thumb across her bottom lip, making them part and the words roll down her tongue before she could think twice.
“But I love it the most when you praise me.”
He groans, his thumb pushing into her mouth and she sucks on it without a second thought, swirling her tongue around the tip and as she pushes herself closer to him, her front meeting his, she can already feel his erection pressing against his scrubs.
“Fuck, Y/N. You’re… so fucking perfect,” he groans, forehead pressing against hers and she is trying to push closer so their lips could finally meet, but he pulls back. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“I don’t care,” she shakes her head. “I want this. I want you.”
“But I’m your–”
“I don’t care,” she repeats with more force.
“What’s gonna happen after? What are we going to do at work?” He is not asking these to sober them both out, but because he actually worries about these and these questions are the last restraints holding him back.
“We will figure it out. I promise.”
“It’s not that easy and you know that too.”
“You think we are the first one to do this? Harry, it’s nowhere near impossible. We can just… keep it out of the hospital, focus on work and when we’re not there…”
Harry stares back at her, his face is unreadable again and panic starts to rise in her chest as she thinks he is about to back out.
But then he reaches up, gently running his knuckles down the side of her face before his hand moves to the back of her head.
“I need you to say out loud that you want this and not because I have power over you in the hospital. I need to hear this.”
“I want this, out of my own free will. It has nothing to do with–”
She doesn’t get to finish before his lips crash against hers, hard and demanding, almost knocking her off her feet. But she’s quick to return it just as vehemently, her arms hooking around his neck to bring him even closer while he pushes against her, backing her until she bumps against the wall.
He pushes a knee between her legs, his thigh making contact with her center and she moans into his mouth when she grinds against it shamelessly.
“Fucking Hell, you sound so perfect,” he groans between kisses.
She blindly grabs his jacket and drags it off him, just as he is pulling her sweatshirt up and over her head and he doesn’t waste a second before he does the same with the tanktop she wears underneath. For a moment Y/N regrets not putting on something sexier, the simple wireless bra is definitely not the most flattering piece she owns, but when she sees the look on Harry’s face roaming her body, she couldn’t care less about what she’s wearing.
She wiggles a little, eager to get close to him again, but he keeps her in place with his hands on her waist, pinning her against the wall.
“Are you gonna be a good girl and do what I want? Do you want to get praised, Y/N?” he asks in a low, lustful tone. She nods eagerly.
“Yes! Please!”
“You’re gonna follow my orders as if we were in the OR?” A wicked smirk tugs on his lips and she squirms when one hand moves to her chest, hooking a finger into the cup to pull it down so her breast spills out.
“Yes, Sir” she breathes out, back arching when he pinches her nipple, playing with it.
“Remember when you called me Sir the first day?” he asks, hand moving to her other breast to do the same. Y/N nods, unable to form words as he starts playing with both of her nipples at the same time. “I almost got a hard-on from that. I could see you call me that while kneeling in front of me. I had to distract myself so I don’t embarrass myself in front of the whole group.”
Y/N’s head falls back against the wall, when he tugs on her nipples, letting go of them, only to replace his fingers with his mouth. His hand slips to her back, unclasping her bra with a practiced motion, throwing it to the side as he sucks and bites on her nipples and all over her breasts, most likely leaving marks on her chest, but she couldn’t care less. She is sure she could come just from this if he kept doing it for long enough.
She whimpers in protest when he takes a step back, already craving his touch.
“Stay right there,” he orders, when she tries to push away from the wall and she obeys instantly.
He takes a moment to look at her, bare top, her jeans still on but judging from the way she is pressing her thighs together she is aching for more friction. He takes his top off too, revealing his tattoo littered, hard chest and her palm is itching to touch him everywhere she can reach, but she wills herself to stay put. His erection is fully visible though his pants and she gulps hard seeing the indent of it.
Harry takes his time ridding himself of the pants, leaving him in only his briefs, then he steps back to her and starts undoing her jeans, pushing them down but only to mid-thigh. He then reaches between her legs and cups her through her panties that are already drenched, all while he keeps her eyes locked on hers.
She gasps for air when he pushes the fabric to the side and runs two fingers over her cunt, coating his digits in her arousal.
“Fuck, you’re so wet. Is this all for me?”
“Yes,” she whines, hips tilting with the intention to guide his fingers inside her, but he just keeps teasing her, dragging them back and forth between her slick folds.
He hums, his free hand cupping the back of her neck as he leans his forehead against hers.
“Such a good little girl, so perfectly wet for me.”
Her mouth slacks open when his fingers push past her opening and just as they enter her, he kisses her at the same time, tongue pushing into her mouth.
She whimpers and moans and wiggles some more, eager for more friction, but he drags his movements slow, teasing her as he lazily moves his fingers in and out, in again and then he curls them inside, making her cry out from pleasure before they move out and he does it all over again.
She can feel her orgasm building already when he pulls his hand back. Her eyes pop open just in time to see him lick his fingers clean before his hand moves down to palm himself through his underwear. She runs her tongue across her lips, her eyes talking for her.
“You want a taste too?” Harry asks, cocking his head to the side slightly, almost curiously.
“Yes, Sir,” she nods.
Harry leans down and grabs his jacket from the floor, throwing it down in front of him and Y/N kneels onto it instantly, hands clasping his hips.
“Go ahead. Do what you want,” he gives her the go.
She blinks up at him once more before she hooks her fingers into the elastic and pulls his underwear down, his cock springing free right in front of her face. Her legs starts shaking for a moment, seeing how big he is, hard and ready, his precum glistening on the pink tip. She wraps her hands around the base at first, as if she is testing the waters, then she leans in and takes just the tip into her mouth, sucking on it gently.
“Fuck,” he groans, one hand coming to the back of her head, but it’s not doing anything, he just feels like he needs to be touching her.
Then, slowly, her head starts moving, back and forth, taking more and more of him with each movement, her saliva coating his length while her hands squeeze the base.
She glances up at him through her lashes and finds him watching her with a burning gaze.
“So good for me,” he mumbles, hips moving forward slightly so she swallows even more of him and he thinks she is about to pull back but she surprises him by grabbing by his ass and holding him in place, then pushing some more so her nose is almost touching his pubic bone, the tip of his cock in the very back of her throat.
“Shit, Y/N,” he groans, head falling back at the sensation.
Tears prick her eyes when she pulls back, gasping for air. Harry helps her up in a rush, gathering her in his arms, his erection wedging between them as he kisses her with full force.
“I want to fuck you,” he grunts against her lips.
“I want you to fuck me,” she rushes out, clawing at her shoulders.
“How were your last test results?” he asks and she needs a few moments to make out what he asked and then she remembers. Everyone got the chance to test themselves just last month in the hospital and Y/N took it as well as Harry if she remembers correctly.
“Clean. Haven’t been with anyone since,” she breathes out.
“Same for me. Do you want me to use a condom?”
“No, I want to feel you,” she practically begs. Harry nods and then kisses her while pushing her jeans down her legs fully, so she can step out of them.
Then he picks her up, a gasp slipping past her lips that turns into a chuckle before they are kissing again, Harry carrying her into the bedroom. She finds herself on his bed in seconds, but she doesn’t have the chance to even look around before he is on top of her, erection pressing against her lower stomach as he kisses her again with so much hunger and lust her mind blurs and only senses him.
Slowly, he starts kissing down her neck, her chest and stomach, then moves to her thighs, pushing them open as he nears her center. He takes off her last piece of clothing, her panty flying across the room so Harry now has full access to her.
At first he is gentle, just tasting, licking at her, but then he buries himself into her more and more, sucking on her clit and pushing his tongue inside her, turning her into a full mess with each swipe of his tongue.
Once again she almost comes, but before she could tip over the edge, he pulls back, climbing up her, kissing her with the taste of her arousal still on his lips. This kiss a little slower, gentler, as he settles between her legs. Reaching down he grabs the base of his cock and positions himself, the tip already pushing in, but he stops there, lifting his head just enough that he can look at her face. Her eyes flutter open and just then, he pushes in.
He is moving slowly, letting her adjust, but he doesn’t stop until he is in fully, every inch of him. She is gasping for air as she opens her mouth to say something, but her mind blanks and words die in her throat. He stays still for a bit, then shifts a little before pulling back and then thrusting in again.
Gradually, he picks up a rhythm, pushing into her all the way every time. He buries his face into her neck, kissing and nibbling on the soft skin as she stares up at the ceiling, clawing at his back, her orgasm building up in the pit of her stomach rapidly.
Harry can sense that she is close, her walls tightening around him. He lifts his head and kisses her.
“You’re doing so good for me. So fucking good, Y/N.”
The praise just adds to the sensation. She moans out something that almost sounds like his name, then he wraps his arms around her and turns them over, but keeps her locked against his chest as he sets his feet into the mattress firmly and starts thrusting up into her fast and hard, essentially tipping her over the edge.
She moans and grunts against him, even bites into his shoulder as her hips grind against him as well. He drags out his thrusts as she is riding her orgasm out, her walls still pulsing around him when he bursts inside her too.
He holds her so tight, almost knocking the air out of her, but she doesn’t mind, she loves feeling and seeing him fall apart, his usual, guarded self now fully bare for her.
They stay like that, even when he has stopped moving and their breathing has slowed. He is still inside her, even though he is has softened, but she just don’t want the physical contact to be cut. With her face pressed against his chest she listens to the steady beating of his heart as his fingers gently graze her naked back.
“I thought you hated my guts,” she eventually breaks the silence. She lifts her head and rests her chin on her hand over his chest so she can look at him. “I always thought you asked me the most because you were just waiting for me to give one wrong answer so you could kick me out.”
Harry chuckles softly, the vibration dancing through her body too.
“I did test you a lot and was waiting for you to mess something up at first, but only because I wanted to prove to myself that you weren’t as special. As brilliant. But then you proved me wrong over and over again and then I just… I wanted to hear your voice, your quick thinking, your clever ideas.”
“Then how come you never praised me?” she asks, eyebrows furrowed. Harry shrugs.
“I’m not big on that, I tend to brush over that kind of things. But then I saw how you reacted that day, when you spotted the IV.”
Y/N nods, remembering that day and how it was the first time he praised her work.
“It messed with my head, seeing you all… flustered and nervous. Wanted to know how much effect I could have on you.”
“Guess we found that out now,” she smiles cheekily, making him laugh.
“Yeah, yeah we did.”
Pushing up on her hands she hikes herself up until she can reach his lips with hers. She kisses him, slow and tender, taking her time tasting him and he does the same, exploring each other with no rush. Then Harry grunts and she pulls back, giving him a puzzled look.
“What is it?”
“Now that I know what some praising does to you, I want to do it all the time, but I can’t, because people would notice.”
“You’ll have to go back to acting like you hate me,” she grins and he slaps her ass gently, making her shriek, but it turns into a laugh pretty quickly.
“I have a reputation to keep up or else overly-eager fresh residents would bother me all the time.”
“Oh, am I bothering you? I’m sorry, let me just grab my clothes and–” She tries to climb off him, but he is quick to pull her back, caging her in his arms.
“Shut up, Dr. Y/L/N and kiss me.”
“Is that an order as my boss?”
“Yes. It’s critical for your learning curve, they don’t teach this in medical school.”
“They really don’t,” she grins. “But I guess I want to learn everything,” she hums before doing as he said.
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
Several months after your adventure's conclusion, Gale invites you to visit his tower in Waterdeep — and finally, he finds the courage to admit his feelings for you.
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pairing: gale dekarios x reader
word count: 36.0k
tags: 18+, smut with feelings (and a fair bit of plot), reader is tav, reader is fem bodied (but no gendered terms are used), love confessions, fic takes place after the epilogue, "you fell first but he fell harder", mild sensory deprivation, inappropriate uses of magic, gale talks a Lot, slight angst (but there's a happy ending, don't worry), dirty talk, fingering, handjob, multiple orgasms, oral (reader receiving), tender sex, slight mentions of blasphemy, i am not immune to his wizardly charms....
read on ao3
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this work contains explicit content intended for 18+ individuals. please read the tags and do not interact if you are a minor.
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When Gale wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace, for the first time in ages, you can finally relax.
From your stiff shoulders, down to the ends of your toes, your weary muscles untense. It's as though he's cast a spell on you; which you know he could do, but he doesn't have to. A soft palm cradles the back of your head, and he pulls you in closer. You bury your head in his chest, the smooth velvet of his shirt rubbing your cheek.
Slowly, deeply, you inhale. You're enveloped in the familiar scent of him: the rich smell of pine, filling your senses with something tender. Something you've missed. The breeze that wafts in from his balcony veils you in a breath of the sea. Gale always found a way to smell the same as a book's crisp pages. He'd carry the faint aroma of the scrolls he often littered his tent with, or of his library, regardless of how long you spent surrounded by nothing but wilderness.
The intimacy of it is enough to make you dizzy. If you had things your way, you'd hug him tight like this, and you wouldn't ever think of letting him go.
"It feels as though it's been forever since we were last acquainted," Gale says in your ear quietly. Genuinely, with the slightest exhale tacked on at the end — and still, after hearing his voice for hours, watching as he lectured his pupils on some form of magic you've barely heard of, you believe you wouldn't mind listening for a few hours more.
"Our get-together wasn't that long ago, you know," You counter, voice slightly muffled, spoken into his chest.
"Yes, but surely you understand." His grip on you seems to tighten as you both rock gently, back and forth, "It's rather difficult to go from spending nearly every moment you're awake with someone, to only having the pleasure of meeting them on a few select occasions. Allow me to savor this moment, please. There may not be another one like it."
There may not be another one.
Gods, you know he's right. Both of you are busy, now. You live in two separate cities, lead two separate lives. There's others from the party you haven't seen; not yet, anyways. The only reason you saw Gale now is because back then, you had the foresight to plan to.
That inevitable prospect is one you aren't sure you want to think about. You don't want to imagine parting from Gale again.
Your friends would've called you sappy. They might've gone and teased you for taking forever to meet with the damn wizard in the first place. You obviously wanted to. The hug you gave him back then was hardly a friendly one. More like a I'm glad you're here, now don't you dare leave again sort of hug. Not to mention the way Gale himself eyed you for the rest of the party — as if no-one would notice.
Truthfully, your life has been busier than you hoped it would be, ever since your adventure's big conclusion. You did want to see Gale again. Of course you did. But simply wanting isn't good enough. The party was the first time you saw him since then, and this has been the first time after that.
You were hoping to relax for a while. To spend time away from the stress. You definitely earned it. Unfortunately, you've wound up doing anything but.
Make no mistake, you're unbelievably grateful to no longer be dealing with a world-ending threat, or a parasite in your brain. Helping to rebuild the city is nothing compared to the shit you've already dealt with. You're happy that you no longer have to worry over whether you'll even make it out of this alive. Whether any of you will still be alive, in the end. But you've hardly been able to settle. Not in the way you wanted to, at least.
For as many people that revere you, that now think of you as a hero, those words seem to do nothing for you. For as big and grand of a city as Baldur's Gate still is, and for as long as you've called it your home, it's only begun to feel like the loneliest place in the world.
And your friends — Obviously you'd wind up going your separate ways. It'd be stupid to think otherwise. You have different lives to return to, new struggles to face. You know that. It doesn't change how much you've grown to miss them.
There won't come a time where you'll stop missing those moments, you figure. The times when things were quiet, when you worked together, grew together. That's okay. Some allegiances aren't meant to last forever. In the end, it was an idea you made peace with. Until one of your companions stubbornly refused to leave your heart.
You peer up at him, as Gale looks down at you, before he lets go of you slowly, almost hesitantly. He pulls backward, meeting your eyes. This embrace reminds you of the one from back then. You don't fail to notice how his expression softens around the edges, how he takes your hands, gently squeezing them. Ultimately, he allows them to slip away, letting go.
You carried your thoughts of him with you, long after you'd since parted ways. The sound of his voice, the softness it seemed to take on whenever you're the one he was speaking to. The accidental touches, the brushes of fingers. An arm placed in front of you, to usher you behind him whenever he thought you might get hurt.
Without the ability to pry into his thoughts, you have no clue whether he fondly remembers things the same way you do. You were unmistakably close, once. In an earlier time, you brought your hands to his shoulders, you kept your eyes locked on his. Your words were shaky. Your heart was pounding, shaking against the cage of your chest. You can't lose him, you remember admitting, and Gale smiled, told you that you wouldn't. Even though you knew damn well there was more he wasn't telling you.
Hindsight would convince you the only thing he concealed was how truly scared he was. If you did feel more for each other, if what you thought you understood wasn't a lie — No matter what ways you tried, neither of you could hide it, but you certainly couldn't talk about it either.
It's difficult to search for the time to discuss unadmitted feelings when your lives are constantly on the line. Impossible, actually. Honestly, you weren't sure how you'd tell him, regardless of if you could. Nevermind the playful encouragement of your companions, or the listless jabs at your solitude from your undead resurrector, this sort of thing has never been your forte. Hey, I care for you more than good friends are supposed to, is that alright?
I couldn't stand to see anything happen to you, and I hoped you might notice, might do what I'm not able to. You could look into my head with a single word, and yet nothing but distance has grown in between us.
I'd travel it, if I was able. I want you to understand, I never hoped to part from you. I never want you to shut up whenever you're telling me about magic, or history, or any of the things you know everything about, even once you quiet down because you think I do.
How am I supposed to tell you that?
You can't, and you didn't. You both had the fate of the world in your hands, and the last thing either of you needed to be worrying about were your up-in-the-air feelings.
You would ignore the elated blankness in your head whenever Gale eased the tension with a smile flashed your way. You pushed down the giddiness in your chest whenever he gave a gentle yet pragmatic comment, one you tried not to read into. Over and over, you would pretend not to be flustered by his small touches, by the glances that lasted a little longer than they should. Despite the ache of your heart in your chest, you convinced yourself that you and him were friends. Nothing more.
Yes, friends who would sneak into one another's tents when everyone else was asleep to quietly talk, laughing together until the sun began to graze the horizon. Friends who kept each other going, who saw one another when they were weakest: torn apart by the Gods, with nothing left to do but pick up the pieces. Friends who are the only ones to know what the other is truly thinking, no spells or uncanny mind connections needed.
You're simply mere acquaintances. Two people on the same bloody path, who just so happened to be lucky enough to meet, and managed to grow closer than acquaintances ever should be. You were pushed together by circumstance. You chose to understand each other with purpose.
Has Gale ever yearned for more, in the way you've yearned for him?
Gale is observant. He knows you, he'd know if there was something up with you. Likely, he already does. More so, he's ambitious; he wouldn't forget about you, everything vying to push you away be damned. You've come too far to suddenly cast each other aside. But some things are better left unspoken.
Eventually, you expected you'd never find out the truth. You were too little, too late. The closest you ever got to a true confession was in the moments you found yourselves alone, and those are few and far between, these days. Now that you've run out of excuses, even now that everything is over, he's here and you are alive — You can't say a damn thing.
You think it's why you haven't seen him. You've been busy, yes, leading a new life and grappling with your newfound freedoms, but given the chance, you'd put every last thing aside to make time for him. When those feelings of yours are left to build and build, they threaten to drown. And drown you did.
It's strange, how meeting with him again can feel like finally being coaxed to breathe, and like suffocating freely, all at the same time.
You decide to breathe in once more, and break the silence at last.
"You're ridiculous sometimes," You scoff, shaking your head. Your tone is more fragile than you intended, as you catch yourself in your own hypocrisy. You still manage to throw him a warm glance. "I thought we were both past talking that way. We have all the time the world is generous enough to offer us. Do you really think I wouldn't plan on seeing you again?"
Gale's lips tip upward to form his usual smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled. To a combination of your bewilderment and delight, you're already melting.
"They say old habits die hard, I suppose," He replies, first shrugging his shoulders, and then standing up straighter. He clasps his hands together, positioning them uniformly behind his back. "And who knows? I wasn't sure how much enjoyment you drew from being an honorary professor for the day. Seemed as if you were a tad overwhelmed, actually."
"Of course I was. Well, I was anxious, more like." You're staring off to the side while you think, crossing your arms over your chest. "I mean, you said your students think of me as a hero. I was trying not to say anything stupid."
"In that case, I'd say you have no need to worry," Gale answers, "You sounded perfectly eloquent."
Meeting his eyes again, you huff, "I'm glad you think so. I enjoyed today. But seriously, I came here for you, Gale. Not because I was ecstatic about teaching."
You swear that if you were to squint, you'd see the smallest twinge of pure adoration on the normally-so-confident wizard's face.
Gale raises a fist to his mouth and clears his throat. "I understand your qualms, but truly, you did well. No-one finds teaching to be easy- I mean, it's an unbelievably stubborn process, if anything. I've always been the recipient of lectures. Never the other way around, until my newfound position. It took me quite a while to get a good grasp of things, believe you me."
"Really?" You raise a brow, "I, for one, thought your teaching was impeccable. I was looking forward to asking for some pointers from Professor Dekarios himself, actually."
"Oh, come on. Your flattery is far from needed," He replies, his tone breathy and playful. You exhale a faint chuckle, and when you grin back, his own smile seems to soften at the edges. A look reserved exclusively for you.
Gale continues, "You've seen my pupils for yourself now. You know how difficult they can be. In the face of such… stunning magic," His eyes narrow, he makes an open-palmed gesture of wonderment to illustrate his point, "Magic they themselves could learn to wield, it's rare to see them at least attempt to stay awake. I take some of the blame, of course. At certain moments, I thought you were teaching them better than I ever have."
"Nonsense," You roll your eyes light-heartedly, placing a hand on your hip, "They do well on their tests, right? I doubt your teachings are lost on them. Besides, it's like you said. Being a teacher isn't easy."
"True. However, I certainly think we make an impressive team."
With one last smile, and a nod of his head, Gale turns, striding over to his small wooden desk.
The space is surrounded by bookshelves, the desk's every surface littered in open books and scrolls of its own. He thumbs through the stack of papers he set there earlier, essays his students turned in — A paper about the history of magic was his instruction, if you remember right. Gale was less than satisfied with their results, but in his own words, he couldn't fault them.
They are the same as I was, when I was their age. A spitting image, really. Dodging written assignments, snoozing through most lectures. They're talented, there's no denying it. Preventing them from picking up my bad habits is where matters turn difficult.
He lifts the stack, tapping the papers against the desk to make them straight. Then, he sets them neatly aside. He clearly has a specific place for them, though you don't think you'd ever be able to make sense of the mess, yourself.
"Either way," He starts, organizing more loose papers and scattered books while he talks. His back may be turned towards you, but you can picture his face clearly: the lightest smirk, the pinch of his brows, "I'm sure my students were pleased to hear from someone other than me for a change. Dare I say when you were speaking, they actually paid attention."
Delicately, like the simplest of words are valuable porcelain, you mutter, "Is that so? I should come see you more often, then."
Gale freezes for a second. His next few sentences come out much sweeter than he intended them to, but by the time he's opened his mouth, he isn't able to stop himself.
"I'd enjoy that. I truly would," He says, and setting the books he's holding aside, he turns to face you. He swallows the lump in his throat, and when he's speaking next, he's talking with his hands as he tries — and fails, mostly — to hide his nervous cadence.
"You don't need to come simply to help me teach," He explains, "I appreciate it, of course, but it's far from necessary. My home is always open to you. If you need to unwind someplace quiet, or if you're hoping to browse the grandest collection of tomes this side of Waterdeep, you're welcome to stay. For as long as you'd like."
The offer means more to you than he might realize.
"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."
"No, thank you," Gale retorts, "I cannot overstate how much I appreciated seeing you again. Today was a delight."
Your glance travels away, and you try to ignore the warmth prickling over your face. From his open balcony, the sun casts shimmering rays as it falls. Light glitters over the ocean's rocky waves. The sea breeze is growing sharper; it whispers in your ears, and tickles the hair on the back of your neck. When you take a deep inhale, the air seems to catch in your lungs, holding on, unwilling to let go.
Finally, faintly, you reply, "You'll have to show me more of Waterdeep, next time. It's a beautiful city."
"Splendid, isn't it? I could show you around tomorrow, or even tonight, if you aren't too exhausted from today. The sights are particularly breathtaking then, when they're allowed to flourish under the cover of stars and moonlight."
Gale takes a step closer to you, and you're left to look up at him again. At the way the light caresses his skin, at his handsome features framed by a gentle smile.
"There's so many wonders I want you to see." He confesses.
More than that. He's longed for more than he's admitted to, more than everything he thought mattered, before he met you. There's so much he wants to show you, so much he needs to tell you, he's begun to lose track of it all.
Ever since you parted ways, he's felt something missing. Those adventures, your company and that of your unlikely band of companions: they're all things he's grown to miss dearly. In hopes he'd move on, he overwhelmed himself with the endeavors of his new life. He focused on teaching, on studying, on magic. No matter what, he was filled with an ache he couldn't extinguish.
You'd tease him if he mentioned it. He can imagine your voice, mumbling playfully with a flash of teeth and a sparkle in your gaze, Something missing? A tadpole in your brain, maybe?
Very funny, he'd answer. And he'd leave it at that, because you've given him an out, a chance not to make a fool of himself. He doesn't need everyone to hear how sentimental he's become — and especially not you. If only you knew the half of it.
You took a piece of him with you when you left, pried from the space between his ribs, fated to burn in your embers. He hasn't stopped missing you with such ferocity. With a certain kind of hunger. It's damn near worse than when the orb once gnawed at him.
To have you now almost feels like a dream. He keeps thinking he might wake up, that this will melt away to leave him and him alone. This shouldn't be real, you both shouldn't have made it. Gale recalls with sickening familiarity when the end of his life felt so close. He can remember even clearer the moment he found a new purpose in you.
You've been important to him from the start; he doesn't do a very good job of hiding it, does he? Those stolen glances were easily caught. His nervousness whenever you're with him concedes enough to make him obvious.
He could have told you. Could have admitted how you make the fragile strings of his heart strum with every fond call of his name. You could have known the way he felt between soft breaths, and close bodies. During the moment when he showed you how to wield the Weave at your fingertips. It would have been terribly simple. A single thought, and you'd not only know, but you'd feel his own emotions rushing into you — A rippling river of infatuation. Isn't it unfortunate then, that you tend to make his mind so blank?
The heart can be so cruel. No longer can he give you what he was aspiring to grace you with. He can't give you power. He can't offer you the abundances of a God, or the beauty of a plane away from this one. Only the ordinary.
Falling for you was never the problem. You weren't someone he believed he deserved.
His own hesitance forms a maddening sphere to be trapped in, and he knows it's his own fault; his own fear is to blame, his edge of destruction. You gave him hope. You've given him more than he ever could have desired, and that includes ascension. Is it so wrong for him to want more?
Many times, he's certainly thought so. He doesn't need anything else. He has already touched the heavens and beyond with the time he's spent by your side. Your dumb adventures, your talks, the uncertain closeness. It was nearly all he needed to be sated.
Nearly.
"Gale…"
Your soft utterance of his name snaps him out of his thoughts. Gale examines you, and you're glancing away, an expression he can't make out on your face. The setting sun bathes you in intoxicating orange light. You seem to have your own halo, your own radiance that defies reason. You defy a lot of the things he thought he knew.
He can only answer with a small, breathy, "Yes?"
A little while longer, and he might be ready. One night spent looking at the sky, or another time to confide in the comfort of your voice and your presence. He'll make it perfect. He'll find the courage, or the stars will witness his failure once again.
Crossing paths with you changed everything about himself he once thought he understood, and he finds the revelation as funny as it is delightful. To have you to miss was a privilege, in and of itself. Fate was never a concept he believed in, but evidently, the threads of his fortune had more in store for him. You became more than a wish, you were tangible. You were kind, intelligent, you were defiance incarnate. You rewrote the part of his story he thought untouchable. He watched Gods kneel at your feet, and he felt your softness latch onto him like a second home.
And he finally has time, doesn't he?
The time to tell you, the time to spend with you. Because he is alive, and the restlessness and nervousness he still feels inside shouldn't matter. How foolish he once was, for thinking things would turn out any other way.
In every other life, you still would've saved him. In a life where he was better, less scared, and not so temporary, perhaps you would have known he loved you already.
"I couldn't. I… I want to stay," You're starting; regret tugs at the edges of your voice, and Gale begins to feel his heart sink with each and every word. "Maybe I could some other time, but I can't now, I shouldn't. There's business that needs to be dealt with back home, in Baldur's Gate- I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner."
Gale huffs an impeccably dry laugh. He grins just slightly, a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he softly responds, "Busy, aren't you? The grand savior of Baldur's Gate is needed on the field, I see. I understand. I won't hold you any longer."
"You aren't holding me up, Gale. It's nothing important, I guess I just…" Trailing off, you inhale deeply, trying not to stumble over your own words. Your glance darts from the floor of his study to the sculptures to the trinkets — Anything to keep your eyes away from his. "I didn't want to intrude. It would feel strange if I stayed. Like I'd be taking advantage of your hospitality, I suppose."
Gale frowns. "I promise you this, on absolutely everything left in our universe for me to promise on, you could never intrude. I meant my words, I told you that you could stay for as long as you desire, and-"
"I know." You answer, like a frustrated plea, like a sacrificial revelation. Your hands ball up at your sides. Your voice is loud, before it goes quiet. "I know. It's my fault, alright? This doesn't have anything to do with you. I just can't stay."
The air grows so tense it's almost suffocating. Though, for only a second or two.
"So, becoming my honorary guest professor was that bad, was it?" Gale hums.
Then, you're laughing weakly, you're brushing an awkward hand over the back of your neck and looking up at him, your expression now pleasantly amused. His doting gaze meets yours, framed by a few out of place strands of hair.
"No," You mumble teasingly, stretching out the end of the word with a roll of your eyes; he always knows how to make you weak. "And I've already promised to come teach with you again. As long as you aren't worried about me showing you up, that is."
"Oh, by all means, do show me up plenty," He eagerly replies, "I won't try to stop you."
You huff a quick chuckle, and there it is again — Your gaze, sparkling. Gale feels the way you draw him in without trying, until his attention is fully focused on you. Until you have him right where you want him. To think of how doomed he'd be if you ever got your hands on some charming magic.
"I've really missed you, y'know," You're admitting. Your tone is different somehow, unmistakably. "The party honestly has felt like forever ago. Back then, I thought we didn't have near enough time. Catching up was pleasant, but it felt… imperfect. And now, we spent an entire day together. You're right here in front of me, and yet, still. I miss you."
Gale's jaw clenches, and with nothing left to stop you, you continue.
Your throat grows tight. You expel a long, heavy sigh. "Do you want me to tell you the truth?"
"I wouldn't shy away from it." He returns.
"If I stay for any longer, I wouldn't have it in me to leave." Your gaze dances over his own, and he understands the uncertainty, mixed with faint emotions he doesn't. "Not ever."
For what is probably the first time since you've met him, Gale goes completely, utterly silent. You watch him think, his expression pinching — perhaps irritated at his own loss for words — before he softens. His chest rises slowly with the deep breath he takes. Light glitters off his silver earring. Shadows form in his features, his lips part in an almost-sentence. In the end, he swallows it down, and grits his teeth together to the point of pain.
You're standing close. So close, he can see the slight, frustrated crinkle in your brows that only seems to furrow more the longer he stays quiet. So close, he could lean in if he wanted to, and relay the depths of his longing from his hesitant lips onto yours.
It isn't like him to be speechless this long.
Your head tilts towards him, tender curiosity on your face. Your arm outstretches, and a hand gently begins to reach in his direction. "Gale?"
He's about to do something foolish. Something very, very unwise. He'd attempt to stop himself, if the words weren't already forming on his tongue. He'd give up as he did before, if only the dying light wasn't so lovely on you.
At least he knows it won't be the most nonsensical thing he's done.
Gale's gaze fills with warmth, with a devotion so resolute, you could believe you really are some form of a God. He catches your hand, and grasps it in a clumsy way; more clinging than holding, as fingers brush knuckles, folded over one another. As if you might disappear when he lets go.
This time, there's no more room for wondering. No more hesitation, no barriers, just himself and you: his fallen star, his lovely demise. It doesn't matter what he does or doesn't do, your existence will never leave his veins, running deeper than the fear and the magic ever has. The same way the Weave crackles at his fingertips, adoring you comes naturally. You are yourself, and you, in all your love, in flesh and bone — You are worth anything, or perhaps everything.
A little while longer. To the Hells with that.
"I'm in love with you."
It's easier to say those words than he expected. They just sort of happen; really, they seem natural. He's been agonizing for ages, but to hear his own voice say them aloud cements his feelings as true. He is in love with you. An honest, mortal love.
He doesn't have the time to worry over the consequences, because you've heard him loud and clear. His heart won't stop pounding, and pounding, and pounding.
Almost instantly, your eyes are going wide. Your own grip on his hand turns loose. Surprise washes warmly over your face, settling as a pleasant tingle in the expanse of your shoulders. For a moment, you don't speak. You take in quick, nervous breaths, feeling your lungs choked by emotion and sea salt.
"You really- Why're you-" You sputter, stumbling back slightly and shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Your arms go slack as you expel a faint sigh, "Gale-"
"You do not have to say anything. And you're under no obligation to stay." Gale interrupts, his tone abruptly serious. His expression reflects the same sort of solemness, his brows in a knot. He tries to hide the shake to his words, tries to chase away his worries, "You can leave, if you wish. You can leave, and we can never speak of this again. I wouldn't blame you. I couldn't blame you. I'd know better, not to chase after you and… to simply leave things as they are. Like I should have done now. If I wasn't the ass that I am."
A brief pause. Your eyes scan him, and Gale resists the urge to let his nervousness get the better of him.
"But I had to speak," He says. "This may be my only chance. I can't lie to you in the same way I've lied to myself."
Your next words are spoken with conviction. You squeeze his hand, and the dizzy room around him finally begins to steady — "Then tell me, Gale. I want you to tell me everything."
It's like the sun is shining right onto him. Heat and pure energy rushes from your hands into his, your voice a conduit for emotion. You practically give him a head rush.
Gale swallows, steadies. Then, he speaks.
"And what an abundance of things I could tell you."
Grasping your hands and squeezing them back, he's smiling again, but this time, it's different. The whole moment seems different. He's wearing an excited, heartfelt sort of smile, a look you think you've never seen before. Well, perhaps you saw it once.
You're reminded of the way he looked at you many, many nights ago. When your fates weren't assured. When you gazed upon the stars together, admiring the aurora he created — dazzling light, to pierce the sky of shadow. That memory seems so near, yet so far away. His solemness melted to gentleness back then, too. Your souls felt closer than they ever had.
Was this what he wanted to tell you that night?
"Let's see," Gale is continuing, and you're grinning, watching his head tilt as he puts on an air of confidence; his own form of sincerity.
"I wonder what I should tell you first? Should I detail each intricate moment, every subtle action that made me fall so deeply for you? For your determination, your ingenuity. Your beauty. Gods, you shouldn't get me started. If you truly wanted me to describe every single thing I adore about you, well, I believe we'd be nothing but dust by the time I was finished."
You can't help but chuckle. Gale's gaze travels over you, and you let yourself take him in. His fingertips absently run over your knuckles. His shoulders are tense with a hesitance he can't manage to hide.
"I'll make a terribly long-winded story brief, before I bore you with my sentiments." This time, he sounds a fair bit quieter. The depths of his honeyed gaze, ever-softening, become impossible to look away from.
"You are very special to me." He gently explains, "More than words can describe, and certainly more than anything else. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. While the world was crumbling around us, begging to be saved, I thought myself content, if only I could spend whatever remained of my time at your side."
Carefully, Gale reaches forwards. Between his fingers, with the slightest, most exhilarating touch, he holds your chin, he tilts your head in his direction. Your heart begins to hammer in your chest to an unsteady rhythm.
"Love does not even begin to describe it. You are wonderful. You are the special sort of magic one might spend their entire life searching for. The most divine of desires. I've no need to search anymore."
A brush of his thumb over your mouth, and his calloused fingers are splaying back to caress your cheek, to feel the shape of your jaw, "I have the heavens right in my hands. All the spectacles and splendors of Faerûn are jealous of you."
You relax, and when his grasp drops from your chin, you let your hand slip away from his — only to wrap your arms around him, elbows resting on his shoulders. He admires you intently, gauging your reaction, his heart skipping at your touch and the subtle flash of shyness behind your eyes. A sort of analysis you've seen him use when he was examining an artifact, or mulling over a game of lanceboard. The tender focus his face takes on makes you huff in amusement.
With a teasing raise of your brow, you manage to ask, "How many times have you practiced saying that to me?"
"A hundred times. A thousand times." Gale keeps his arms at his sides, despite the way you embrace him tighter. In the corner of your vision, you catch him starting to reach out. His hands hover inches away from your waist, he flexes them in thought.
"No, I often went back and forth on the precise method I would use to confess, given I actually had the gall to do it, but," He explains, a slight playful air to his tone, "Those words were from the heart. Just a few specs of fondness from my vast nebula of love for you. If you can believe that."
"They're very… you. In a good way." Your smile is bright. He thinks it might continue to warm him, long after the point of the sun's imminent descent. "It's a shame, though. I wasn't expecting you to beat me to it. I've been practicing how I would tell you I'm in love with you since we met."
If there's one thing you've come to know about the wizard, it's that he's collected.
Calm, mostly. But unperturbed always. He's optimistic to a fault, and he's never been the type to seem nervous or timid, even if he might be feeling that way. He's an honest man, but also controlled — You have to exercise a certain amount of control to wield magic. Or to keep your own body from exploding to bits, you figure. With the orb posing much less of a threat, he's clearly more relaxed, but his emotions still don't show so easily.
You've seen him scared. But nervous? Shy? Those sorts of feelings were never in his repertoire. He's never once stumbled over his words, never been red-faced, never faltered from his confidence and his verbosity. Until now.
"You- You have?" Gale sounds so in disbelief, you swear his voice nearly cracks. He clears his throat awfully loudly, he glances between you and something in the distance. Which proves to be difficult, considering how close you are. Has the skin underneath his collar always felt so hot? "I had no idea. I mean, clearly, but- But still."
"I wasn't sure if you knew. You're more charming than you give yourself credit for," You clarify softly, "I thought for sure you'd make a move at that little tiefling party. Started planning what I might say and everything. Apparently, you failed to realize I was flirting with you."
"I wasn't even trying to woo you then," Gale mumbles, thinking to himself. "Well, that's- Hah, quite the discovery, now isn't it? Care to- uhm, enlighten me on what it was you planned to say, exactly?"
"Mmm, possibly. You seem flustered. Should I show you, instead?"
"Show me?"
"Yes," You stand up straighter, making his heart race faster as you move impossibly closer to him, "I'll show you what I really wanted to do back then."
"Whatever you wish would be fine with me- Er, wrong choice of words." The breeze drifting through his study is cold enough to form goosebumps, and yet he can't seem to quit burning up. He runs a quick hand through his hair, feeling the heat from his forehead underneath his palm, "Whatever you wish is perfect, I should say. If you want to- or, well, perhaps I could…"
Gale doesn't get the chance to say anything more.
He expects you to lean in. Sharply, he takes in a hurried, nervous breath. Uncertain palms hover over the curve of your waist, before settling with the slightest touch. His eyes grow heavy, his head begins to tilt opposite yours. What he doesn't expect is for you to stop, your lips almost pressed to his, but not quite, leaving the distance not yet closed.
You suspend there, for a moment. Your low breathing tickles his skin. Gale's hand finds your cheek, holding, and nothing more.
"Are you going to kiss me?"
There's only a half-second longer of hesitance. He closes the gap, and you fist the front of his shirt to pull him in along with you. Your eyes flutter shut. Fallen stars and glowing warmth shimmer through every inch of you. At last, your lips connect in a quaint, subtle kiss. Smooth, simple, and utterly him.
Shoulders slumping, your pulse thrums like the unsteady flicker of a candle flame. Your head begins to spin, your heart throbs with fiery longing. This is what you were waiting for. When you burned from the inside-out, wanting nothing more than to forget reason and your lives and his cruel Goddess, you only longed to just kiss him, regardless of the consequences. Everything else melts away: the setting sun, his warmly-lit tower, and your own feet from under you.
He's hardly done anything, and you're already overwhelmed. To your dismay, the kiss is over almost as soon as it begins. The both of you draw a breath's length apart. Gentle hands give your waist the smallest squeeze. You exhale, and Gale takes in a deeper breath along with you. Kissing him made the rest of the world fall away, or perhaps fall into place, and all you can think of is how desperately you need another.
Maybe he can read your mind, or maybe he's thinking the exact same thing. Delicately, Gale murmurs against your lips, "Forgive me for being greedy, but… I'm not sure that'll be enough for me. Could I kiss you again?"
As if he even has to ask.
With urgency, you're surging forwards, you're kissing him again and he can't manage to think — The only thing running through every inch of him is you. You, kissing him the way he's wanted you to for months upon months. Pressing your lips against his over and over, stealing his breath until he's feeling dizzy, but he doesn't care. You, lovely in a way he's never deserved, with a soul entwined by his own. You told him you love him; he can hardly stand to believe it.
Lips locked, you twist together, until Gale is guiding you by your waist. Until he's pressing your back against the edge of the nearest surface — his desk — to keep you both stable, while your hands are grabbing at his shoulders for leverage. You let a hand glide up, you tangle your fingers in soft brown hair. You grip and tug, dragging him close, and he sighs, mouth parting, allowing the kiss to turn deep. Enough to mark the point of no return.
This is everything he's ever wanted, you are the only thing he's ever needed. He could die happy, if this was his end. What a sweet, lovely end it would be. He can't describe how otherworldly it is, to know the desire he's had to kiss you won't die along with him. To know you have plenty of kisses left.
He could love you like this until the true end of the world. He's tempted actually, to slow down time, and savor you for as long as you will allow. You were well worth dying for, but you are priceless to live for. You and your touch, your love. Love — Gods, none of this will feel real, no matter how many times he reminds himself.
When his tongue slides against yours, a slow, apprehensive show of tenderness, you feel a shiver careen down your spine. He hears your breath get caught in your lungs, feels you tug him closer and arch into his touch once a palm drifts to the small of your back.
This kiss hopes to pour his devotion into you, so that you might understand. You'll know love, know the things he's always wanted to tell you, as familiar as you know yourself. He'll make sure this moment won't be forgotten.
You reach behind you, gripping the edge of the desk when his body presses into yours. Your mind is a mess, reeling so fast you might go woozy; another smooth kiss makes you pull him in further, ushering from him a meager gasp in surprise. You're lost, losing control. The both of you are trapped in a dance of vying for more, pressing closer, kissing harder. His knee slots between your legs — unintended encouragement, you're sure — and you jolt, your thoughts now occupied with things they really, really shouldn't be.
The smallest space between you fills with hot breath, as you pull apart just enough to get a word out. "Gale-"
"I've missed you," He murmurs, breathless and hurried, as though he doesn't wish to waste a single second, "I have missed you more than anything."
He leans close once more, his hand moves to hold the back of your neck and cradle you like you're precious. You kiss again, and any reservations you still have remaining fly away on the breeze, to be swallowed by the depths of the sea.
You don't want to stop. No, you know where this is leading, and still, you can't stop. You wouldn't dream of it. How long have you wanted to kiss him, wanted to have him to yourself? Wanted for him to lose his composure, and finally show you exactly how he felt? How long have you been waiting for more?
Since you met him, surely. Since you dragged him from that portal. Since he first shook your hand, and you felt your foolish heart spark to life. Piece by tender piece, you connected in secret. Fought through darkness to emerge onto the dawn, hoped the newfound day might bring you both together. Truly, you've waited too long to let a moment like this go to waste.
You pull apart for barely a second, you catch your breath while Gale mutters something against your mouth that sounds like your own name — And at once, you're closing the distance again. Your lips continue to learn the shape of each other, bodies shaky, rocking close. When a particularly desperate kiss causes his hips to drive into yours, you're the one left sighing. Your nerves prickle with excitement, your limbs feel weak. And a hardness, his hardness, shoves against you unmistakably, grinding into where you're terribly weak.
Oh, you won't be stopping now. Not any time soon.
Gale stiffens immediately, at the same moment you do. He peels himself apart from you so quickly you're left slumping, gasping into open air. You would have stumbled, if it wasn't for his hand on your waist gripping excessively tight, helping to hold you up. Faltering, he slowly lets go. Before he does, you think you can feel a slight tremble in his fingers.
"Ah, I'm- I'm sorry, genuinely," He stutters, practically panting as he tries to establish composure, a frail waver in his voice. You grip the desk tighter, staggering to your feet. The last traces of sunlight shimmer over his face, his earring, his eyes. Strands of his hair have fallen out of place, and he reaches up to briefly push them backward.
"You make it far too easy to get carried away." He says, sounding rough and short-winded, "That being said, it would be wise not to take things too far, that was- Well, you are-"
"That was perfect," You gasp out, cutting him off, or perhaps taking the words right out of his mouth. You bring a hand to his shoulder, an unspoken plea for him not to move away, "You don't have to stop, Gale. Please, don't."
Gale takes a long, slow breath. Hesitantly, he brings both hands back to rest on your waist — barely touching, his gaze scanning yours for any sign of discomfort. "Are you sure? Positively sure? Maybe it'd help if you, er, clarified, in a way."
"I'm clarifying that I want you to keep going. You don't have to hesitate, I want this," You retort, speaking softly, squeezing his shoulder in turn. Your eyes flicker over him, up and then down. "I showed you how I felt. It's only fair for you to return the favor, no?"
"Oh, of course. Fairness is one of the most crucial qualities to hone, in terms of forming a long-lasting bond. So says literature, anyways. But I think I'd prefer to mesh the showing with the telling, if that sounds at all pleasurable to you."
You're smirking. "As long as your sweet voice isn't the only pleasure in store for me."
He exhales a small huff, the faintest form of a laugh. A smile crosses his features, and he holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, admiring you like you're the prettiest sight this world has to offer. You very well might be.
His gaze comes to rest on yours: warm, complex, loving. For once, he doesn't speak. He demonstrates.
A small kiss is pressed to your cheek, innocent yet tender. Then, a kiss to the other side. His kisses travel; one he graces to the corner of your mouth, the next he places on the angle of your jaw. Your head tilts up in obedience, and he trails wet kisses down your neck, making you sigh weakly in response.
One more kiss is graced to your neck, then your nape, then just above your collarbone. They're weighted, in a way; heavy with an infatuation you can feel beneath his touch, and deep in your bones. His facial hair tickles your skin. His warm breath on your pulse is stifling, and it only begins to thump faster, fully at the mercy of his scattered kisses.
Meshing the showing, with the telling — It isn't long before he's babbling again.
"You hold so much of my heart," He mumbles; the words on your neck are a steady vibration. His palm caresses your side, his lips brush over your cheek, and then move to speak against the shell of your ear. The new depth to his voice is delightful. "Falling for you was… effortless. As effortless as one breathes. I have no regrets. Absolutely none."
The final kiss he places on your ear has shudders running through you. He's painstakingly slow once he starts to pull back, and he shifts just far enough to meet your eyes, your foreheads almost touching. That warm gaze on yours has your heart leaping all over again.
Strung through his tone is a thread of infatuation, a sweetness on his tongue you find oh-so endearing.
"You begged to be admired, but that hardly scratches the surface." He squeezes your side for emphasis. "You made me feel as though I meant something. Like I was alive. I'd forgotten how it felt, just as I'd forgotten what it could mean to fight for one's future." He pauses, thinking, reminiscing, "More so, I could say you brought me back to life."
Your mouth parts, forming the edge of a word. But Gale chooses to interrupt, tugging you in with a palm settled gingerly on your jaw, muddling your mind with a kiss. And you melt. You allow your head to tilt opposite his own, and your arm to snake between your bodies. Your hand presses flat to the center of his chest. He kisses you deeper, his heart thumps. Lingering magic strong enough to sense thrums beneath his robes, his skin.
"There's a line of poetry I once read," He's mumbling against your lips as he leaves them. His touch slides up slowly, supporting you, holding your back. "As of late, you've made it stick in my mind. Amidst the wealth of stories I've finished, the tales of truth and fiction, when I think of you, this singular line utterly refuses to part from me. And if one moment spent lost in contemplation equates to the faintest drop of rainwater, I've thought of you enough to flood the entirety of Faerûn."
Your eyes seem heavy. You're smiling, but your head is swirled in a dreamy fog. It's plain unfair to have to decide between hearing more, or asking him to kiss you again.
You decide on the former. "And what might that line be?"
Gale brushes your cheek with his thumb, "I do love nothing in the world so well as you."
He's completely genuine, he sounds so syrupy-sweet you can barely hold back your grin. You breathe a quiet, playful tsk, and you lean back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
In the course of your adventures together, you weren't sure how Gale felt about you.
It's rather stupid, thinking back on it now. Obviously, you had your suspicions. He was certainly warmer with you, compared to the rest of your allies. Despite knowing you could clearly take care of yourself, he regularly fussed over your safety, to the point of insisting you stick close to him whenever a fight broke out. He'd make a rash excuse, Powerful spells mean nil if you are not in the proper range for me to cover you! — or something like that. You always figured it was an exaggeration. Regardless, you weren't about to turn him down.
You were attached at the hip for safety's sake, that's all. Your remaining companions never seemed to buy it, nor could they hold their comments about the wizard's clearly defined soft spot. The thoughtful way he spoke to you had to mean more; or so they tried to convince you, anyway. You weren't easily influenced.
But it didn't matter. Without the courage and the time to ask, you couldn't be sure. You presumed he might like you, not love you.
This side to Gale is making you reevaluate. You've never seen him so enamored, never thought he'd be this smitten — with you, no less. In his eyes, you're a living beacon of radiance, a miracle meant to be adored. A bright, pale moon to light his way through the darkness, shimmering on jet-black waters. And adore you he will.
You were wrong, so very wrong. While you were busy falling for him, he was already plummeting harder.
"That's from a romance, isn't it?" You muse, tilting your head and eyeing him teasingly, "You're reciting romance lines to me?"
"Not just any romance, mind you. One of the greats. It's charming, very influential. Actually, the story is rather lighthearted- I'd be glad to introduce it to you, I have a feeling you'd enjoy it. But yes, in fact. I am."
"Somehow, you didn't seem like the romance type. I'm surprised. Pleasantly, though."
"A fine assumption. For quite some time, stories of a softer nature became subjects I rarely dabbled in." His index finger comes to rest under your chin, and your head is tilted in his direction. "But falling in love causes one to take interest."
Warmth swells in your veins, untamed. You picture Gale, retreating into his tomes and books when you had a moment of reprieve on the road, struggling to hide his infatuation with you. He'd often read to you, when he was able. His calm voice would narrate biographies and old history novels, until you were trying not to fall asleep. Romances were never a part of it. Perhaps they weren't a part of his personal collection, either. Yet the more you contemplate, the more they seem to suit him.
Did he read such stories to be reminded of you, to grapple with your absence? You can picture him getting lost in them, memorizing the scenes and the verses, in hopes your own tale might play out more like those novels, and different from what destiny threatened upon you. He yearned for things to be lighter, less somber. In the end, there was no world where you stopped longing for each other.
"Besides," Gale is continuing in his usual upbeat tone, giving you little time to think as he cups your cheek in his palm, "There's nothing wrong with choosing to be well-versed in everything. Fantasy, poetry, romance. Erotica, perhaps. I'm sure I could recall some more… exciting quotes, if you preferred it?"
"Please, there's no need," You tease, with the smallest roll of your eyes; although, your heart can't help but patter at the imagery. Gale, reading erotica, of all ridiculous things. "You're sweet. Even now, you're telling me about books. Could you be any more perfect?"
"Possibly," He confesses. "Where you're concerned, mere perfection is far from good enough." Swallowing the dryness in his throat, his eyes mist over with a saccharine seriousness, "My intentions were always to cherish you, to give you my utmost devotion, and then some. You deserve the world. I only wish I could give it to you."
"But you are enough for me. More than enough. I was lucky. So lucky, to have been fortunate enough to meet you. I'm not sure where I would be if I hadn't." Your fingertips drum against his shoulders, and gradually, he relaxes at your touch, from your tone. He exhales steadily, nice and slowly.
"Do you mean it?"
"Gale, I've never meant anything more. I want you so much. Just the way you are."
To have crossed paths with one another, to have met you — No, he is the one who must be fortunate beyond compare.
For a while, he stalls, deciding what to say. Each alternative comes up blank. Your fingers wrap around the neckline of his shirt, then. You feel the embroidered fabric with your thumb, the intricate pattern of swirls. You tug slightly, but Gale — still speechless, oddly enough — doesn't get the hint.
"Your shirt." When he opens his mouth to reply, you're swiftly interrupting. "Take it off."
He seems to freeze for a second, thinking. Then, the slightest form of a grin dawns on his face, a look of nervous contentment. He's reaching down to grasp the bottom of his velvet shirt, tugging it over his head. A messy happy trail litters from his stomach to disappear beneath his pants; it catches your attention, but not for long. Gale is pressing his palms to the surface of the desk, on either side of you, caging you in. You drift forward, and the kiss you share is a momentary distraction.
Effortlessly languid, he kisses you as though you have infinite time, and this is the only way he wishes to spend it. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, you hold him tight between the soft presses of lips connecting. You exhale in unison once you've both pulled away.
Foggy breath mixes with your own. It warms your skin as he sighs slightly, leaning forward until his forehead is rested against yours. You watch him visibly swallow. He nervously brings a hand to your waist; just holding, with no intention quite yet. The faintest touch makes you melt, until you feel woven into him, soft beyond repair.
"Do you have the slightest idea how long I've dreamt of this?" He starts, his voice quiet, shaky, "How much I've thought of you, how badly I've needed you? How long I've sought to… Gods…"
Your palm grazes his chest, and he trails off into a shuddery sigh — eyes closing, shoulders slumping. Delicate fingertips feel the shape of the Netherese brand engraved in his skin. You trace and retrace the circular indentation. You press your palm flat to his chest, feeling the silent hum of dormant magic, measuring each fluttery beat of his heart. His chest aches, his veins sear with all the heat they can muster.
That's right. He'd almost begun to forget the effect you have on him.
You've never been afraid. After learning the truth, you didn't look at him differently. You refused to cast him aside, in the face of his own insistence. A miasma of blinding purple light shone from underneath your palm, pain ripped through him as he relived his self-made tragedy in one single breath — and somehow, you understood. You only pressed your palm closer, expression unwavering, and swore a gracious promise to help.
You've helped him more than you know. He shouldn't feel this way. So sated. It hardly makes sense, from any perspective. There's many things he failed to do. He has much to learn: about himself, about this damned orb, and still, about you.
But right now, his heart is a battering ram against the constructed walls of his chest, and your fingertips are traveling up — They're grazing the wretched mark as it twists up his nape, his cheek. Your knuckles brush the tangle of dark lines underneath his eye, you cup his face in your hand. And the orb is quiet. It should be screaming with the rest of him. Instead, it chooses silence.
Magic works in such strange, indecipherable ways. If someone were to tell him long ago that this is how it could work — as though in your presence, it too, is comforted — he doesn't think any part of him would ever believe them.
His mistake will forever be a part of him. But so will you.
Gale finds your hand, and settles his on top of your own. He places a kiss onto the bridge of your nose, his palm slides from your hip until his thumb is edging underneath your top, just barely brushing your bare skin underneath. He hesitates, but a kiss of your own placed onto his jaw has him gasping, poised to pull your shirt over your head in the same way his was discarded.
"May I?" Gale hums, and you swiftly nod in approval.
"Yes," You reply, "Please."
The anticipation that settles in your gut is damn near agonizing. You were expecting him to move carefully, but not this slow.
Gale continues at an apprehensive pace. He stops to collide his lips with yours, when the edge of your top reaches the center of your stomach. With another smooth kiss, mouths parted, breath ragged, he tugs it higher still. You only break apart to bring your arms over your head, and give him a chance to pull it off the rest of the way.
A kiss onto your ear, and your chest is tight. His lips trail down your nape, and you're reaching up to grab a hold of his hair, your teeth gritting as you choke back a desperate noise.
Between sighs, your voice is weak, but you still manage, "How long you've sought to what?"
Gale mumbles a hm into your nape, he squeezes your waist and brushes his thumb over your skin. You know he's coaxing you to continue, but with his mouth on your neck, peppering kisses that wash over you like waves, it's rather hard to follow through.
Nonetheless, you grip a fistful of brown hair to give yourself leverage. You force yourself to take a deep, steadying breath. "You were saying something before. How long have you sought to do what, exactly?"
One last kiss, and Gale is drawing back to meet your eyes. He holds your chin between two of his fingers. There's a glint in the back of his gaze, causing heat to rush over you, your limbs suddenly growing weak.
"To take you," He admits, "To not just tell you what wondrous things you've made me feel, but to show you."
You're sure the wild look in his eyes is mirrored in your own. "Then what are you waiting for? Show me."
Gale smiles. He gestures with a crooked finger, and instructs with a tone that borders on smug, "Make yourself comfortable. If you could do the honor of hopping up on the desk for me, I'd be glad to get started."
When you press your palms flat to the solid wood, pushing to lift yourself, his hands maneuver under your thighs, and he helps to plop you on top of his messy wooden desk. He makes room for you, pushing stacks of books to the edge, giving you the space you need to scooch back. His brows are furrowed slightly as he's gathering half-opened scrolls to toss on the floor — from nervousness? Concentration? You aren't entirely sure, but you think he lingers somewhere in between.
Turning back to you, he innocently allows his palms to feel the shape of your bare sides. He smooths them over the curve of your waist, he caresses the faint indentations of the scars your journey and your previous path left. Then, not so innocently, his fingers are toying with the front of your pants. His thumb is rubbing over the button, while his gaze never leaves yours, his collected expression never once wavering.
Sitting atop Gale's desk is far from luxurious. You're already shifting, doing your best to relax and meet his eyes, but you tense when he gives you a full once-over. You stifle your nerves. By now, you don't care where he has you, as long as he doesn't make you wait for much longer.
Your impatience must reflect in your reaction. Gale brings his gaze back to yours, and it somehow seems much softer.
"I thought you couldn't get any more gorgeous," He whispers, his fingertips drawing shapes you can't recognize into your skin, "But before my eyes, you've so effortlessly proved me wrong. What a fool I am."
"A very loveable fool, at least," You counter, placing your hands on his shoulders as he glides his gentle palm up your side. The breeze still fluttering through his study tickles your skin, intensifying each faint, terribly warm touch.
"You're too sweet. I doubt you'd be as composed if you knew the true depth to my foolishness. There is a great deal to address. Too much to fit into one short night, I'm sure." Gale's eyes narrow, adoration at the forefront of his expression, "It's arduous to simply try and think around you, you know. Well, unless one finds themselves thinking about you. You're such an unrelenting plague on my every thought- A good plague, I should add, not the, erm. Sickly sort."
"Right. A good plague," You repeat. "Go on."
"You are… impossible not to think of," Gale corrects, "My mind was made to study the intricacies of yours. I often found myself lost, absorbed in the fierceness of my adoration for you. Even at times where I perhaps shouldn't."
Your eyebrow raises. "Is that so?"
After staring at you blankly for more than a few moments, he awkwardly clears his throat and continues, "I suppose you're waiting for me to explain? If you asked our unlikely band of companions, I'm sure someone would tell you. They certainly remember how immensely I embarrassed myself with my obviousness, at our reunion and when we were still merely surviving together. But you never knew. I assumed you never knew. You failed to notice when I couldn't stop… staring at you, for lack of a better term."
"I didn't notice that much." Briefly, your lips press into a line. "I had my suspicions, sure, but I wasn't entirely confident you felt… more, for me. More than the friendship we had already. Or maybe I found the reality of it hard to believe."
"More barely describes it. My heart would begin to pound each and every time I saw you. Damn thing would tear into my chest like it wanted to come free, especially in the moments where we finished another battle victorious, barely making it out with lives and limbs intact. I'd watch you dust your hands. Wipe the mess of dirt, and some unlucky soul's blood from your face. Your jaw set, your eyes darkened. And I could only think of how much I wanted you."
Apparently, he's not yet out of surprises. For a man who says so much, he picks the strangest times to keep his mouth shut, because you guarantee if you knew that then, you wouldn't have wasted this much time. No, you would've let him have you then and there, amongst the danger and against your judgment. Perhaps that's exactly what he was picturing.
You swallow, eyeing him softly, curiously. "Were you just thinking? Or did you do something about those thoughts of me?"
"Do something?" Gale huffs, letting go of you to return to his familiar habit of speaking with his hands, "As you know, those ideas, no matter how thrilling, could never be permitted to happen- They were forced to be kept in here, exclusively to myself. Lest they prove an unnecessary distraction. Many times, I dreamt of what it might be like to admit the truth. What I would say to you, if my feelings were returned. But I could allow these perspectives to haunt only me, and myself alone."
He averts his eyes in fleeting nervousness. Tentatively, he mumbles, "When you, when those thoughts threatened to swallow me into their waiting jaws, and I couldn't stop thinking- Dwelling on your voice, your touch. Your beauty. I would… Hold on. Oh."
You watch realization dawn on his face like the sun rising over the horizon. His eyes go wide and his face goes warm, he pushes away any uncertainty by breathing a small, light chuckle. He holds your side once more, and the anxiousness of his tense hand, fingers flexing, contradicts his supposed self-assurance.
"Naughty." Gale teases, "Correct me if I've somehow veered onto the path of the mistaken, but I do believe I've discerned what it is you're getting at."
Seems you can't hide your smirk anymore. Leaning back, your gaze locks with his, and the look on your face proves him right without the need for you to speak. Like the tressym who caught the canary, if he could describe it.
Still, your head tilts, and you murmur, "Judging by your reaction, I doubt you need to be corrected."
"Quite the risqué mind you have, don't you? And I thought I was the immodest one." His palm glides from your side, down to your waist, to your hip, "Though, I cannot lie, I am thrilled to indulge you. It's quite an… inappropriate matter to admit. But considering where we were already planning on taking this- Yes. I have done what you are thinking of. Shall I elaborate?"
"I'd love it if you would."
As you grasp his hand boldly, your fingers brush his. You guide him to the front of your pants again, until he's clutching the button, fiddling with it, feeling the shape while he tries to find his next words.
"I was always head over heels for you," Gale explains, popping the button before pulling on the zipper, "It would be pointless to claim otherwise. You were far more than a passing fancy, and I knew I could never forget, nor forgo you. You were my sanctum, my love. I worshiped you. And so I defied my Goddess."
You lift up when Gale begins to slide your pants from your thighs, until they're left in a pile on the hardwood floor. The surface of his desk feels cool against your bare legs.
"Of course, you already know that much. My point- Which don't fret, we are getting to," He says, a palm nonchalantly finding your thigh. He caresses your skin, and your heart is in your throat, because his fingers are drifting ever-so slightly closer, "Is that I was restless. There's an explanation as to why I would often avoid you, why I'd slip away once dusk became night. I pushed every potent feeling down, as to not affect our mission, nor our companionship. But you- You are enthralling."
Careful fingertips skate the inside of your thigh. And as you swallow down fragile gasps, he's only continuing, "Once I was alone, I could no longer stifle the longing I felt. Rest hardly reprieved me. I'd only dream of what we did not have the time to say, nor do. I imagined showing you everything I could give to you, the places I could take you, the marvels I wished for you to see. A snap of my fingers, and we could connect in ways you could not even envisage. We would forget our misfortunes. Our deities. Gods, it was worse when I had to watch someone else chat you up. That night, I'd be practically insatiable."
Your head is whirling.
His manner of speaking leaves more up to interpretation than you would have liked, but you know him well enough by now to be more than skilled at reading between the lines. And those words of his can only paint the most addictive picture.
Gale, trying his best to impress you, to make you smile and keep you safe, only to grow a slight bit jealous when you basked in the attention of someone other than him. Gale, slipping away and "going to bed early" the first chance he got. Holing up in his tent, while you had no idea why. Trying to sleep, only to be awakened over and over again by his enticing dreams of you. Your visage overwhelming his mind, the practiced, straight-laced wizard would finally give into his vices.
With a palm over his mouth, and a hand down his pants, his noises would be muffled as he works his deft hand over his stiff length. He'd close his eyes, silently scolding himself; he's ridiculous, moronic, pathetic. He should be able to stifle his foolish desires, and yet he couldn't stop, his jaw clenched as he visualizes what he wants, needs to do to you — For once, he'd let his hunger for you consume him.
Perhaps he isn't as principled as you once thought him to be.
"I- I felt the same way," You stammer, your throat tightening, making it harder to speak. His fingertips move upward to carefully graze your stomach; his gaze stays on yours, yet you're struggling to maintain eye contact. "It was hard not to daydream about you, whenever we had a moment to rest. My focus was… all over the place. I wanted you to myself. Wanted you to do whatever you wished to me."
"It seems we are one in the same. You could ask anything of me, and I would consider it done." Gale's thumb hooks around your underwear, but freezes there, not yet moving. His volume drops to barely above a whisper; smooth, and intoxicating, "But I did not always think of you in such sentimental terms. With you as… tempting as you are, and with a wealth of unspoken affections between us, my musings would often wander elsewhere."
A shudder racks your spine. "Elsewhere?"
Leaning closer, Gale allows his free hand to steady on your waist.
You've always thought him and yourself to be equal in prowess. You have fought beside him enough to respect his skill, but also to understand his weaknesses. Yet, in this moment, with his voice echoing against the shell of your ear as a low, sultry hum — If this were a fight, you would've already, most certainly lost.
"Yes, to the comforts we hadn't yet explored. To the way your voice might sound when it strains. I pictured your hands, purely natural when they are joined with mine. Or perhaps your arms, your legs, tightly wrapped around my shoulders, and my back."
You feel his palm, caressing your side in slow, simple circles. Your eyelids flutter, your body tremors in the wake of a pleasurable tide. Through his tone, you can practically hear the smile on his lips, "I'm sure you get the idea. I confess, I was not as grounded around you as I may have appeared to be. For saving-the-world's sake, my focus could not wane. Yet, my foolish heart only wanted to hear how you might plead to be given every last inch of me- And I would entrust it all to you. My mind, my body. My soul, if you had any use for it."
His words have you so distracted, you almost fail to notice he currently has your underwear half-way down your thighs.
Your gaze meets his. Something you can't read reflected in the back of his eyes, he gazes at you silently, but questioningly. As if he's waiting for your word to continue. Sighing, you force yourself to relax. You ignore the budding warmth that gnaws at your core. You shift, before you lift once more, and with a sly grin, he takes the hint to pull the garment off the rest of the way.
"I might," You reply, shivering when his palm returns to your thigh, allowing your legs to part slightly when his touch begins to drift, "Maybe I'm a devil in disguise."
"The sweetest devil in all of the Hells," Gale purrs. He presses a quick kiss to your cheek, and his fingers gravitate away; dizzy, your breath hitches. You can't figure out if he's teasing you on purpose, but whatever the bastard is trying, he's certainly succeeding. You tense from your shoulders to your legs, only for his lips on your nape to make you crumble again.
"Gale-"
He kisses the column of your neck, and your grip tightens on the desk's edge, nails practically digging into the wooden surface. Gale's fingertips achingly draw circles on the inside of your thigh, his touch coaxing them further apart. Your lungs are overwhelmed. By the lack of air, by the scent of dusk, and his books, and him.
"Please," You plead; the sound is a sweet melody to his ears, "Touch me."
You're more than enthralling — You are simply irresistible.
Gale sighs, and as the held breath leaves him, he swears he feels the center of his chest thrum with such staggering tenderness.
"You very well may be my demise."
Bracing a hand on your waist, he hesitates. His brows pinch slightly. His palm feels clammy, almost, and you can feel the heat like untamed fire, radiating from his skin, shining through every pore. Cast upon him is a sheet of silken, fading light. You breathe, in and then out. How can he be so damn handsome?
"It's been a while since I have done anything of this sort. I do not wish to overstep." Gale brings his fingers to rest underneath your chin — index and middle, tilting your head ever-so gently towards him. "You'll tell me if it gets to be too much? If I ever do something that you have, erm. A less than savory reaction towards?"
"Of course," You reply simply, but the simplest of words are all he needs to be put at ease. "Do as you like. I trust you."
And so, he does. His eyes soften, they remind you of dripping, warm honey. Yet, the palm that begins to glide over your chest, softly caressing, is somehow even warmer.
You're nearly nose to nose, as Gale touches every curve and dip from your chest to your collarbones, admiring the lovely details. It's tender — analytical, in a way — as though he's studying exactly what forms your shape, so he may never forget. The sound of his breathing, along with your own echoes faintly in your ears. You feel revered, like the statue of some sacred God; and from study or by memory, he will learn to sculpt you.
"Beautiful," Gale murmurs quietly, "You are made of splendor and stardust."
Your heart intends to deny those words. You once thought differently, you believed ruin and rot were all to compose you. But if he presumes otherwise, if Gale is the one to insist you're so much greater, there isn't a single part of you left to challenge him. You are beautiful.
At once, your veins buzz, exhilaration rippling through your system at his voice, his touch. His fingertips trail the length of your shoulder. They teasingly trace downward, only to move back up again, despite the twitch of your thighs and the purse of your lips.
"That night," He breathes, his hand studying the column of your throat, the curve of your jaw, "Where I created the sky for you, I came right to the precipice of confessing. You were beautiful then. As you always are. I felt this… fondness, dwell within me while I looked at you. I wondered if your lips were as plush as they looked. Gods, I wanted to kiss you. Our enemies should have tore a page from your book. You know better than anyone how to reduce a former chosen to such weakness."
Those addictive fingertips reach back, tracing up your spine, causing your whole body to tingle. From the smallest of touches, from his touch, you're rife with anticipation. You've wanted and waited so much and so long to feel this. Gale's other hand tightens on your side, reassuring while holding you still, and you wouldn't be surprised if he could tell. If he knew what he was doing to you.
He's missed you, loved you, with every fiber of his doomed being. Now, fondness is more than within him; it's engulfing him whole.
He swallows thickly. "It would have been delightful to pull you close. To cast aside my misgivings, and instead have you right then and there. Underneath the shimmering lights, while whispering blades of grass tickled our skin. The sight of you laid out underneath me would have been more exquisite than any flourish I am capable of creating, I'm sure. Or, the sight of you above, perhaps? I didn't mind either which way."
"Gale."
You mumble his name, in some cross between a hiss, a pout, and a plea. He catches your eyes with a smile.
More than you might think, he has you figured out. The look you give him whenever he speaks: warm and soft-eyed, breath hitched, expression blissfully entranced. You've mentioned your not-so subtle weakness for his voice before. You love hearing him talk like this, don't you?
"You're sweet, but sometimes-" You choke on a gasp, shuddering once his hand is roaming down, down. This time, brushing your stomach, your hip, your thigh. "Sometimes, I really just want you to kiss me."
Perhaps you could listen to him forever, but he's no fool. Any request of yours he'd be happy to oblige. Especially this one.
"Come here, then," He says, already closing the distance, "You merely have to ask."
A hand holding your jaw, Gale pulls you in, his head tilting until you collide in a soft mess of lips and tongue. He blindly finds your thigh, gently pushing them apart; he squeezes your plush flesh, before he kisses you harder.
Together, when you both pull apart to breathe, he meets your gaze: a question, and permission. You don't look away. Your gasps grow sharper as his touch moves closer, your nerves strung tight, your bottom lip drawn between your teeth.
The ends of his fingers brush your slick, waiting entrance, and you whine.
"Oh, you're… Wow," Gale sighs out. You swear with the way he sounds, he's practically in disbelief. He drags the digits up, getting them drenched and filthy in your mess of arousal, his fingertips applying slight pressure when they reach your swollen clit. You tense, swallowing down a whimper. His fingers glisten in the dying light, you watch him very obviously glance down once he drags them away. Pulling them apart, he admires the string of glossy slickness that clings in between them.
"And I've barely just begun." He looks back to you, breathing the slightest huff, "I knew you- Well, I thought you felt strongly about me. As strongly as I feel about you. If I knew I was capable of doing this to you, of compelling you to be this… desperate, I would have divulged how I felt a great deal sooner."
Like he's one to talk. Your affections go both ways — He made that clear when he was a stiff mess in his pants, just from you kissing him.
Your chest heaves with your gasps, but only heaves harder once his touch leaves. His knuckles tense, his hand hovering inches away from you, and he looks over your face with brief apprehension. Right now, you can't have any of it.
"What do you need?" Gale asks, tone smooth, low.
"Your… Your fingers-"
"And you need them where, to be exact? They are capable of bringing a great number of things into fruition. To have them inside of you, filling you- Is that what you're after?"
"Yes," Your voice wobbles to the edge of cracking, and you follow along, forcing yourself to get more specific, "Need them inside. Please, don't make me wait."
He's never heard you beg before. Never thought you could get so needy, so flushed. For him, you're begging for him.
During the path of your previous journey, your polite requests of him here and there were more than enough to get him ecstatic. This, though? He thinks he might crave to hear you plead your lovely desires for the rest of his existence.
The same hand you've watched cast spells drifts back to you, between your legs. Gale's fingers, dexterous as they handle a fragile flicker of light in between them, masterful as they form the shape for another incantation. Delicately holding a thin quill pen, turning the pages of a worn book, crooking up to summon a hidden tome, or a detailed projection — His fingers begin to ease inside you, and all you can do is bite your tongue, and grip the edge of his desk like your life depends on it.
They feel thicker than they look. You weren't expecting to be so full, even when they aren't entirely in, nor were you thinking he'd go this slowly. With how soaked you are, with how much you've needed him, you know his fingers — ring, and middle — would press inside you so simply, if that's what he was aiming for. They'd slide all the way in, fill you down to his knuckles, until your needy cunt is fluttering around him; you're filthy, and yet, despite the thoughts you have bouncing around in your brain, you hardly feel an ounce of shame.
Instead though, different from what you were imagining, he takes his time. He savors this, savors you, delighting in your pretty expression, and the delicious moan you let go of as his fingers fill you just half-way. Half-way, not sinking fully in. The damn wizard is teasing you. He's dragging both digits out before they've truly given you what you wanted, leaving you disappointed once they slip away.
As a small mercy, his fingertips move to circle your clit with the faintest touch. Right then, the entirety of you burns red-hot, impossibly sensitive. It's so much, and not enough at the same time. If he doesn't continue, you think you might cry.
"I was intending to take things patiently, but I am more than willing to compromise," Gale suddenly murmurs, out of breath, his gasps betraying the levelness he tries to keep to his words. Clearly, this is affecting him just as much as it may be affecting you. His free hand tenses on your waist, and he drawls, "Tell me if it becomes too much. Or if you're in need of more."
Like clockwork, you don't even wait for him to take another breath in. "More, Gale."
He chuckles. Actually chuckles, in spite of any nervousness — and when the sound alone makes you shiver, a soft gasp in pleasure leaving your lips, you know you're absolutely done for.
"Eager little thing." There's enough adoration in his words to devour and get drunk off of, "No matter, I'd already planned to give you everything."
Your hand on the desk's edge clenches, and as though he knows without the need to see, Gale moves to place his palm over yours. His touch brushes your knuckles, his hand is effortlessly warm. His fingertips press to your waiting entrance; you breathe a sigh of approval, before he's working to slide them back inside you.
They ease into your warm cunt deeper, nice and easy. As far as they'll go, until you're sufficiently full, with his palm lightly pressing against your pelvis, his knuckles barely grazing you. Gale's expression turns soft, washed over in utter lust. He mumbles the slightest swear under his breath that you almost don't catch, paired with a tender, low, That's it.
And fuck, you're already struggling to handle this, but to hear him praise you?
When he'd do so before, you were affected quite the same. He'd give you an earnest Excellent job! whenever you cracked another lock, or a Well done, when you downed a rather difficult foe. It was impossible not to dwell on his words, as ridiculous as you often felt. He would affectionately pat your shoulder, or place a hand on the small of your back when he was especially proud of you. You'd feel a chill run up your spine, just from that. A particularly shameful chill.
Now though, like this? When his voice is a whole octave lower, and noticeably sultrier; when he's got two of his fingers nestled deep inside you, and his pretty gaze on yours, hair out of place as it gets stuck to his sweaty forehead — Gods help you, if he decides to say anything more. Knowing him, he will.
He's still smiling while he stares at you, a look that speaks in pure adoration. And no matter how overwhelming, no matter the shivers that surge through your veins at the thought, or the intense pounding of your heart, you want him to speak. He's fucking right, his voice is your weakness. You want to hear all he's longed to tell you, no details spared.
He's lucky you haven't melted into a puddle by now. Your limbs are weak, you feel like you might have. His poor scrolls. There's no doubt you're making a mess, but puddle-you would have left his desk and its important contents in shambles.
Gale languidly pumps his fingers into you, in and then out, and your teeth grit at the sloppy noise they create. The pace he sets is slow, true to his earlier word. Ecstasy buds in your core at every draw back, and firm press in. Yet, the devotion, the listlessness to it — You're put on a pedestal right between needing less, and wanting more. It's perfectly agonizing.
It isn't enough, you need just a sliver more of what he's not providing. But his slow, meticulous movement has you reeling. His thick fingers fuck you methodically, working you up to right where he wants you, and not an inch more. It feels like you might shatter in his arms, his hands, and he would be the one to put you back together.
"Please," You're murmuring, your back arching, your eyes deep and hazy, utterly enchanting, "I need you- need you not to stop, fucking please."
You make his focus shift in a mere instant. Holding onto you tighter, his fingers curl on the next press in, nudging oh-so perfectly against where you're oh-so sensitive. You're a mess, but he loves it; he relishes in admiring this lovely, desperate side to you. You practically cry out, your body tensing beneath his touch, your eyes screwing shut. And Gale, ever attentive, perpetually ambitious, crooks his dexterous fingers inside you again in a draw for more, until you're a gasping, trembling mess.
"You sound wonderful. Just perfect. Believe me, I want to stop as much as you may want to. Which, with regards to your greedy form of begging, would surely be not at all," Gale whispers, in a delicate hum. His words fill your head like clouds. "I have waited too long for this. I have wanted you far too greatly to stop now, and I do not plan to."
You have his fingers soaked, his palm and his wrist filthy, practically dripping with your messy arousal. Between stifled whines and struggles for air, you utter his name. He falters for a moment. Ignoring his slacks growing tight and uncomfortable around him, he takes in an overly controlled breath.
"Don't try to silence yourself," He says, "I want to hear everything."
Your thighs quiver. They threaten to close around his arm, while precise fingers bully your sweet spot; you couldn't hold your moans for him back, not even if you were trying to.
You toss your head back with a whine, loud and unabashed, and Gale offers your hand a gentle squeeze. His breathing is sharp, loud enough to hear, to feel as a fan of warmth against your chest and neck. The heat between you builds to something unbearable. Each thrust of his fingers is relentless: they draw gasps from you that echo in the walls of his study, your lungs aching raw. You are wet and warm and impossibly soft around both digits, you'll feel much softer and wetter around him. And you're simply stunning, from the top of your head, to the ends of your toes. Gorgeous, in a way he'll try his damndest to deserve.
To hold you until the stars give out, to never have to let you go would be a dream made real.
Engrossed in giving you what you need, he admires the softness present on your features when you prop yourself back up. Your chest heaves, your bottom lip trembling. He's been so focused on you, he hardly notices you've already shifted.
You reach forward, your arm is shaky, faint gasps still slipping past your lips as his fingers massage that addictive spot deep within you. Your palm presses to his chest. Only then does he realize how quick his heart's been beating, and how strongly you've been affecting him.
If you were a drug, or a form of charming magic perhaps, you'd be the most potent there is. Your hand glides down, gaze stuck on his — gazes locked on each other — and he lets you. He lets you move your palm down to a near dangerous degree; he shifts forward and closer, in fact, to simplify your reach.
Impulsive, you allow your palm to travel between his legs before you've given it a second thought. You feel the firm outline of his cock, shamelessly tenting his pants, and Gale's brows pinch. He shudders, sighing softly, but he doesn't hold back from leaning into your touch. A small movement has his clothed length grinding against your palm; pure, exquisite friction. Fortunately, swarmed by your own desperations, you are wasting no time giving him more.
For the first time since he began, or maybe for the first time ever, Gale's resolve crumbles. Your hand slips into his pants, wrapping around his hard, silky length, and he groans, the sound sweet enough to incite a heady pulse between your legs. He braces his free hand on the desk to keep steady, and his pace turns frantic as his head dips, strands of hair in his face, his fingers clumsily pistoning into you.
He's warm in your palm, slick with dripping precum that dirties the smooth fabric of his briefs; so distinctly heavy, you start to feel dizzy, overwhelmed by a rush of blood to your head.
"Shit," Gale swears under his breath when you grip him, then pump him, his eyelids heavy like he's woozy. Your reaction is immediate and visceral, pleasure blazing in your core, your chest heaving with quickened whines.
His jaw clenches instinctually, your palm hurriedly swiping over his sensitive, weeping tip. It sends flurries of pleasure over him, and makes every touch much slicker, much wetter. The damp squelch made by the twists of your hand is nearly as filthy as the echo of his fingers plunging into you.
He chokes on a moan, and he hurriedly murmurs, "Your touch is… It is unlike anything I have ever felt before, it's- oh- indescribable…"
You're panting, your hand slowing down, the fragility and newfound pitch to his voice pooling heat in your gut, "Should I stop?"
"No, for the love of every God still left watching over us," Gale reaches up, shakily tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips brush your skin with potent electricity, before he sets his palm back down on the desk, close enough to have your thumbs touch. "Absolutely do not stop."
There's conviction in his voice; it makes your heart pound, and subsequently tremble.
The way you stroke him is messy and quick, frantic to make up for the lack of space the confines of his slacks provide. Your brain is scrambled from his voice, his fingers: easing inside you, and then crooking, punching whines from you each time they perfectly nudge your sweet spot. You feel known, loved, as he studies what you need — to give it to you here, and countless times over.
Between your sins and his, the room is drowned in the echoes of gasps, whines. In wet noises that sound disgustingly lewd when they reach your ears, sending sparks twisting up your back. Gale falls forward, his forehead rests softly against yours. He finds the curve of your waist, gripping you tight; a touch that brands, that makes you pliable. His warm hand on your bare skin is a wave of molten comfort, washing deep into your bones.
"Back then," You mumble breathlessly, beginning a tangent of your own, "I wanted so badly to tell you how I felt. I w-wanted, needed you, I would have given up anything to be close to you. I thought of… of trying to stay quiet in your little tent, trying to make sure no-one else would hear us. You'd whisper in my ear that we have to be quiet, and cover my mouth with your palm while you rocked into me…"
Gale stutters. He throbs, underneath your touch, and lets go of a long, shaking breath. He rolls his hips into your grip just barely, chasing another ray of pleasure.
"Even a rudimentary spell could've… hah, solved that problem easily," He grits out, the bridge of his nose in a focused knot, "But I'm glad we weren't so hasty. This moment we have now, it is kept solely to ourselves. If we-" A groan, a sigh, "Had to account for unnecessary company, I would never have known how lovely you sound when you're pleading my name."
"Fuck- Gale…"
You moan in unison, syncing your breathing and the skip of your heartbeats. In the midst of your own pulse in your ears — your head swirling, drunk on him — you are freeing his cock from his slacks, making him inhale a hiss as the room's cold air hits his length. Your palm strokes all of him, from base to head: tenderly, slowly, agonizingly. He trembles, and his thumb brushes your clit while his fingers stay sheathed inside. Desire takes over what remains of you, as though his touch itself is made from magic.
"I wanted to- I-" It's difficult to talk now; his thumb rubs slow circles onto your sensitive clit, and tension grips you tight, taut as deep in your core as his fingers reach. "I wanted to kiss you, feel you, taste you. Sometimes, I wished we could just forget everything and- Oh, Gods, I needed you, Gale. I knew I was foolish and greedy, but I couldn't lose you. I didn't want anything to ever happen to you, I love you. Just you, just as you are."
Just as you are.
More than anything he's once known, stronger than everything he's ever felt, those words send him spiraling into a hopeless, tender oblivion.
You won't have to fear losing him. Not ever again.
Despite the slight parting of his lips, he can't say anything more; he can only exhale in warm, heady pleasure, and sway forward to collapse into you. Your palm, working over his cock with soft, steady strokes, has him hurtling close to the edge with no reprieve in sight. His forehead leans into the curve of your nape, breath hot on your skin, and he can barely manage to think, let alone control the unsteady pace of his fingers; fucking into you desperately and clumsily, sending pleasure spiraling through your system.
But your voice — Chiming in his ears, echoing with the earnestness of bells, you bring every devoted component of his attention right back to you.
"Please," You beg, your tone quiet, on the verge of shattering like glass. Gale moves his palm to hold the small of your back as a slight comforting gesture, a silent reminder that he has you, and you feel the petals of your heart unfurl, and unwind.
"I'm right there," You're gasping, "I'm- ah, please…"
He can't contain himself, sweat beading at his chest and forehead as he sloppily thrusts into your now-loose grip. Every slow, choppy buck of his hips leaves him more overwhelmed. You have your head tipped back, as you jerk him off hurriedly, choking on your own moans. Euphoric flames lap at your gut, your limbs — Gale peppers your nape in haphazard kisses, and all it takes is one more touch, three more words.
"I love you," His murmur rolls in vibrations against your kiss-sensitive nape; you melt, your back slumps. There's an intensity to his tone, a thickness to his accent and a slur between the syllables. You nearly drown him out with your own chants of his name.
"My sweetheart," He falters, "My love- You feel perfect, and I- I'm so close- I've got you, let go, let go with me-"
You flutter around his fingers, and he stammers with words left unsaid, murmuring faint recitations of your name as you both reach the crescendo. Frantic jerks of your palm and feverish swipes of his thumb on your clit, his touch palpable with so much love you can practically feel it — and you're slamming over the edge together.
Gale's breathing comes from weary, bruised lungs. You feel him twitch, then pulse, and messes of moans and gasps resound onto your neck as he spills into your hand. The mess drips over your palm, coating your fingers. Your heart pounds against your chest like a drum, and the pleasant disaster of your release washes over your body — making you tense and cry out, your legs quivering as you cum for him — before setting you down, shakily and slowly.
You can hardly think by the end of it. The aftershocks that grip you are unlike anything you've ever felt before. Finding your high while thinking of him pales in comparison to cumming for him, on his fingers.
Neither you, nor him can speak. When Gale finally pulls apart from you, dragging his fingers from your warmth and stumbling to his feet, what makes up your tangled thoughts is still very much fuzzy. You're both panting hard; him, more than you are, perhaps. Your thighs are tense and sore, you have to force them to relax to ease some of the strain.
Through heavy eyelids, you watch him run a palm over his face. He massages his temple, and lets go of a deep, weighted breath. The way he looks at you then, gaze settled on yours, could be enough to entrance you, all on its own.
"Beautiful." He hums simply. His voice is still rough at the edges, quiet and strained. You aren't sure if it's a description, or a term of endearment; maybe both, you figure, so you can enjoy a taste of each.
He reaches up to hold your jaw, his touch ever soft. You're lost for a moment. You catch your breath along with him, and feel what remains of the world around you fade away.
"I believe I was meant to love you," He says, so earnest, his faith itself makes you shake. "You are an irrevocable destiny. My destiny."
You offer him a smile that roots into him from the inside-out. And when he drifts forwards to kiss you at last, pulled in your direction like a fish on a line — Your lips press to his, and in his chest, arises a glow.
This shared kiss is long, deep, and effortless. It is a waltz you both know how to follow, and yet, you lose your footing just the same. He pulls you close with an arm around your back, and you curl into his familiar touch. In turn, you clutch him tighter, kiss him harder, with your palm on his shoulder and a hand tangled in messy locks of brown hair.
You both breathe a sigh once you've slowly pulled apart. Gale holds your chin, and speaks softly, the words akin to a secret prayer.
"I am yours. Now, and for the eternities of lifetimes that might await us after this one." His expression deepens, and his thumb brushes your lips, carefully but simply, "I truly do love you."
I love you. Those words still feel as soft as they are strange. They're all you've ever wanted though, natural on the tongue, despite how unrelentingly they shake you.
Perhaps you really were meant for this, just as he believes. In this life, and in the lifetimes to follow, you will find and embrace one another.
Standing up straight, he stretches, fixing his slacks before rolling his shoulders back. Your gaze flickers over his shape, and then down. Tenderness makes way to bristles of embarrassment, and it's hard to continue biting your tongue. Between the both of you, you've made quite the mess. Reminders of what transpired hit you like a bucket of bricks. Your heartbeat particularly spikes at the droplets of milky white that dirty the desk's smooth surface, and the flesh of your thighs.
Gale seems to notice your staring.
"Apologies," He clears his throat so loud the sound practically bounces around the room. His tone carries a weight of lightheartedness, and you can't explain how nice it is to hear. It lightens the load on your own shoulders, in some way. "I did not suspect I was… so pent-up. Are you alright?"
"I'm alright," You resound, inhaling slowly, and feeling the buzz in your chest begin to settle as a result. "I feel great, honestly. How about you? Tired yet?"
"Oh, I am anything but. Feels like I pissed off some impudent mage, and as punishment they set my nerves aflame," Gale shakes out his sweaty palms, then idly flexes his fingers, "Not any sort of punishment I've ever heard of, but I would certainly commend their creativity. It will take more than that to tire me out, I assure you. Unless you, yourself are tired, of course. In which case, I would be glad to assist in your relaxation."
"Thank you, but there's no need. I'm not tired yet either." You shuffle closer so you can wrap your arms around him, and your hand promptly tangles in his hair, while the other brushes the back of his neck, fingertips tracing down to the space between his shoulder blades. You swear you feel him shiver. "C'mere. I haven't had near enough of you."
"Is that so?" Gale smiles. He closes the fraction of distance between you, and steadies a hand on your jaw. "I'm pleased to say the feeling is mutual."
This time, the kiss he plants to your lips reminds you of falling. Falling, with no worry of hitting the ground. Just infinitely drifting through a cloudless sky, while you helplessly listen to the race of your pulse in your eardrums. And as quickly as he sends you careening towards the earth, he's grounding you, with a kiss to your throat that sets your senses alight.
His lips hover there for longer than they need to, breathing warmth onto your neck, until you reward his efforts with the sweetest of sighs. Then, his mouth trails kisses from your collarbone to your shoulder. His hand holds your side when you sway, helping to keep you steady.
It's as though your soul is helplessly detached from your own body. The growing shadows in his quaint study envelop your vision, and cradle you in their looming embrace. You imagine the pale moon, the shimmering stars, soon to bathe you in their faint light. But for now, it's just the two of you, pleasantly alone, in the center of his universe. Truthfully, your soul is bound to him. Gale's hands, and beating heart.
Warmly, he mutters against your shoulder, a squeeze of your side blended with slightly muffled words, "Are you comfortable?"
"Mhmm," You nod, and you tilt your head opposite as he moves to press kisses to the other side of your nape, "We can move- If that's what you want."
"What I want is to have you wherever it is you prefer." Placing a final small kiss to the side of your neck, he then pulls back, meeting your pretty gaze with an expression that sparkles. "My bedroom is always an option. Traditional, yes, but surely comfortable. Continuing here would be most pleasant as well. Most exciting. The choice is left up to you, although," He breathes a slight laugh, "I suppose I may picture this the next few times I am sitting here working. Might pose a slight problem to my future productivity."
You huff, half-rolling your eyes. You playfully squeeze his shoulders, teasing palms caressing his warm skin, "In that case, I want you nowhere else but here."
Gale smirks, his expression enveloped in unmistakable tenderness, but this time, he holds his tongue. He grasps your wrists, and when your palms follow his lead to slip from his shoulders, he is taking your hands into his. He's shifting, kneeling, sinking down in front of you until your heart is left a shaken and stuck mess inside your throat.
"Look at me."
Oh. You didn't notice you were starting to glance away, avoiding his eyes while you attempt to ignore the warmth burning over your face. You tear one of your hands away from his to grip the edge of the desk, steadying yourself. Hesitantly, your gaze flickers back to his own — just in time to watch Gale press a kiss to your knuckles.
He looks at you as though you are devastation, devotion, in the softest, mortal form. Twilight shimmers in the details of his silhouette: the features of his face, the silver in his hair, and his shiny, metal earring. You once thought the symbol hanging from his ear to be some solemn, self-imposed reminder. Instead, you've grown to realize it is spite, pure and fierce. Because after everything, he is still tenderly, maddeningly alive.
"You will not lose me, not ever, not for a moment," He says gently, squeezing your hand, resoluteness in the back of his gaze. "I promise you. I want for nothing, when you are at my side. Nothing but the privilege of seeing you smile, which I will try my very hardest to earn. No matter what we may face, perils or strife, anything that is left to try and stand in our way, we will brave it- We will defy it. And we will do so together. Just as we once did."
Gale allows his thumb to brush over your knuckles before he lets your hand go. You eye him silently, awestricken, your chest tight and your mouth useless. Perhaps it is your silence that prompts him to gaze at you smugly, place his palms on your thighs, and shift closer until his head is inches away from dipping between your legs.
"Now, let me have you." Voice low, he breathes the words loud enough for only you to hear, "Let me cherish you, as I have always longed to, and as you have always deserved."
So foolish. He does have you, he has held every part of you from the moment you and him collided.
You take a breath, deep and slow. "Then have me."
Reaching forward, you knot a hand in his hair as encouragement. Gale holds your waist, smirking slightly, and he waits, lingering, or perhaps teasing you. When your fingers tighten on his hair and you let go of a quickened, impatient huff, the desperate look on your face causing his heart to skip, only then does he finally move. He leans close, pressing a kiss to your stomach that brims with tingling electricity.
"Gale-" And you sigh, you melt, "I love you, I love you so much-"
His brows knot, softness in his expression, and he begins to adore your skin with his lips. He plants messy kisses from your navel, down. When he moves from your hips to your legs, tenderness turns to hunger. His kisses are warmer, blessed onto your inner thighs as he leaves faint bites, along with soft brushes of the tongue; not enough to mark, just enough to feel. Enough to make you tremble at the subtle nip of teeth, and shake from the heat of his steady breaths on your skin.
Both palms find your thighs to gently coax them apart. Nervousness prickles up your spine, heightened by the warmth in your gut, and by the heaviness in Gale's eyes as he looks up at you. But when he leans close, at the first swipe of his tongue over your waiting cunt — Everything melts away to nothing but sharp, pure pleasure.
Your fingers grip his hair so tight you think you might yank some strands out. You're panting, and he isn't stopping; each little lap of his tongue makes you shake, already a whining mess, echoing the sweetest noises for him. You only make him want to hear more.
He wants you crying happy tears for him, wants you to forget your hardships as you fall to pieces on his mouth; but for now, he'll have patience. Slight, teasing flicks of his tongue are enough to start with. Judging by the intensity of your grip on his hair, and the way your chest heaves from the force of loud, labored breathing, he isn't sure you can handle much more, despite how terribly you make him want to give it to you. You deserve all you could ever need.
You deserve to be happy, safe, loved. He won't let you be marked by more scars. You're precious to him, more precious than anything he has once held, and simultaneously, you are damn near impossible to resist.
From between both your thighs, he can't tear his gaze away from you above him: your pretty face, consumed by ecstasy and impatience. You, on the other hand, can barely take the way he looks at you with such tenderness, and yet, confidence. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
Gale swipes the flat length of his tongue over your entrance, then flicks the tip against your clit, and the moan you let fall from your lips captivates the entirety of his muddled mind. He huffs something of a laugh, and pulls back to give you a small chance to breathe.
"Remarkably sweet, and ravishingly sensitive." The sultry hum to his tone settles a decadent sensation between your ribs: pleasure, and an encompassing anticipation. His lips are already wet and glistening. "You were just meant to be devoured."
Your heart shudders, and your breath hitches. Gale grips you by your sides, his gentle touch smoothing over your skin. His hair in his face is a mess you've made. You shakily push the strands back, and as your fingers brush close to his scalp, the only signs he's affected are the shuddery inhale he takes, and the devotion that shines in the back of his pupils.
"Spread your legs apart a little further, for me," He mumbles. When you oblige, he hums the smallest form of praise, the faintest, Very good. Then, his mouth is giving you no room for respite.
You whimper, watching his honeyed gaze on yours go soft, before his eyes flutter shut. His hands on your sides grip you tighter, and with swipes of his tongue, he thoroughly tastes your entrance. He was right; you are sensitive. Especially when he buries his face in your cunt, every sickeningly slow lap of his tongue feeling charged, ripe with exhilarating arousal.
When you tense, panting harder with a swallow, he squeezes your side, and he stops. He huffs in short breaths centimeters away from you. Your shoulders slowly go slack. You press both hands to the edge of the desk and hold on tight, trying to remain steady. He only dives in again once your sighs have settled, and this time, he's licking, then sucking. The sound is sloppy, terribly lewd, as he presses his lips to you and sucks softly on your clit. Infatuation surges through your veins so fast, you begin to feel yourself go numb.
He licks a steady stripe, groaning quietly. His facial hair scratches the inside of your thighs with such bitter sweetness. He's moving one palm down to your thigh, caressing before lifting. Your leg settles comfortably onto his shoulder, and he's pressing closer, he's ever-so carefully easing his tongue inside you. It's warm, meticulous; the attention there, the sensation of being so barely filled, stretched around the end of his tongue — It makes your head spin with ferocity.
Those sensations melt to expectancy, to a dwindling heat as he draws back; for only a moment, thankfully. He swallows, his words muffled when he mutters against your eager cunt, "You taste divine."
On his tongue, he's sure you're the sweetest thing he's ever known. Saccharine like the stars, akin to the smooth velvet wine he remembers sampling in Calimshan. But perhaps, it's even sweeter to have you like this, to know he's the only one who can do this to you. Your limbs are trembling for him. It's his tongue you're a mess on, his voice and his touch to make you this way.
He should never have doubted himself. If he could rewind the clock just once, it wouldn't be to change past wrongs, nor would it be to rid his chest from the orb, or abandon it entirely. He would have gone without meeting you then, still just a reckless wizard in the cold palm of his Goddesses hand.
Rather, he would go back and tell you how he felt, he'd tell you everything — He'd have you accompany him to Waterdeep well before his proposition at your reunion, and he wouldn't have held back the words on his tongue. He doesn't want to leave you, he loves you; he'd watch your expression change, your hands squeezing his when he grabs them tight. And he knows he would kiss you right then, in the same way he already has.
I've fallen for you he was waiting to whisper, when this universe seemed to contain just the two of you. He wanted to kiss you so softly when you smiled at him during your late-night talks, closing the inches of distance between you to feel your smile on his lips instead. He'd kiss you so desperately when you found yourselves on the edge of death, both hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs smearing blood onto your skin, because even then, all he could fathom was how deeply he adored you.
As long as he kept you safe, he didn't need more. He no longer wished for godhood. He could greet the end with no regret — but to have lived, to be able to persist in this life at your side means the world itself to him.
It will take a long while to make up for lost time. Though maybe, he can start here. His mouth can do more than recite poems and confessions. Much more.
In demonstration, Gale leans into you. He relishes in the way you shake under his hold, once the practiced end of his tongue flicks against your swollen clit. He has to hold you steady, gripping tight while he kisses your clit, your thighs, and then devours you with sloppy kisses to your cunt: open-mouthed, a mess of soft sucks and rich groans into you. His lips brush every sensitive inch, shaping you as you dissolve to pliancy, like soft clay in his careful hands.
"Feels good-" You try to mumble, biting the words; you've never felt anything this addicting. Your voice carries a noticeable shake, one you just can't swallow down, "Feels so fucking good…"
"Not good enough to render you speechless," Gale hums against you, lust weaving through his tone. You'd almost think he was talking to himself, if it wasn't for the way he briefly looks at you, eyelids heavy, pupils blown-out. "Suppose I ought to continue."
His mouth lavishes your cunt once more, firm sucks on your clit paired with swipes of his tongue that gently tease your needy entrance — You grip the desk tight, moving your hand to grab a fistful of his hair instead. You bite down so hard on your lip you think it might bleed.
You can't focus, you feel weightless, his words won't leave you as much as his mouth continues to devour you. His sultry voice, his soft expressions of love; how long has he waited for this? How fiercely has he wanted you, wanted to tell you the fondness he kept captive inside? How long has he imagined pleasuring you on his tongue, until all you can manage to plead is his name?
For longer than you were first picturing, surely. There's desperation to the new pace he's set, a wild yearning, as Gale allows his composure to slip and pleasures you with every single breath. His palm runs over the warm underside of your thigh when it twitches on his shoulder. He's relentless, even when you grip his hair so tightly it must hurt, whimpering for him and his mouth in unintelligible murmurs.
He gives you more without the need for you to ask. He's moaning into you in turn, his tongue pressing in to taste you. And your taste is electrifying. The whine you give him is one he wishes to memorize. He feels he may yearn for this — to taste you, to have you — until the universe converges to a collapse, with all Nine Hells finally frozen over.
Speechless, that's how he wants you, and if he continues like this, he might make good on such an objective. Ironic. For as much as he's spoken, you're the one asked to stay voiceless. You doubt he truly wants you quiet. Every moan you make at the lap of his tongue, or the brush of his lips, draws a staggered sigh from him in response.
At least, considering how much the bastard spends talking, of course he's good with his mouth.
He mumbles something inaudible against you, a mess where your name is the only thing you make out. His voice echoes in vibrations right onto your clit, and you're gasping, your thighs trembling. They practically close around his head, but he pushes them back apart to make room; his one hand on your thigh, the other on your waist.
The moment you've relaxed, legs spread wide for him, he's grabbing your sides so tight it makes you go stiff in surprise. He's pulling you in, he's giving you more of his mouth, and you're rocking. You're grinding onto his tongue without forethought, focused only on the bliss that rips through your body and intensifies in your core.
You barely catch the way his eyes flutter when you roll into him. He begins to guide your movements with his grip on your waist, pulling you closer while twirling his tongue, allowing you to use his mouth as you desire.
And you do. You fuck yourself on his mouth and tongue between his hurried kisses, his muffled groans muttered against you. Until your high is frantically splintering towards you, your fingers flexing in his hair, your throat sore and muscles even tenser.
"Gale," You can't get out anything but his name, lungs overtaken by gasps, the edge of your voice sore from cries of pleasure, "I-"
You don't tell him you're there. You couldn't manage the words, but with the way he hums in approval against you, squeezing your waist in silent persuasion, his tongue focusing on your clit with tender precision — You suspect he knows, and he wants, needs you to cum for him. With your heart beating fast in your chest and your ears, the rope snaps, and you're cumming on his mouth, while his name is a stuttered mantra on your lips.
Your thighs can't help but tense, brushing his face and smothering him; you pulse on his tongue, your grinds against him growing erratic, desperate. Everything in your body is swallowed by rocky waves, a sense of pleasure in your chest and your head and your core imploding with blistering heat. Your voice breaks. You only settle when you've fully succumbed, drowning in the aftershocks.
After your eyes have slowly opened, and your fuzzy vision has returned, you notice you're not the only one struggling to breathe. You feel it first: the brief tickle of his warm breath on your thighs, his lips barely brushing against your skin. You hear him exhale, long but shaky: a perfectly enticing sound.
Gale pulls apart from you while he huffs, he wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His face is flushed, lips parted, chest heaving. But fuck, he's smiling, grinning like you've never seen before, earnestly and so in love. Your heartbeat practically skips.
You shouldn't be surprised that the first thing he does upon rising to unsteady feet is brace a hand on the desk, grasp your chin between his fingers, and kiss you. Your shoulders slump, and as you're kissing him back, you're breathing a soft exhale into his mouth. He drags you in as close as he can get you, leaving you practically smushed against his chest. Still, your heart begins to sing. Familiar feelings burn to life once more as his mouth parts, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.
When you separate, it's agonizingly slowly. It's just enough for him to gaze into your eyes, to see you melt, simply from the way he looks at you. Together, you remain deadlocked for a moment, catching your breath without a word. His warm eyes and soft lips are effortlessly enticing; it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to resist kissing him again, surely crumbling the composure you've worked so hard to restore. He drifts back, a complacent look on his face. His fingers stay delicately grasping your chin.
You're going to break the silence before he can, and you'll get straight to the point.
"I need-" You swallow, resisting the urge to glance away from him no matter how flustered you've become. He can have your composure, he can have every damn part of you — "I need more. I need you. Please."
Gale's spine tingles with an almost-shudder. He can't resist guiding you forward by your jaw, until his lips are able to kiss the top of your head. A kiss that drips with meaningful, aching adoration. Your heart stirs, and you let go of the breath you were holding.
"Dearest," He coos quietly, a tender edge to his voice, like a knife that twists and caresses your ribs, "You will be given all you need. Perhaps even more."
His fingertips skate your shoulders, before his palm presses to your chest. He kisses your cheek, and against your ear, he gives the faintest muttered instruction: Lay back. You were already doing so before the command, but his words lead you to follow the slight push of his palm, until you're settling with your back hitting the desk.
The hardwood is cool against your skin, and he shoves some books aside to give you space to rest your head. He's leaning down with you, pressing a final kiss to your nape once you're stable. As Gale pulls back, coming into view above you, heat surges through your veins. Your nerves thrum with something more than love. Something more like sanctity.
Sweat coats both your bodies in a glimmering sheen. Gale's hair is out of place, shadows flicker over his features but pay special attention to the grooved, dark scar on his chest. The sun has long since finished its descent, the last flecks of light vanishing to nothingness. You don't notice how dark it has truly become until Gale provides a solution with words under his breath, and a snap of his fingers.
Effortlessly, light dances in your vision, the candles that decorate his study coming to life. His lips twitch into a smirk. His hand finds your side, feeling your shape.
It's just the two of you, now and hopefully always, in his favorite corner of the world. On his damn desk, to make matters more tantalizing. The same desk he'd spend hours alone at, reading or planning lessons, trying not to let his mind wander to you instead. And you, speaking of. You, bathed in faint light, sprawled out beneath him like poetry on a page — Without a doubt, you are gorgeous. To the point of addiction.
"There you are," He murmurs at last, while his thumb draws circles on your side. The lighting is still dim and moody, but this feels as though it is the first time he's truly been able to see you. To see all of you. He drinks you in, admiring your shape, your marks, your scars. The details that define you, everything he loves.
He allows his gaze to drag down, and then up, back to your eyes. You're shuffling out of nervousness, but his warm touch on your skin encourages you to relax.
"Beautiful, aren't you? Each time I look at you, I feel my love burn ever brighter. You are the sun. A warm, incandescent sun. Most worthy of worship. Basking in the heat of my affections, I would gladly allow you to reduce me to cinders." Reaching out to you, Gale's fingers brush your cheek, before he stops. He suddenly lets go of a sigh so heavy it makes his shoulders turn slack. "My apologies. I'm chattering on again. Such a habit is proving challenging to break."
"Don't apologize," You counter, and you bring your hand to his own. Your fingertips brush his, you press his palm to your cheek and keep it there. The soft smile you flash him begs to be lost in. "If you haven't noticed, I quite like hearing your voice. You're sweet. And you always have the sweetest things to say."
Gale grins, "Do I? Hm, I'd hate to have to call you mistaken, especially after the kindness you've imparted to me. But I believe you're the sweet one. In a multitude of ways, for that matter. I would certainly know."
He only smiles wider when you pout, before playfully pushing at his shoulder. As you lean backward once more, getting comfortable, he is quick to close the distance in between you.
Your arms sprawl above your head, wrists crossed over; as much as they can manage, anyways, accounting for the limited space his desk provides. Your elbows knock against carefully placed stacks of books, legs hanging over the desk's edge. Cool air fills and settles in your lungs, and he moves closer, a knee between your thighs, a hand pressed to the desk to rest himself over you. Throat dry, you swallow thickly.
"But your thirst has not yet been quenched, now has it?" He murmurs, eyes narrowed, his voice noticeably lower than before. The palm he's kept to your cheek holds you delicately, and his thumb just barely brushes your plush bottom lip.
"With you as delightful as you are," Gale is continuing, "To claim you deserve everything I could offer would be… plainer than insisting the midday sky to be blue, so to speak. I am eager to satisfy you, to give you the adoration you have most definitely warranted. I'd like to make this as pleasant as it will inevitably be unforgettable." He tilts your head towards him slightly, and you feel choked by breathlessness. "I could never express the whole of my love for you. But allow me to try."
Your hands clam up, balling into sweaty fists as you try to maintain your gaze on his. Candle flames waver in the background of your vision, flickering to their own tune. His eyes travel from yours, to your lips, and back up again.
"I love you," You whisper, because it's all you can think of, devotion is the only force running rampant in your mind, "I truly, earnestly do. We have time. We have nothing to fear anymore. You can take me in every way you wish. I'm yours, I always have been."
Gale's brows pinch in thought, and his gaze brims with tenderness. "Then let us make up for the time we have lost."
His palm moves. From your cheek, his touch patiently drifts to tickle the side of your neck. Your shoulder next, and you shudder when you feel his knuckles brush your chest. His touch is home, familiar and grounding, dragging the ruin from within you amid each subtle stroke. In the same instant, your heart is heavy, and set ablaze.
"We can drown in each other. There is nothing I have wished for more, not a soul I have wanted greater than you." Gale divulges, "I've dreamt of this. Of making love to you, as we breathe one another's names. Of hearing you confess precisely what you've just told me, that you are mine."
He inhales slowly, shakily. His palm gently feels your stomach, your hip, the curve of your side, while his resolute gaze never departs from your own — "I love you. You deserve perfection. And although I cannot promise such a thing, I swear to give you all of me."
Gale watches your expression start to soften; reminiscent of the same sun he has always seen in you, when it first dawns from the steady, sea-bound horizon. You shift, your legs repositioning to either side of his waist, caging him in. You're smiling, and he keeps his eyes on your hazy form.
"I don't need perfection," You answer simply, earnestly. "I just need you."
You.
There's so much hidden in such a short and basic word. I need you. You've longed for more than just to stand at his side as an ally, an assistant, a friend. Now, he can see that. How foolish he was to ever believe otherwise. At last, with no more perils to stand in your way, you're together. You have time. Your hearts can finally indulge in the magnetism they have to each other, no longer ruled by uncertainty.
Without hesitation, you need him — as you have since the start, and for all that he is.
For his softness, his intelligence, for the change in his voice when he's rambling about something he enjoys, and for the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention. You found yourself wishing he knew. You've grown entranced with every part of him, including flaws coalesced with ambition, regardless of your possible destruction. Falling for him was natural. Mistakes and magic and mortality in all.
Perhaps there is time to be made up for. But falling in love, entwining your fates together until they were at last pulled back as one, was purely inevitable.
Gale exhales. He runs his fingers through his hair, his shoulders taut, hoping to relieve some of the tension. It only helps marginally. Both hands then maneuver to grip your waist. His thumbs brush your hips, the faintest touch alighting your skin in goosebumps.
"You are… Gods, you fill me with such potent emotions, you know?" He murmurs; your arms are locking around his shoulders, keeping him close, and as he notices the heaviness to your eyes, his breath slowly grows more ragged, "I have always loved you, I've wanted this so terribly. And yet, now that it's happening, now that you are here, and not a lifetime apart like we both once were, I don't- I cannot think. My mind refuses to allow it."
His hands tense on your waist, his brows furrowing, fingertips pressing ever-so forcefully into your skin. When you smile in response, and drag him in to interrupt with a tender, long kiss to his lips — this time, while eyes flutter shut in unison, heads tilting, a soft groan uttered against your mouth — thinking is left to become irrelevant.
The focused expression he was wearing melts to a warm grin once you've pulled apart from him, exhaling heated breaths against his lips. His gaze on yours glints with affection, and his mind is a beautiful mess: thoughts not finding a beginning, nor an end. Smoothly and softly, Gale cups your cheek, and as you lean into his touch, the rest of his head weakens with blooms of love.
For you, he has always been weak. You could best him, you could threaten to destroy him. You could pull him apart at the seams with tender, blood-soaked hands, and as long as you kissed him while cleaving his heart out, he would unravel for you with a smile.
He murmurs quietly, "So I won't. I will cast any and all thoughts of mine to the wind. Doubt has long since had its fill of me, I refuse to provide it with more satisfaction. I've never loved anyone as intensely as I love you. Nothing could sate me as you do. With fate now ours to command… I hope I won't be made to let go of you."
"Don't, don't ever let go of me," You answer, your tone a gentle coo, your hands tensed on his shoulders, "And don't you dare pull away."
Gale laughs, huffing slightly. Then, he surges forward, along with pulling you in, until his lips are crashing like lulling waves against your own.
You kiss, again and again, pressed together with purpose, burning with intensity. Blindly, his grip finds your wrist when your hands slip from his shoulders. An arm falls beside you, and he adjusts the other. Fingertips drift over your palm, he presses your hand beside your head, and he laces his fingers with your own. His hand and yours fit together like lock and key; naturally, just as he'd described. Your heart must resist the desire to never let go.
As he slowly drags apart from your lips, he's moving to kiss your jaw, your neck. Warm, soft kisses, his tongue lightly tasting your skin, guiding you to curl into him. The slightest attention has a way of feeling so intoxicating, whenever he is the one to provide it.
Anticipation envelops you. Desire links between him and yourself, and settles deep in the pit of your stomach. It gnaws at you, wanting more, wanting what you've needed since you first found each other. His touch is so irresistible because you've been waiting to feel it. You've dreamt and imagined, hoped and fought so you both could survive, and now, he is finally yours.
"What do you need from me?" Gale hums into your nape, his palm caressing your side while he squeezes your hand. Sultry voice muffled, his messy hair tickles your skin, and his lips brush your collarbone. "I want to hear your voice speak the words."
So, you answer. You let his voice wrap around you, his kisses to your neck embrace you, and allow yourself to melt underneath the weight of your longing.
"I need you," You stammer into the open air, your grip on his hand growing tight. When he hums against your throat, faint kisses twisted with heady vibrations, you know what he wants, and you'll give him much more than that: "Fuck me, please…"
The brazenness to your own words makes your head pool with poignant visions, daydreams of Gale pinning you to his desk and taking you like you've both been craving; a hand in yours, his thumb in your mouth. Slowly, intensely, amidst hitches of breath and skin against skin. With a tenderness so acute and raw, that the press of him inside you would be divine enough to make the Gods take notice.
Some senseless part of you almost hopes they do.
A terribly soft kiss is placed on your cheek, and you're shivering, listening to his breath pick up and his sighs get heavier. Your ankles are locking around him, they're pulling him closer. Now, he's moving, he kisses your lips fervently as your hand grips his, and your free palm settles onto the center of his chest; as it has done many times before, as though it was meant to be there. His heart pounds, his hips shove into yours. The stiff weight of his length, confined in his slacks, grinds between your legs — and you give up on whatever shreds of sense you were still holding onto.
After a slow drag away from your lips, your chin now held between his fingers, Gale takes a deep breath. An intense, steadying breath. Through heavy eyes, the way he looks at you earns a shiver that traverses down the length of your spine.
His brow cocks, his lips form a tell-tale smirk; and you should know from the way he looks at you that you've lost. Still, it takes his words to truly hammer it home, while your heart hammers in your chest alongside them.
"You're quite exhilarating. Nevertheless, I suspect you are well aware of the powerful effects your coy words often have on me. With much proficiency, you know my weaknesses." Gale draws his fingertips over your jaw, his head tilted in subtle concentration. His voice is kept level, in the same gentle tone you've come to know, but there's no doubt he has you right where he wants you. You can tell, you could always tell. His gaze darkens with familiar ambition, and he draws a slow, shaky inhale.
Yes, you may know his weaknesses. But he knows yours.
"Need is but a dire, hungry word. Though, I must admit, I find it terribly sweet to hear you pleading for me." Gale teases, "Brings to mind our adventures together, your small implores of please when you wanted my help. Generally with some sort of riddle. Or a particularly well-locked door, perhaps. Of course, I could never say no to you."
"Mhmm," You hum in reply, speaking slowly to force your growing nerves to calm. You've watched Gale master spell after spell, triumph over puzzle after puzzle. You can only imagine this is what it's like to be on the receiving end. Briefly, you clear your throat, "Let me guess, it's even sweeter to hear it from me now?"
"Oh, yes. It certainly is. But a plea must be accompanied by an acknowledgement. I'd be cruel to keep you waiting any longer."
Your fingers tense from the absence once his hand releases yours, but the way his touch glides down, from the shape of your hips to the back of your thighs, quickly has your nails digging into your own palm. You draw your bottom lip between your teeth. He tugs you closer, close enough to have your bodies rock together again — Shuddering, he sucks in a sharp breath, freezing up completely. It takes everything he has to resist grinding against you once more, to disregard the way his cock throbs at the thought alone.
He's teased you quite enough. You are going to have what you want, and you're going to get it properly.
Your eyelids flutter, your voice weak, desperate, "Gale-"
Abruptly, you cut yourself off when he smooths his palms up your sides and leans in. Distances close, his lips brush the shell of your ear and his body presses closer to your own. Feeling him against you, the weight in his slacks nudging your entrance and brushing your clit, worn fabric growing messy and glossy with your arousal — It's merely a taste, when what you truly want is to feel him inside you.
Every inch of your skin seems to burn with flushed heat. You were hoping to get him going a little. On that front, you seem to have succeeded. But you couldn't have expected him to turn the tides right back on you.
His voice comes out right next to your ear, reverberating through you, pulling you under to drown in fervent waters.
"You need me, yes?" Gale murmurs, and as his lips brush your lobe, you swear you can hear his stupid smile through his tone alone, "If you are begging for me to take you, to fuck you, what sort of lover would I be if I denied you what you've been desiring?"
Your throat aches with a high-pitched whine; the building warmth within you blisters, and all your yearning culminates to this.
To your chest heaving between his kisses to your jaw and your face, your palm snaking between your bodies, arm reaching downward as far as it can manage. You're practically panting, as you allow your fingers to graze his waistband and fumble for a better grip. He indulges you, propping above you for a moment, and then discarding his pants in a rush, pushing them down just enough to let his cock come free.
The dusting of brown hair leading from his chest to his stomach trails all the way down, but you aren't given much of a chance to stare; his hands grab your hips, he guides you while surging forwards to place a desperate kiss to your mouth. The tip of his cock, flushed and pearled with precum, ever-so slightly brushes your waiting entrance.
And this — The sigh that racks through you, the expression on his face when he pulls back to look at you, to admire you, lips parted as he gasps. Your bodies tremor with the same longing, the same wavelength. Love drips over your heart and your ribs, melting like long crystallized amber, warm and rich and effortlessly palpable.
You couldn't ask for anything else. In his presence, in his comfortable tower in Waterdeep, with his hands on your skin and his heart beating to the rhythm of your own, you've found your home. This moment is more than lovely. It is perfect, and as your soul begs to be known, to be understood, he instills you with a promise of worship.
Worship. The adoration one might give to the Gods is still not divine enough for what you deserve, Gale believes.
Perhaps it's your sense of contentment that causes your heart to stir. When your mind starts to wander, envisioning what the future may hold as Gale is squeezing your hips and peppering sweet kisses down your neck — You'd move in with him, the moment he asked. His tower has plenty of space for the both of you. Not that you have many belongings. His tressym has practically begged you to stay, citing herself that Gale wants you to, that he'd likely ask you, if he had the courage. He's much happier whenever you're around dear, he is simply too proud to admit it.
Hells, you'd marry him if he were to propose, you've already dreamt of how he might do it. What he'd say, as he gets down on one knee and takes your hands into his. You wouldn't even think twice before you'd be resounding with a yes, followed by those three special words.
He wouldn't have to simply show you the spectacles of his home, you could live through them. You could enjoy thousands of days just like this one, relaxing, teaching together, and then arriving home, indulging in each other's company until the sun rises back into the sky. It would be a nice life. The calm, simple life you both have earned.
Your thoughts grow stuck on this morning, in particular. When the both of you had no idea what would transpire, still just friends, greeting each other politely as Gale ushered you into his home. Your lungs filled with the familiar smell of books, and the fresh new scent of the sea.
The pitter patter of your heart in your chest grew frantic when he hugged you, and once he pulled back, he flashed you a smile that could melt a long, harsh winter. You cleared your throat, you kept your musings to yourself when he began to go over your plans at Blackstaff Academy for the day.
It seems obvious now, but in the moment, you hardly thought anything of the soft way he looked at you. With such admiration, such devotion, a gaze on yours that promised, you can have me, I would allow it. And as Gale went over various spells, some you recognized and others you didn't, you could only pay attention to the tenderness in his voice, the focus on his face, and the dexterous movement of his hands.
You felt foolish for imagining what else his pretty hands might be capable of. If only you knew.
A deep breath in brings you back to the present. Gale leaves one last kiss to your nape, propping over you to reach up, pushing stray strands of hair from his face. You exhale, momentarily growing lost in his gaze. You've seen the love in his eyes countless times before, but his expression this time is different. It's brutally pleading, hopelessly tender. Nervous, almost.
His hips shift tentatively, his gaze on yours, the fat head of his cock nudging against you — Pleasure surges through him like lightning, making his jaw clench as he swallows a groan. You both breathe a set of stuttery sighs, and your fingers tremor, before your hands clench tight.
Reaching up, you settle with holding his shoulders once more. You feel the roaring heat under his skin, the dampness of sweat when you grip them for leverage. Muttering, you start, breaking into a whimper when a rock of his hips clumsily grinds his length against your cunt without pressing inside, "Gale, oh, fuck- I'd… I'd like you to try something. Can you?"
Moving his palm from where it was covering his mouth, helping to muffle any slight noises, you notice Gale's lips are forming a smile. Although, the sweat beading at his pinched brows gives his desperation away.
"Funny," He replies, his voice breathless and husky, "I was just about to fling a proposal on you. Nothing too terribly important, don't," He swallows, "Don't worry. I'm most interested in fulfilling your request. Go on, what is it?"
You can't resist gnawing on your bottom lip before you speak, your gaze shifting from his, to somewhere in the distance. Now, you're the nervous one, "The… illusion magic, the spells you showed to me earlier. This morning, if you remember, when we were going over your syllabus? I thought magic of that nature might have some… other uses, is that right?"
Magic is no stranger to you. But the illusion magic Gale has grown well versed in since he began his teachings, the complicated spells that hinge on nothing more than the limits of one's imagination — Outside of what he has already taught you, those are a mystery. You can't decide if your interest is because of their inherent perplexity, or if you're merely entranced because Gale has taken a liking to them.
When he was showing you a couple basic spells, you once again found yourself enamored with the wonder on his face, the awe in his voice as he explained the spell's inner workings. This one you could master quite easily, he murmured, sparkling gaze on yours as he held a projection in his hands with relative ease. A projection of a small bloom, your favorite flower. You hardly recall when you must have told him it was your favorite, nor were you expecting him to remember. As you reached out, you swore you could feel the bud's smooth phantom petals underneath your fingertips.
His voice, speaking quiet incantations, his fingers, easily forming the shapes necessary to bring the spells to life — It was mesmerizing, as captivating as you remembered it to be, way back when.
This wasn't back then, though. The moment itself felt newly intimate. Sparks filled the air and your lungs, flecks of lingering Weave, pleasant energy working through your body from the ends of your toes to the top of your head. His energy, Gale's magic. The spells he casts have a way of seeming like him, unique and defining, down to the very way they feel.
You were reminded of your journey together. Of the ashes in the air on the heels of a fiery incantation, of the zeal in your veins from a protective shield, or a hastening touch. Your heart twinged with a stronger ache, held down by how much you've missed him.
You want to be enveloped in that familiar sensation again. In his magic. In the comforting way it settles around you, the feeling it alights in your chest, and in the way it reminds you that he's here.
Your words cause Gale to pause. His expression carries the gentlest hint of surprise. He opens his mouth to speak, before stopping. Instead, he smiles, he cocks a brow, and the only thing to betray his newfound confidence is the heavy heave of his chest.
Unfortunately, you can't hear the way his heart is pounding. You can't sense the brilliant adoration, the foolish excitement that burns into him, affection lapping at his chest with persistent flames. But he can show you.
"How clever. Extraordinarily clever, really. And you're only," Gale makes a small pinching gesture, "A slight bit off from what I was hoping to suggest, as a matter of fact."
He reaches for your side then, gently caressing your skin under his palm; you relax at his touch, but stay focused on him as he speaks, "Gods, you know me all too well. Perhaps better than I know myself. Illusory magic lends itself excellently to various creative uses, I think a fair few spells could prove useful, given our current… position. As it happens, I have just the spell in mind."
"Do you?" You shuffle, your breath hitching slightly in your lungs, while his palm continues to run over your skin, clearly relishing in the way you shiver. "I didn't know if, you know- I wasn't sure if it was something you wanted. You're really okay with this?"
"Love," Gale hums, interrupting with a quiet instruction, "Close your eyes."
Panting softly, you allow your arms to rest above you on the desk, and you adjust a bit to get more comfortable. You match your gaze with his for a moment, your heart only beating faster at the honeyed reverence in his eyes. Then, slowly, you take a deep breath, and let the world disappear.
There's silence, darkness. You feel his hand squeeze your side in gentle reassurance. He shifts, pressing closer. When you hear his voice next, your nervousness is put at ease, calmness flooding through your body. Warm and especially addicting, his words are all you have to focus on.
"You are precious. As perfect as the alluring beauty of the moon. As lovely as the sparkling sanctity of the Heavens stars," He murmurs, at a volume barely above a whisper. His breath is steady on your skin, and his fingertips trail up your side, to leave barely-there touches over your chest. "If you do not like this, tell me. We'll waste no time stopping."
"I will," You answer, your own voice seeming to echo in your eardrums, "But it's okay. I trust you."
This time, his breathing in your ear runs slow. You dwell in a few seconds of hesitation, wrapped in budding anticipation, before you assume you feel him pulling away. He utters a soft word laced with power, his fingers snap, and your head goes hazy.
"Praestigium."
The invocation breathes a plea, calling upon a source, and the magic responds in turn: sharp, wild, divine.
You can feel the comforting veins of magic flowing through you, settling around you, cradling your mind in a warm embrace almost instantly. Your eyes flutter open — Or do they? For a moment, it's difficult to tell, as your dizzy vision refocuses, and the pleasant illusion becomes part of you.
It feels like your head is shrouded in clouds. You're soaring, floating on air, no longer able to feel the hardness of his firm wooden desk beneath you. The room melts; everything is there, but at the same time, it isn't. Shadows speckle your vision, blurry shrouds that slowly begin to melt to pure white. Gale comes into focus above you. His form is perfectly clear, his warm smile effortlessly charming.
Energy surrounds you: satin and strength, sweetness and intelligence. The smell of sandalwood wafts through the air, flooding your lungs, then slowly starting to fade. Just like that, you are grounded. You are balanced, your mind clearer than ever, and the moment veils you, it embraces you, it is you.
It's far from what you were expecting, but the surprise is more than welcome. You thought having illusion magic cast on yourself would be more floaty. More akin to a dream, or a living foggy memory.
Yet, this feels real, wonderfully real, as though he's carved out a space in reality for him and yourself to call your own. Here, with him, nothing else matters. Nothing but your longing, your love, and the infinite future that stretches ahead of you.
When he leans in to kiss your cheek, you feel his lips, his breath, and his fingertips on your jaw, with a vivid touch that shines — rolling through you like the spark of constellations, an aurora of shivering pleasure and brilliant closeness. Both hands grab your hips, and you feel them strongly, comfortingly, the intensity as he shifts them nearly too much to bear. He guides your legs to wrap around his waist again, locked at the ankles, holding him close.
He is the only thing you can perceive, your senses are heightened, and every sensation to grip you is positively electric. This magic does more than spawn an illusion or clear your mind; it's intensifying your grip on mortality.
You can hear his breathing as easily as it were your own. You can feel his heart, can measure each quick beat when he collides his lips with yours, his chest pressing against you. Thump, thump, thump, in your ears, in your own ribs, then the heavy thrum of his shadowy blight — so raw and intense, it nearly threatens to swallow you.
His presence entwines yours, his magic sears through you. He pulls you closer with his palm holding the back of your head, and he kisses you like this time could be the last. Your core burns red-hot. You're enveloped in dizzying feelings you can't quite place. As he pulls away, you lean back, and you let your head sink into the clouds. His palm stays to cup your face, slightly tilting your head towards him.
You both catch your breath, chests heaving. Gale admires you underneath him, brushing your cheek with his thumb. He places a kiss to your forehead that glimmers over you like an untamed ray of sunlight.
Slowly, as your head grows used to the spell, you calm, becoming more relaxed. Your mind is a clear, still lake, your thoughts as crisp as cool water. When you hear him speak once more, his head tilted to breathe the words against your ear, it's as though his voice is everywhere, ebbing and flowing through your brain as an encircling echo.
"Comfortable?" He murmurs, simply and softly.
"Yes, very," You answer with a nod of your head. Your own voice appears muffled, reminiscent of being underwater, "This is… lovely. It's amazing. You're amazing."
"Excellent. I'm glad to hear you aren't too overwhelmed," Gale continues. His smooth tone bounces around the walls of your skull, while his fingertips drift down, drawing shapes you can't recognize onto your nape. "Remember, what you are experiencing is merely an altered form of reality. Do not push yourself. This old desk isn't exactly a bed of roses, but I hope I've succeeded in making it a mite more comfortable for you."
Grinning to yourself, you allow your arms to relax beside you, and you promptly shudder, growing lost in the feeling of weightlessness beneath you. Gale straightens. He props himself above your form, his gaze indulging in you.
Although his study is mostly a blur, details meshed in flowery fog, telltale light from the candles still dances across his features. You reach up, trailing your fingers over his earring, the metal cold on your skin. Then, your fingertips brush his cheek, they caress the faded trail of dark lines burned into his skin. He smiles, and he brings a hand to settle over your own.
His touch is warm. It is a crisp morning breeze drifting through you; his eyes flutter shut when he kisses the heel of your palm, and every inch of you flushes with tangible radiance. He pulls your wrist away, only to bring you palm to palm, fingertips to fingertips for a few moments. His hand lies flat against yours, before your fingers tightly, naturally lace.
"In all sincerity, I must admit," He begins, shyly glancing away from you, muttering through a laugh that seems to jostle your entire system, "The spell I've cast on you is… clearly not meant to be harnessed in such a way. Or perhaps, more so, it is not often used while such, erm, satisfactions… are taking place. Even for a wizard of my caliber, it may prove difficult to control- If the spell ever snaps, so to speak, just know you have no reason to be alarmed."
Head still heavy from the incantation's lingering effects, you were so lost in his ramblings — resounding through your mind like they never have before — you almost failed to notice he's begun to lean in. He softly guides your hand to press down, against the surface of what you can only assume is his desk. At first, you can feel the resistance, but soon softness overlaps. Clouds envelop the sensation, and you're left suspended in air once more.
Your heart skips when he kisses you, slowly and smoothly. Innocently, at first, devotion carrying you on soft wings. And then, deeper, while his hand squeezes yours, and his tongue explores your mouth with a languid lack of urgency.
You melt, your chest encompassed in a floating feeling. He murmurs soft groans into your mouth; every part of him yearns to pull you closer, to have you, to hold you. Gods, he loves you, and he curses himself for ever trying to push those feelings down. He won't let you go now, no matter how the world tries to pry you from each other's grasp.
When he shifts, pressing closer, kissing you harder, the flushed and needy tip of his cock nudges your cunt — Instantly, a blistering sense of ecstasy flutters through your every pore, and you whine into him, your body going slack.
And that was simply from a touch. Just a small press of him against you, brushing close to where you're deliciously sensitive, and you're fucking breathless. Your core is wound with preemptive pleasure; just a tease, and your mind is swimming with how badly you need to feel him inside you. You aren't sure what you'll experience once you're given more, once you're actually taking him.
That damned spell. You should be a mess by now. Perhaps you are, and the calm cradle of the illusion is what's tethering you to the earth. Tether or not, you hardly care about keeping your composure. You don't care for your imminent disarray. In fact, more than anything, you need to have him ruin you.
It's hard to speak. Your lungs are aching, but as he draws backward from your lips, you manage to huff, "You aren't going to hold back, right?"
Gale smirks, exhaling in short pants. He pushes up, putting his familiar silhouette — messy hair, broad shoulders tensed, branded chest slightly heaving — back in the forefront of your vision.
"Oh, I'm afraid I am far past the threshold of being able to do so. For you, for everything you have long awaited, my desires will remain unhindered," He replies calmly, brows slightly furrowed. "Besides, I've been sharpening my concentration as of late. This could prove an opportune time to assess the extent of my exercises. I think we're both wondering how much pressure my focus can take."
His words ripple through you, comforting and lighthearted in their tone. They do the trick. You're sparked with delight, your mind set at ease. Briefly, you wonder if the incantation connects you together, because when you relax, he seems to as well: his breathing becoming calmer, his expression softening, and his grip on your hand relaxing.
If you truly wanted to, you'd find escaping from the spell he's placed on you to be rather simple. You've faced much more enthralling spells than this. Magic more complex, much more wicked. You know the feeling of having a spell muddle your mind, down to your very bones; you have your little journey to thank for that. And you know how to break them, as simply as putting one foot in front of the other.
This spell is different. It is warm and soothing, it carries none of the malice that would weigh down the charms you've felt before. It's effortlessly him, magic which caresses you as though his very arms were there to hold you. Magic that roots into you, a breath of life, a ray of moonlight. Thoughtful as always, Gale has made this particular spell weak, and you can determine so without trying. Likely to make snapping it simple, if you decided to.
You could break the illusion. But you choose to let go.
You breathe in, slowly and deeply, and you allow the spell to swallow every last aspect of your being. The clouds wane briefly, before you're surrounded, melting slowly into pleasure and froth. The moment feels raw, alive. You are here, you both are, finally able to love, to be loved. And love him you will. Without any regret.
Gale, appearing clear and pure above you, pushes his hair from his face, and looks at you like you are worth dying for. Living for. His expression is painfully soft. He steadies a hand on your side, he dotes on your dips and curves and marble-carved features; every part of you was meant to be adored, akin to the statues one might bow before. He sighs slowly, inhales even slower.
"The spell," He begins, palm caressing your side with gentle motions, "You could break it yourself, yes?"
You nod, tone soft, "Yes, absolutely."
"Very good." Gale's voice echoes. It splinters through your mind, it knits into your heartbeat, "Not that I had a shred of doubt. You're doing quite well."
A squeeze of your hand, a grip on your side pulling you ever-so carefully closer, and heightened surges of intensity are shooting through you much stronger than before. Your eyes shut, your back arches, your muscles ache, but pleasure takes over to drown you, his cock brushing your entrance. Lips parted, he exhales a trembling breath, one that seems to travel through you in turn.
"Focus, and breathe slowly. Deep breaths in, and then finally, out. I'm here with you. I won't be going anywhere."
Your heart is pounding, but at the sound of his voice, at the feeling of his smooth tone bouncing around you, your thoughts become still. Your pulse slows, your chest gently rises, and then falls. The only thing left rushing through your veins is a wild, unfiltered need.
"Stay with me, please," Gale breathes, words cracking at the edges. He presses closer, his eyes close and his forehead comes to rest against yours, your bodies held on the loving cusp of almost-connection. "Stay, and let me be tender for you, my dearest love."
"Gale-" You murmur, your voice sweet in his ears like dripping syrup, as you strum the familiar notes of his name. "I love you, I need you."
Of course, and you will have him.
Gale gives your hand one more squeeze, reassuring you, preparing you. He swallows down the growing thickness in his throat. His head is buried in the nape of your neck as he finally gives himself to you, carefully easing into you — Everything slow, heat rushing through you in the form of a wildfire, the clouds holding you in their ethereal embrace. Pleasure pulls your every nerve taught in a tight, delightful string, and for once, your soul within you feels alive.
His fingers go shaky, his grip tightens on your side in response. You're just barely fit around the head of him, and you feel him mutter a half-sigh, half-moan into your nape that shakes your body with the potent vibrations.
It's like you can feel the spell itself shudder.
"I love you," He's pressing into your warmth, his jaw clenched, hips gently rolling, filling you with more of him until you are stretching to his shape, "Could I give you more? Can you take all of me?"
"Yes," Your throat is unmistakably sore, but still, you speak without thinking. You need more, need to feel the friction become part of your body as he fills you. Your back arches to meet him, and pleasure hums in your veins with intoxicating strength. Every one of his gasps echoes against you, then through you. The thrum of his warm cock inside you is so deliciously, impossibly perfect.
"F-Fuck," You swear, biting down your quickened gasps, fighting through the incessant pound of your heart; lest your languor succeeds in devouring you, "Please, yes…"
The whine that overtakes the edge of your voice makes him shiver. Gale groans softly, his shoulders growing tense. His hips lazily buck into you — until his pelvis is shoved deft against your body, sweat-soaked skin pressed to softer skin, burying him inside you down to the hilt.
His breath on your nape is loud, hurried, and at the mercy of his weary limbs, he tries his hardest not to collapse. Silently, he must thank you for getting one high out of him earlier. With how good you feel, with how badly he's needed you, if you hadn't, he isn't sure if he'd last much longer.
Not like you are faring any better.
Your heart isn't just beating, but battering at your chest, tearing through your body and knocking into your ribs as though it needs to come free. You wouldn't be surprised if your gasps are resounding just as loudly as his. Thighs shaking, you struggle to keep your legs wrapped around his waist, your ankles almost slipping before he grabs your legs to readjust you. He shifts close, still sheathed inside you. The gentle movement sends small ripples of ecstasy through your core that, in the wake of his spell, instead feel like large, thundering waves. Crashing over you, swallowing you.
You feel full, so fucking full. The depth to where you can feel him — all of him, so deep inside you — practically has your head whirling. Gale blinks, his vision blurred, causing his lashes to tickle your skin in a faint butterfly kiss. You're wobbling and teetering like a spinning top. Your eyes flutter closed, trying to steady some of your own dizziness.
This time, he presses a real kiss to your nape. Then, he's working a palm underneath you, supporting your back, holding you close. His other hand finds its perfect place in your own again, your fingers lacing with his. Around him, you feel irresistible, so wet and warm and lovely. You are everything he has ever wanted, you are his love; the world, in the palms of his hands.
He wants to let his hips rock, wants to hear your voice strained with lust while you're pleading in pants of his name. He needs to feel the electrifying friction blazing through him, as he fucks wave after wave of pleasure into you — Though, despite those desires, despite the way they fall into him, gripping him at his very core, he stops. He calms, and he savors you.
You're given a chance to catch your breath, thankfully. To drift among the endless sky underneath you, and the river of magic surrounding you. In this reality, on this bed of stars and sea, his presence and yours are all to exist. Pulse still racing, you indulge in the stretch of him inside you. He feels utterly exhilarating, even without movement. For a few fleeting moments, you simply bask in each other, and nothing more.
"You feel so good… So stunningly perfect," Gale is gasping, every word breathless, "Ah- Just this alone could sate me, drowning in your warmth around me while our bodies connect- Your soul and mine are truly one. Nothing else compares."
Nothing in this universe compares to you.
You are his beginning, and you will be his end. You've captured him in warmth, in an embrace that breathes velvet promises, until every part of you is left racing through his mind.
Gale remembers the faint smiles you'd flash him whenever he caught your eyes, your nose scrunching so delightfully, your head turning away as his words made you chuckle. It's the same smile each time. The same expression, the same dance of adoration in your gaze when yours and his happen to meet.
A love reserved only for him. His own form of love is engraved with your name.
You float between every thought, making him think you might've become part of him. He fondly dotes on his memories of the sparkling stars in your eyes, the way you looked as you gazed up at them, admiring the constellations that have always watched over you. He can put a name to them all, because you were his reason to remember. At any time, in any place, those woven stars shone overhead, writing the twists and turns of destinies. And now, after tonight, they'll give you the privilege of viewing them together once more.
He could never forget you. It wasn't a possibility, not when he still revels in all of your details that make him oh-so weak. His missing piece returned to him, you are his love, his home.
Perhaps you were meant to be connected. Body and soul, with separate lifetimes worth of familiarity. You're two halves of the very same whole. To have known one another, is to be the sun and sunflower, the rain and the soil, the grand mountains, and the edge of the clouds. You'll find yourselves in everything, ultimately.
The orb could take him, and if he became nothing but dust, taking his city of Waterdeep with him in a storm of decimation — What remains of his devotion would find its way home to you.
But he wouldn't allow it. Not anymore. He is going to live, against everything, along with you, and beside you. No matter what it may cost him.
With a small shift, his hips grind into you faintly, he presses into you impossibly deeper. Your bottom lip quivers, before you take it between your teeth. As you feel him throb inside you, you're sighing together in delightful unison.
"You are…" His words are shaky, they wobble through your mind. For once, to your elation, he can hardly seem to speak, "Sweetheart, my dearest… I just- I love-"
His sentence stays unfinished; Gale stutters into a shuddery whine when you pull him in, your legs wrapped around him, dragging him just a bit closer, but enough to enthrall both of you in powerful sparks. The pleasure that overtakes him, that overtakes the both of you, is so vibrant and love struck, so unlike anything else — You're sure neither of you will be able to hold back, not anymore.
Good.
"More, please," You plead, your voice needy to the point of babbling, "Fuck me, I need you, I'm- ah, please, Gale…"
Shuddering, Gale takes an overly long breath. His grip tenses on your hand, and he softly rubs his thumb over your calloused knuckles. Cool air enters his lungs, calming his mind, steadying his heart. And when he finally begins to move, you've never felt anything more divine.
You were made for one another, you're sure of it. You must be, when every sensation to encompass you does so with such endlessness. With tenderness that has the very forming of his name on your tongue completely intrinsic.
His hips rock into you shallowly, careful and passionate thrusts hardly separating you. Pleasure melds within your veins so sinfully, until your heart can only believe in the inevitable bond between your two shapes.
As he keeps up a steady pace, driving his cock inside you, you're murmuring gasps between every whine of his name. His secluded study is filled with noise. With the melody of skin against skin, and the echoes of your breathing and his. The wet sound of your arousal squelches around his length each time you take him. He keeps his head buried in the nape of your neck, his quickened breath fanning over your skin. Easing into you, he then pulls out only half-way, just to thrust in again with a slow, languid press of his hips.
Gale has experienced wonders most mortals could only dream of. And yet, he's never felt anything quite like this.
It's been a while. A very, very long time, in fact, since he has connected with anyone in this sort of way. So long, he's forgotten what it could feel like — Bodies pressed together in a perfect, tangled mess. Hands entwined and lungs strained.
But he has never loved anyone quite the same as his love for you. This is different. Warm beams of intimacy fill him more and more with every buck of his hips into you, with every whimper from your lips for him. And those delicate feelings swelling in his chest — They are entirely, utterly new.
This moment feels sweet. Carnal. There's something so filthy, yet so, impossibly loving about feeling you in such a way. Back then, against his composure and his better judgment, he imagined this. He dreamt of taking you, and hopelessly wondered if you wanted the same. Now, the ecstasy of feeling you around him practically burns. You are addicting, everything he could want in the best possible way. Intoxicatingly his, just as he's always yearned for.
You have thousands more days and nights ahead of you, there will be countless times to come. Time for him to love you, to hold you, to show you what magic lies on his lips. That is what truly gets him. This moment will last. It won't be a dream, or a passing fantasy. Your gentle future is only just beginning.
Gale's movement comes to steady as he pushes up, breathing one last sigh against your nape before he props over you. Your entrancing eyes are half-lidded, your lips are parted as you pant. You're pretty enough to destroy him. He already knows he would let you.
His palm cups your cheek. You tilt into his touch, leaning back against his desk and the foggy pillows underneath you. Beneath his fingertips, the thrum of his magic clings to your skin like a flower's soft petal caught in a spider's web. He knows he must be the only figure in your vision, just as you are the center of his world. He can picture the way his voice and his touch are shining through you. His gasps are echoing in your ears, his palm drifts from your cheek to your neck to the curve of your shoulder, and surely brands light wherever it brushes.
When his hand comes to settle on your side, holding tight while he rocks into you, he can't seem to help himself from glancing down. Gale watches as his steady movement has his cock nestling inside you, disappearing to fill you to the tune of you moaning for him, the shaft glistening in the low light once he starts to pull back.
Gods. The thoughts that begin to race though his head are so terribly, deliciously filthy — Overwhelmed, his pace starts to falter, he's growing clumsy. His grip on your hand turns so tight it nearly hurts, his brows furrowed into a knot, as he pistons into you with newfound desperation.
Waning sensitivity still clings to him, leftover from his previous high. In a fluttery contradiction, the intensity surging through him only seems to make him want you more.
"I don't deserve how good you are to me," Gale hums, slightly shaking his head — Every sigh, each word bounces around your skull and glows within you from the inside out. His steady presses inside you don't relent, his skin slapping yours; they just force his words to shake, and his hand to clench much harder on your waist.
"This… possessiveness I have for you, it's- Ah, Gods… It is damn near agonizing," He's murmuring, speaking those last few words through an almost-chuckle, "My heart has never yearned for anything more. You made me feel alive, love. Tonight, and always. And you feel-" His jaw tightens, teeth gritting, "Utterly amazing… Tell me, if you can find the strength within you to speak. Tell me how this feels."
Right now, your mind is swimming. Stardust glitters in your veins, and your core is wound nice and tight, overwhelmed by ripples of pleasure. For a moment, words won't come to you. Instead, you reach up to press a palm to the back of his head, and you drag him close, quick enough to make him utter a faint noise of surprise against your soft lips. You kiss, slowly and deeply. You're both sighing heavily once you've pulled away to breathe.
"S-So good, it's perfect, you're perfect," There's a desperate edge to your voice. You can feel the rawness in your throat, can make out the high tones even through the fog in your head, "Gale, don't stop- Gale-"
Gale shudders. Your palm slips from his cheek to fall above you in a heap, and you're whining, back arching, head tossed back. You are simply beautiful.
"I love the way you say my name. The sound is quite lovely when it is- Shit-" He chokes, breaking into a gasp when his body rocks against yours, "When it is your lips to sculpt the word, your darling voice to utter the syllables…"
You tremble, your eyes fluttering shut, your heart thumping so fast you can hear it in your eardrums. In the wake of his hips rolling into yours, you can feel each press with inexplicable sensitivity. His cock pumps in and out of you so tenderly, and every throb of his length pulses through you.
Softly and carefully, he kisses your forehead. Then, he's leaning back. He pulls you closer in tandem with pressing inside you, filling you. You've never been this sensitive, never felt this loved. You are melting into him, your chest heaving from your heavy sighs, your lips quivering with whines of pleasure: pretty moans breathed all for him.
Once you feel his fingers grasp your chin, thumb briefly brushing your lips, your eyes begin to flutter. Shadows masquerade as clouds, your vision hazed by blurred edges and flickering lights. The ardent fangs of magic sink into you, trapping you in their whirlwind. Your heart pounds quickly, unrelentingly, thudding hard against the cage of your chest.
Gale's smile is clear as day, though. Trying your best to gaze at him above you, you feel that rapid heartbeat instead begin to sing. He tilts your head a bit, guiding you towards him. And gently, breathlessly, he murmurs, "Can you look at me, my love?"
The fuzziness in your field of view starts to fade, and your breath begins to catch. Buried deep inside you, he stops, keeping his hips still while panting hard. Sweat glistens on his skin, his hair is brushing his shoulders, and he reaches to push some strands from his face. He swallows thickly. He squeezes your hand one last time before he lets it go.
"This," A purple thread of magical light begins to dance between his fingertips, illuminating his face in an amethyst glow, "Is what I wished to show you."
Adoring and unwavering, his gaze stays on yours, even as he's illustrating shapes with his fingers; movements so quick and effortless, you're barely able to make them out. Swirls here, a triangle there — With one final shape, the magic hums to life. It shimmers through the air with radiance almost palpable, glowing ever brighter, reflecting lavender rays in his eyes. All it takes is an incantation to truly set it ablaze.
"Ad astra."
The previous spell loses concentration, and in its place, a new one takes form.
You hadn't noticed your eyes were closed until the spell had fully finished settling upon you. A new sensation prickles at the surface of your skin, familiar and star-filled. Finally, your gaze focuses above you, after Gale's soft instruction of: Open your eyes.
You still feel floaty, your senses less acute, your head washed over with warmth. This time though, the illusion is different. You are resting in calm grass and whispering meadows, and when colorful stars fill your vision until you're drowning in their light, the view above you seems completely real.
Gale is atop you still, but his study remains melted away. Small flickers of candlelight have transformed into brilliant illuminations, leaving him in a backdrop of twinkling starlight and a beautiful aurora. You're gently swept through the makeshift sky. Hues of purple and green and blue wash over you, like how waves might flow over the shore. Light surrounds you, but at the same time, it shines within you.
In a way, it reminds you of the sight he once made a long time ago, the aurora he created to shimmer through the Shadowlands. Back then, when tensions were high and words were left unspoken, you admired the stars in comfortable silence. So close — You could have reached for his hand next to yours, or closed the distance in mere moments to learn what his lips felt like on your own. But you didn't. The familiarity makes your pulse run wild.
A canopy of beauty. This is what he once planned to admire on his last night alive, and yet, now he has an abundance of nights to spend by your side. Sprawled out beneath him, you are far more beautiful than anything in the countless shimmering skies.
"Wonderful," You murmur, speaking under your breath. Your voice is just loud enough for him to hear. You're smiling, your gaze flickering between the messes of stars above you, lights that twinkle steadily with a gentle glow. "Reminds me of the stars from ages ago. This is gorgeous, Gale."
"Not as gorgeous as you, of course," He replies, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at his features. His words are smooth, they no longer flicker endlessly through your mind. Rather, when he speaks, his familiar voice captures your heart in the same way it always has. "If only you knew how truly breathtaking you are."
His heart aches with desire, because as you look up at him — at him, not the illusion, your gaze is on his while the loveliest smile crosses your lips — in your eyes, he sees that same lovely sparkle.
You're lost in him, for a moment. Gale's expression grows soft as he continues to admire you. When you feel gentle fingertips travel the length of your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, you tremble. A sigh leaves your mouth, his fingers lacing with yours once more. He holds your hand tightly, safely. Gale can't resist, he tips forwards to kiss you; your lips connect, with crackling electricity and still-lingering traces of magic sparking from his mouth to yours.
Devotion is palpable in the way he kisses you. It quickly turns eager, becoming a tender mess of soft moans and tongue. And at last, everything to remain falls away.
Heat surges through both your bodies until you're consumed by wildfire. With one more kiss, Gale grips you hard, his hips begin to move. You whine against his mouth as he slowly rocks into you, you're mumbling his name in the form of a plea — The sound only serves to make him more desperate.
He mutters your name in turn: a low, affectionate utterance. His thrusts take on a deeper pace, as he fucks into you hard enough to make his desk shake — fervent enough to have your heart trembling, love drowning you in heavy depths.
Your arousal and his drip down your thighs, dirtying the hardwood. It's making a mess, echoing lewd, wet noises with each clumsy movement, the slap of skin against skin sounding particularly soaked each time he pistons into you. Every echo fills his ears, curling through his mind oh-so pleasantly. It would be the most addicting melody he's ever heard, if it weren't for how sweet you sound when you're moaning for him.
And you're loud, you're mumbling a mess of words he can't quite make out. Your sighs mix with whines, turning sharp each time he eases his cock into you. Gale breathes a shaky breath, fanning warmth over your face, before he's moving to place quick kisses to the corner of your mouth, and then, your jaw.
His lips brush the column of your neck, where your pulse is racing for him; when his hips rut into yours, you're cooing soft pleas, quietly murmuring, Don't stop. Your back arches, and he adorns you with his tongue and teeth, sucking gently at your supple skin.
He shouldn't. What would your confidants say, if you crossed paths with them? When you return to Baldur's Gate, what would the guild leaders who respect you, and the fancy patriars who need you think when they happened to see it? They would know he was there, know you are his. Foolishly, dizzyingly, he allows his lips and his mouth to leave a deep mark, an imprint of himself. He doesn't pull back until he's sure the bruise will take.
You shudder, feeling the ghost of his mouth even once he's pulled away, cold air brushing the saliva he left on your neck and making your nerves twinge. Slow rolls of his body into yours have you shaking, but you're squeezing his hand tightly, your other palm is balling into a fist and you're begging, "Please, faster… Fucking Hells… Give me more."
Gale sighs. His brows knot, he falls forwards and leans his forehead softly against yours. "For you, I would give the world."
He swallows, he steadies. Then, he places all the world's pleasures in the palms of your hands.
The weight behind his thrusts, newly desperate and hurried, have him gripping you for leverage: a palm tensed on your waist, fingertips digging into your hip. He grasps your thigh to push it up and apart. His desk is knocking against the wall, the wooden legs squeaking and scraping the floor.
Your body tenses with building intensity — Building and building and building, threatening to overwhelm you between every movement, until you aren't sure where your high begins, nor where it ends. All you know is you're close. And if he keeps fucking into you like this, filling you nice and deep, nudging against your sweetest spots only he can reach, it won't be long before you're falling apart for him.
With one last quick kiss to your forehead, your thighs spread apart wider, Gale is propping over you; and Gods, does he look like a mess. Pools of glowing magic paint him in the most vivid hues. His hair is out of place, honey brown strands askew, the faintest pretty streaks of silver reflecting in the starlight. His skin shines with dripping beads of sweat, his chest is heaving, jaw clenched — You can't help but feel he might crumble at the smallest touch.
So, you unclench your hand. You let your fingertips drift up, and you brush them over his cheek. As you're cupping his face, his shoulders tense, and he doesn't just crumble, he collapses.
Gale falls into you, leaning his head into your nape. His palm fits between the desk and the arch of your back to hold you even closer to himself. His breathing is rapid, his hand takes on a distinct tremble when another rock of his body against yours has you moaning ragged gasps of his name.
His name, you're pleading for him to take you — Grinding his teeth together until his jaw hurts, he bucks into you hard, enough to have you fluttering around him, squeezing him like a vice. He chokes back broken gasps of his own, and exhales hot fans of breath over your sensitive skin. You are going to be the death of him.
"I have always-" Gale starts; he struggles to speak, his voice sounds close to breaking, yet his words drip with an earnestness you find enthralling, "I have always loved you. My sweetheart… Every beat of my heart is yours…"
Yours.
Eyes fluttering between open and closed, the aurora around you spins incessantly. You respond in turn, mumbling through fragile gasps for breath, as he works you up to a growing, intensifying peak.
"I'm yours, Gale," Your fingers tangle in soft hair, gripping and tugging until he's groaning. Pleasure floods your every nerve, and you're a mess around his cock, tumbling through the sea of stars and alluring lights — "I'm yours, I'm yours-"
"Oh, love-"
All at once, the spell abruptly snaps, your focus and your senses melding into one in a dizzying, sparkling rush. You're brought back to reality. The heart of his quiet study comes into view again, his walls of books and shelves of artifacts, the colorful lights fading into nothingness. Your form is bathed in warm candlelight, the night sky treading in from his balcony. Cool air dances over you, while the pale moon is hung high in the darkness.
Ecstasy slams through you, blissfully unfiltered. Everything is messy, perfect, and hopelessly desperate; you grip his hair tight, and his hand harder. Gale pants, his breath sharp and his lungs aching as he fucks you into the desk, pushing you closer and closer to your edge — until even without the aid of magic, you're left seeing stars.
He is so terribly, utterly in love with you. Every one of those nights where he pushed you away, those moments where he almost left you, when he was possibly the most foolish he's ever been in his entire life —
A slow, tender press inside you, and you're muttering his name softly once more, adoring it, pleading it. He wants to hear your voice strumming his name over and over, teasing him after his half-hearted attempts to make you laugh, begging for him to give you what you need, because he is the only one who can. Answering with, Yes, Gale, I will, when he asks you to marry him. He can't change the mistakes he's already made, but he can earn your love, and your softness. He can promise to never let you go. Not ever again.
"I'm here, I have you," Gale mumbles in a shaky tone. He presses a soft kiss onto your nape, he squeezes your hand when your breath begins to hitch. His words are smooth and comforting, they send tingles up your spine, and they have you melting in a way you never have before.
The edge to your high is right within reach, he's only bringing you closer. Your head won't stop spinning. As he trails kisses from your neck to your jaw, his lips are a touch from the sun, beams of warmth that shudder through you to shine over the surface of your skin.
"Gale-" You whimper, "Fuck, I'm-"
He presses into you deeply, gripping your hand, filling you with a thickness you'll never quite get enough of, and you can't help but stutter into a whine. His pelvis shoves against yours, skin against skin, arousal messy and wet and dripping out of you — Your thighs are shaking, and you only need one more breath before you're finding that zenith of pleasure. Warm and perfect against your nape, his words have you taking the final tumble.
"Come undone for me."
Your high shatters through you, you're tensing around his sloppy thrusts, your legs are slipping from around him. Your body curls into his, your eyes shutting tight. Desire drowns you, it burns from within you; throat sore, you cry out in loud, desperate moans, and everything melts around you as you let go, cumming for him.
And Gale, normally so confident, so eloquent, a wizard prodigy, a Goddess' chosen — He buries himself deep inside you, choking down stutters and groans. With a mess of barely coherent pleas of your name, your sweet voice and the feeling of you squeezing him, fluttering in the pleasant aftershocks of your release, has him falling to pieces right there beside you.
"Please, please, please…" Gale begs, even though he hardly knows what he's begging for. His clumsy hips roll into you with reckless abandon, echoing the sloppiest noises. His voice is broken and fragile, tender in a way you've never heard before: "I love you, I love you…"
I love you. In this life, and every life to follow. Only to fall in love once more, all over again.
Gasping, shaking, his body tenses, and when he falls into you, you're left to hopelessly clutch onto his hand and his hair. Pleasure racks through him, his breath getting caught in his lungs. The candles in his study flicker, the branded orb-shaped marking imprinted onto his chest glows. His hips shudder, before they still. His length pulses inside you so hard you can feel it in your core, and heat pools within your body as he fills you, giving you what's left of him.
It takes a handful of moments for you both to come down. Gale is limp and heavy, pressing against you, his weight pinning you between him and the desk. His palm, resting on the small of your back, runs over your skin in slow, careful circles. Your heart thumps loud in your ears, hard in your chest, so forceful it nearly hurts. His gentle touch makes it slow, until gradually, your composure begins to return.
I've got you, he's murmuring, the words barely audible in your ringing eardrums, but comforting just the same. Breathe for me, just breathe.
In, and then out, you inhale, exhale. Gale props above you after a minute or two, and as you blink to chase away the remnants of fuzz in your vision, he comes into your view. He's smiling, because of course he is, strands of his hair sticking out every which way. The sight makes you grin, and you have to hold back your chuckle. Yet, the way he looks at you softens every last shred of your soul.
His skin is flushed, still sweaty and warm. His gaze is so terribly, persistently gentle, coveting you with endless devotion. It wouldn't be the first time tonight, but you feel revered, like you can almost taste swelling blossoms of love — sweet on the tongue, growing untamed to flourish through your chest.
Letting go of a sigh, he brushes his thumb over your cheek. You didn't think he could get any softer. But here he is, with a smile that entrances you, and an expression beaming with light itself. When he grasps your chin, pulling you in as he leans forwards, on his gentle lips, you feel the heat of the sun, and taste the calmness of a crisp summer breeze.
Your heart skips. A sharp spark of electricity — traces of magic, surely — crackles on your mouth when yours brushes his. It zaps you like static, before flowing into you as a steady, dizzying wave.
Your eyes stay shut. Gale pulls back for a moment. He breathes a small huff, a barely-there laugh. You swear you can feel the smile on his lips when he kisses you again — This time, much deeper, while his fingertips trace the curve of your jaw, and his mouth outlines the depths of his devotion onto yours.
When he pulls away, he's moving to guide a quick hand behind your head. He supports you, before resting you back against the desk ever-so gently. He hisses slightly as he pulls out of you, adjusting you both. He's sighing with contentment while he grasps your thighs, changing your position to let them hang over the desk's edge more comfortably.
At last, he props up over you. Still catching his breath, he tries to control the weighted heave of his chest as best he can manage.
"I love you," Gale admits, his voice noticeably hoarse, but with a clear hint of fondness to it, "Are you alright?"
"Please, I'm more than alright," You answer. You clear your throat, alleviating some of the dryness, and you roll your shoulders back. The hardwood surface of his desk beneath you suddenly feels a hundred times firmer than before. "You're okay too, aren't you?"
Gale scoffs playfully, smirking, "Apart from a bit of present exhaustion and a mild ache in the knees, I am definitely, most positively fine. No, better than fine. Fantastic."
Your eyes narrow, your head tilts curiously, gaze flickering down, and then back up. "And the orb?"
"The orb? Oh," He huffs, placing a palm over his chest in realization. "Ha, it's behaving alright. Until now, I don't think it has ever felt so… comfortable, if that serves well to describe it. Swear I could almost feel the damn thing purring."
You breathe a slight chuckle, and with a roll of your eyes, you press your palms to the desk and push yourself up. Gale hurries to wrap a hand around your wrist, placing the other on your back. He helps to pull you, until you're sitting up with your arms stretched to the ceiling. You stretch your back next, arching it forwards, feeling your muscles loosen and your bones pop.
Gale's brows are suddenly knotted. His lips press into a line, his expression turns conflicted. When your gaze locks with his, you're giving him a slight, pretty smile.
"What's wrong?"
You watch as he looks away for a second, snapping his fingers, muttering a string of words under his breath you don't quite catch. He seems pouty, almost guilty; the fireplace in the room's adjacent corner hums to life, breathing much-needed warmth into his study. Your limbs relax, your shoulders untensing.
"Nothing is wrong, sweetheart. Don't you worry," He reassures, offering you a warm look once his gaze returns to yours. His hand comes to steady on your side, and he squeezes you slightly, "I just… supposed I should offer you an apology. Perhaps it was rude of me not to provide you with more comfort. I promise you, next time, you will be as cushy and cozy as your heart could possibly desire. You'll find my bedroom to be rather pleasant, I'm sure. Have you ever slept on Glamerweave sheets? Hm, actually, I think I'll keep from spoiling the surprise."
Next time?
"Come on. It was my idea, you don't have to apologize," You reply through a slight laugh, shifting a bit on his desk, crossing one leg over the other. "Besides, I'm fine, I swear. I've dealt with much more than a little soreness, and I was perfectly comfortable, I'll have you know." Swallowing, you pause for a moment to think. "That was perfect. Truly."
"Was it? Well, that is… quite lovely to hear, quite lovely indeed. I'm… I'm glad." Gale takes in a slow breath, before letting go of a deep, heavy sigh. Your words make his heart pound. "Gods above. I knew I was doomed, but I think I've only fallen even more in love with you."
Arms wrapping around his shoulders, your head cocked teasingly, you murmur, "Do you know how hard it is to resist kissing you when you're this terribly sweet?"
"Really?" His brow crooks. "I wonder how many kisses I could earn if I proposed more than mere sweet words. Sweet touches, perhaps? I could lend you a hand or two, you know. I'm more than willing to offer shoulder rubs, back massages- It wouldn't be right to leave my dearest with tired limbs and such sore muscles, now would it?"
"On second thought, maybe my back is hurting. A massage sounds lovely."
Gale grins. He reaches up, brushing his thumb over your cheek, before he pulls you in for a quick, precious kiss.
"Then your wish is my command, love." His hand continues to hold your cheek tenderly, even once he's pulled back. Forehead close enough to almost rest against yours, he murmurs quietly, smoothly, "Once you are ready, I'll run you a warm, comfortable bath. With bubbles and lavender- Hm, I'm sure I have something around here you can wear, as far as clean clothes are concerned. You may have to make do with a few magically infused robes and garments… but nothing with any lasting effects, I assure you. And if you've worked up an appetite, then-"
Biting his tongue, abruptly, he stops. His eyes narrow, gaze glancing between you and the floor.
"I… My apologies," Gale mumbles, his tone weighed down by newfound disappointment, "How impolite. I shouldn't form assumptions, especially when your plans have already been reiterated. I won't keep you. As a matter of fact, I believe the side roads to Baldur's Gate are likely still open, if you'd prefer me to escort you there."
"Gale, are you kidding?"
You scoff, squeezing his shoulders and tilting your head; instantly, he feels himself begin to relax, his heart stirring, his nerves settling. You always look at him with such radiant warmth.
"Running errands back and forth for greedy townspeople can wait," You're continuing, gazing at him through fluttery lashes. "I took care of everything urgent well before I got here. You wouldn't believe the nerves I had leading up to this- I was remarkably tense, but at least it had me working hard to distract myself. Listen, if you're so keen on going back, you're coming with me. Otherwise, I'm staying, okay? For as long as you'll have me."
Gale swallows. His jaw clenches, his gaze goes soft. His pulse thrums in his throat and runs a mile per minute within his chest, heels pushing off the ground as he chases a burning sense of devotion —
"You- Are you sure?" He questions, opening his mouth to speak once more, only to have you quickly interrupt him.
"Of course I'm sure, I've never been more sure of anything. I can't begin to explain how much I've missed you, just- I don't want to be apart from you yet, that's all. Is… is that alright?"
"Oh, yes, most definitely- You can stay. I would love for you to stay," Gale breathes in response, brushing his palm over the small of your back, holding you gently. Warmth and longing sear through him, echoing the start of something new. "To savor a new wealth of treasured moments with you… To awake, and see you still resting beside me, content and weary-eyed… I'm not sure I deserve to find myself so lucky."
Holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Gale breathes in deeply. "Nevertheless, the night is young. But as for tomorrow, alas, I doubt the academy would approve, in the event of my neglection of scheduled lessons. Best to be up bright and early, you see. We should rest. You, especially." He counts with his fingers, pointing to each one, "You need the aforenamed bath, massage, and to get some much needed sleep. Doubly so, if you are to- uhm, ehem-"
Gale clears his throat, and as you meet his eyes, you raise a curious brow. Seemingly nervous, he softly mutters, "You wouldn't mind attending the lesson tomorrow to assist me for a second time, would you?"
All at once, you're grinning. You're laughing slightly to yourself, and you're staring at him cheerfully, with a look he finds impossible not to adore.
"I'd love to. I had fun today, and I'm sure you have much more to teach. The depths to illusion magic are rather grand. Or so a charming wizard has told me."
"Yes, and you have merely scratched the proverbial surface. Though, in all likelihood, illusion magic should come rather naturally to you. After all, you have no shortage of firsthand experience," He explains jovially. "But still, do not discredit yourself. You are a wonderful teacher, skilled and proficient in your own right. I'm sure my students would reflect the same sentiment. You are most captivating to them. You're the hero that kept the famous city of Baldur's Gate from falling into ruin. The one who saved my life. My closest, most beloved friend. Perhaps more than that, now."
"Definitely more," You answer, smirking a bit to hide the warmth to your cheeks.
"In that case," Gale hums, "I will be sure to introduce you as my partner, from here on out."
Candles flicker, shimmering like makeshift stars in his quiet study. From the view outside his balcony, the moon glimmers, beaming faint light, as though it was made just to watch over you both. Intimacy ripples between you. Echoing in your ears, you can hear the calm rhythm of waves, the familiar lull of the sea. It's a sound you've grown comfortable with. A moment you wished to dwell in until the inevitable end of time. Perhaps now, that future will be yours.
You decide to break the brief layer of silence: "Gale?"
Gale brushes his fingertips from your jaw to your nape, homesickness gnawing at his chest the longer he admires you. His tower was never important to him, Waterdeep couldn't compare. You were always his home.
"Yes, love?"
"I'm glad you're here with me."
Silent for a few moments, he's briefly unsure of what to say. Finally, he breathes a long, thankful sigh, and smiles wide, a sparkle in his gaze. Adoration roots into him, promising to forever grow.
"I love you. I love you so very much," He admits, cooing, his fingertips caressing your skin; his thumb trails over the faint mark he left on you while he speaks. The imprint of himself. "I will not leave you, that I can most undoubtedly promise. There are a great deal of things I want us to experience. Thousands of moments to live for. You would grace me with the privilege of dying a happy man, if I were to combust right now, in some unfortunate, bittersweet blaze of glory. But I give you my word, I am not planning on letting it happen."
His gaze goes resolute. Gale presses a palm to his chest, feeling magic thrum steadily, and his heart pound wildly. Still beating, despite everything. Every defiant thump has your name written into it. "This affliction will not take me. We have won against greater evils, and I won't let anything pry us apart. Not when I finally have you."
Night may have descended, cold air bitter on your skin, but in your chest, you feel the warmth of summer: growing heat, and an exquisite softness. You can't help but let go of a quiet sigh in satisfaction.
"Now," He's murmuring, standing up straight and taking your hand. He helps you to slide off of his desk, until you're wobbling to unsteady feet, holding onto his arm for balance. "I do believe I've yammered on quite enough. I won't exhaust you with more lengthy pillow talk. You should be given the relaxation you are owed, correct? A bath will only take a few moments to run."
"Mhm," You reply, gazing up at him, seeming amused. He finds it damn near impossible not to get lost in your eyes. "As long as you're planning on joining me."
"Joining? Oh, sweetheart. I would be delighted." Gale squeezes your hand, still held in his. He brings it up to his lips, he runs his thumb over your knuckles. He presses an all-too gentle kiss to them, before his fingers lace between the crooks of your own.
"Come. What remains of tonight is ours."
You'll smell of lavender and his soap when you crawl into his bed. You'll feel the warmth of his body pressed to yours, his arms around you, your head buried in his chest, and your dreams will be as tender as they are familiar. Your future drawn out, past lifetimes upon lifetimes.
And once the night bleeds into morning, you will fall for him all over again.
—
Waterdeep becomes your new home.
It isn't long before Gale's tower is strewn with your belongings as well as his. Your old weapons and special artifacts find themselves scattered among tomes, scrolls, and poetry collections. You do manage to return to Baldur's Gate for a while, just to collect your things from the Elfsong and say a couple of goodbyes. You've landed a job as a professor's assistant in Waterdeep, you explain, and you can't be late for your first official day.
You grow accustomed to the sea salt in your hair, and the way the smell of the ocean soaks into your skin. Gale provides you with your own set of rooms in a secluded corner of his tower. You can watch the waves from your bedroom window, and look out over the city from the view in his library. The days are slow, a calming change of pace from the previous adventures you shared together. Your other companions come to visit you both occasionally, making for a tender reunion. Months go by, but every day is new. A new chance to fall in love. Your new form of a delicate beginning.
Deep in his bones, Gale still remembers how to cover your weak points. The signs you show when you're closer to crumbling than you're letting on, the feeling of your spells bleeding into his when they combine on the battlefield. He believes those times, those hardships, those perils, will be ones he could never forget — and yet, why would he want to?
They're reminders of all he has to be grateful for. Mementos of when he first fell for you. You're both safe, you no longer have to fret over dark histories, or worry about protecting one another. For once, you can indulge in a life more tender, and much more forgiving.
Gale learns what you prefer to have for breakfast, what seasonings you favor for supper, and how you like your coffee when he prepares it for you at sunrise. Between days spent at the academy and endless lesson planning, practicing spells and grading assignments, he makes what free moments you have seem special. There's dates, picnics. Quiet, simple moments that mean the entire world.
Your head tends to rest in his lap when he's reading; sometimes aloud, his smooth voice lulling you into enveloping comfort. When you fall asleep, limbs tangled, resting on his chest, you relish in every potent thrum of his heartbeat.
He leaves you love notes on shared grocery lists. Poems he's written for you are left on your bedside table, folded neatly, sealed with wax. You wind up keeping each one.
Eventually, he's able to take you to all his favorite places in Waterdeep, the extravagant, and the plain. You've no need to introduce yourself, when everyone already seems to know you.
The wizard is star-struck every time he drones on about you, the regulars at The Yawning Portal explain. Especially once he's had far too much to drink.
I shouldn't tell you he's planning to propose, he's quite excited about the whole thing, the elderly owner of his favorite bookstore tells you. Be sure to act surprised.
On the days where you don't accompany him, when he returns from a long afternoon spent at the academy, he's rushing upstairs to greet you. He pulls you into a long, tender hug, one you wish would last forever. His touch breathes new life into your scars, his voice becomes your favorite daily melody. In the wake of every night you spend entwined, you find yourself melting into him, further becoming one another's fatal weakness. When he holds you for a little too long, squeezing you tight and hiding faint tears in the crook of your neck, you feel loved, like you never have before.
Soft and perfect, you are home.
Mornings meld into tendays which bleed into months. You treasure it all, with unending adoration. The Gods didn't bless you with this, you carved your own path. You forged your own temple to be made holy in. Before you know it, your heart and soul are undoubtedly his, and on a day no different than the others, Gale is taking you somewhere you've never been before.
Hands clasped, fingers entwined, he's bringing you to a height above the city, a cliff between the grand mountain and the edge of the sea. Wind runs through your hair. You rest your arms on the stone railing, and sink into the beauty of the sparkling ocean, sunlight glittering on white, foamy waves. He shows you the view of the city below, your city, and his, as the sun dips into the horizon — Although, it seems the only thing he can keep his eyes on is you.
You're turning just in time to catch him staring. Gale laughs awkwardly in the beat of awkward silence. He mumbles a quick response when you ask if he's alright, offering you an utterance of, Nothing, you're just beautiful. He smiles wider as you offer him a genuine grin and a playful roll of your eyes. Soon, it becomes quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat, prancing loudly through your eardrums. The soft sound of the ocean echoes within you.
Gale takes a slow, steady breath, catching your attention with a call of your name. This time, when you turn towards him, it's to watch him slowly lower down onto one knee.
The silver ring he pulls from his jacket pocket was his mother's. It sparkles off of the sun's fading rays, a poem engraved on the inside in elegant script, the surface adorned in sapphire and sunstone. Your heart skips a few beats in your chest.
You can hardly focus on his words, his vows and his confessions. But you do notice the tenderness to his expression as he glances up at you, misty-eyed, the breeze drifting through his ash-dappled hair; in this moment, everything feels right. And as he asks you to marry him, you're kneeling down as well and you're throwing your arms around his shoulders. You lean your head into his nape, you hold him as tight as you can manage, and you utter just the words he was hoping to hear.
Synopsis. By day, Nanami Kento is the perfect husband. Devoted. Loving. A gentle father to your two children. By night, he’s aching to stuff you pregnant with your third. CóckbIocked. Ravenous. Just waiting for the moment he can go…full-on beast mode.
Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, husband!Nanami, married life, domesticity, Papamin, Yuji and Choso cameos, interruptions, cóckbIocked by your oblivious sons, slight edgíng, 5 +1 things if you squint, FÉRAL Nanami, oraI (fem rec.), face-ríding, manhandIing, spítting, chokíng, fíngering, ROUGH s, cervíx kíssing, all over the house, big Ds, P TALKING, BRÉEDING, mentions of kids, matíng presses, creampíes, cúmpIay, MARATHONS, heavy overstím, CÚMFLATION, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 16.1k
A/N. Based on the manga ‘By Day, a Devoted Husband. By Night, Full-on Beast Mode’ by The Waidan.
T-minus 5 days until the long weekend.
“Reading journal…pencil case…extra cap…” You’re rifling through the essentials stuffed inside your energetic son’s backpack. He was five already, and reaching that age where he just insisted he could do all those ‘big boy’ things by himself. “Hm…I think you have everything-”
“Really? Yippee—” Yuji’s pumping his fist in the air, before he’s immediately tugging the Spiderman-covered bag out of your hands and darting towards the open door. “Okay, momma- myfriendsareheregottogoloveyoubye-”
You watch after the blur of Spiderman and orange t-shirt in a slight daze, “Ah- right. I love you, b-” Before…you just slightly turn your head to the side, and in your peripheral vision you see- “Wait! Yuji, you forgot your-”
A hand on your hip. A strong figure by your side.
“Yuuuji—” A stern yet warm voice echoes, stopping the boy in his tracks in a split-second. “You’ve forgotten your lunch box, sunshine.” And towards the blond-haired man, you turn your head appreciatively.
Nanami Kento.
Your husband.
His overlarge palm cupped the side of your hips, and you’re only glad that Yuji couldn’t see from there the way that Nanami gives you a good squeeze—
“Kento-” With a breathy whisper, you’re swatting at Nanami’s chest. Right in-between his prominent pecs, where Nanami’s usual office shirt was pulled tightly over his broad front, buttoned up like a gift- and even then, you glimpse slivers of his white undershirt peaking out.
Nanami was just so naturally chiselled, in all the years you’ve known him. And you could swear that he’d only grown more built since expanding your family, with more hands-on labor - you guessed there was no better gym than a house with two children.
Slightly leaning up to him, you’re biting back a smile to mutter. “Yuji’s going to see.”
Nanami only softly chuckles, walking out through the front door to meet his son halfway. Dutifully, Yuji turns around so that his father can re-pack that haphazard bag of his, squeezing the (also) Spiderman-patterned lunch box inside.
The boy pouts, “I pwomise I packed it.”
“Mmm, I believe you.” He replies, with just a slight hint of amusement. And once Nanami was done zipping up Yuji’s backpack, he turns his son around and crouches down to meet him at eye-level. “But, next time, how about we double check, sunshine? Just to make it easier on poor momma?”
Yuji considers it for a second- “Okay!” Before he runs back down the smooth, grey-stoned pathway leading up to your cozy lil’ house.
Nobara and Megumi were already waiting for him beyond your house gates, and they slightly balked as they watch their friend’s father stand to his full height afterwards. Marvelling at those huge shoulders. His towering height. The way that Nanami Kento was just so large that his hair seemed to form a coiled, golden halo in the morning sunlight.
It casted shadows on his handsome, handsome features. Accentuating that kind smile of his, just the tiniest dimple at the end of his lips.
You couldn’t blame them - you were ogling him, too.
“You’re huuuuge, Mr. Yuji’s Dad.” Nobara squeaks, once Nanami has accompanied his son safely outside. She casts a tiny hand over her brows to shade it from the sun as she stares.
Nanami smiles shyly, and hastens to grip onto the lil’ handle at the back of Yuji’s backpack - likely to stop him from running into (soon) oncoming traffic, you knew what your son was like. “Why thank you, my dear. But you can just call me ‘uncle’ if you’d like-”
“Is your willy huge, too?” That question was, expectedly, asked by none other than Fushiguro Megumi. And you don’t have to look to know that the surly little boy was likely pointing, too.
Honestly- not even covering your mouth and gnawing down on the insides of your cheek can stop the bark of laughter from leaving you. Pwah! Your eyes crinkle into slits of amusement, and through them you’re catching the helpless look that your husband throws your way. Cornered by a vicious, merciless trio of elementary schoolers.
You’re waving your hand in front of him—a motion to just go on.
You wanted to see what he’d say (or not say). And Nanami just opens his mouth when-
“It is.” When all of a sudden, Yuji’s the one to pipe up with the long-awaited answer. Proudly, he’s turning to his laughing friends with his hands on his hips, “Once I needed to pee real bad when papa was showering, so I just went in and saw it- it’s huuu—”
“Look- look! The bus is coming.” Rapidly, Nanami claps his hand over Yuji’s mouth and diverts all attention towards the hounding yellow school bus that was crawling towards them now. Like an oversized caterpillar, of sorts, with the antenna and painted-on face in front to match.
And Nanami Kento was never a fan of these decorated school buses. Never a fan of those soulless blue eyes that a bus should honestly never have.
But right now it felt like the pearly gates of heaven had just opened.
He was bathed in warm relief, ushering the still-giggling trio inside the opening doors of the bus. With a kiss on his cheek goodbye, soon enough you and Nanami were waving off Yuji as he was ferried off to school.
Leaving behind only his gap-toothed grin, the clouded fumes of the bus, and you sighing- “Well, it’s certainly a loud morning.” You’re turning to Nanami, who was still slightly pale from the- ahem…discussion before. “You know, he’s already insisting on making his own school lunch? I just barely managed to keep it contained to packing only his school bag.”
Nanami snorts, “What- and survive on a pack of goldfish all day?”
“And the bugs from the playground, I don’t know why he keeps picking at those.”
Your husband throws an arm around your waist as you walk back to the house together. And his strong, heavy forearm almost seems reluctant to leave your body so that he can continue tying his work tie.
From where it was left off earlier- “Strange child he is.” He loops it ‘round that collar of his, and your eyes watch the bob of Nanami’s throat - so unintentionally attractive. “Can you believe that he’s five already? And Choso’s about to start middle school, they’re growing up too fast.”
“They certainly are.” You hum, handing over Nanami’s neat briefcase once he’s done. “I almost miss when they were just so tiny, and I could pick them both up at once- oh, but I do love them as is.”
He huffs out lovingly, that dimple making an appearance once more. “I know what you mean perfectly, my love.”
It’s a comfortable affair retracing your steps back to the front door, like you had with Yuji earlier. Though much slower, much more…lingering. You’re hanging by the frame of the door as he steps out, and just before he was about to say his goodbyes—“You know- I wouldn’t mind doing it all over again.” Nanami damn near snaps his head turning back to face you, looking you dead-on in the eyes. “The children.”
Two fatal blows.
Nanami’s eyes widen. Nanami’s mouth drops, drier than the Sahara right now. A thin line of perspiration glides down his face. And you watch his body almost step all the way back inside the house. Nanami’s fingers tremble on his briefcase, and you watch it slightly slip-
Before he’s managing to stop himself.
Shaking his head, the blond-haired man retracts his step and clears his throat. “Is that-” Faltering, he has to do so again. “I mean- ahem, is that so, my darling? You wish to have another ch-child?”
Slightly bemused, you only nod.
But of course, Nanami is paying laser-focused attention to each of your words, your signals. And you can see the bump of his Adam’s apple gulp—as he takes in just what you were implying. Tightening his formal silk tie ‘round his throat, “Then I believe, ah…I believe we should perhaps discuss this a little more. For both our own goods. I’ll be back a little early tonight, and we’ll talk through the um- details, is that alright?”
“Sounds good to me—” You hum, not oblivious to the man’s shattering composure inside. Nanami Kento hid it well - always so stoic, always so sensible, always so respected in his work place. On more than one occasion, you’d gotten comments from tittering women that they only wished they could have a husband that held it together even half as much.
But as his wife you knew it all.
And you knew when there was a chance that this stoic, sensible, stern Nanami Kento was about to…break.
So without a single second of hesitation, your dominant hand reaches out to grab him by the tie- simultaneously straightening it at the middle of his chest and dragging Nanami’s head down to meet yours in a soft, soft kiss. Just the slow slide of your lips. Sensual. “I’ll see you then, Kento.” Murmuring against his lips, you pull away with a smile. “Can’t miss the daily kiss. Have a great day at work~!”
A smile that utterly kills him.
Your husband walks slightly stiffly all the way to the car. And with a final wave, he’s speeding off down the street as if getting to work sooner might just make the day end sooner, as well.
With a slight giggle, you head back inside.
.
.
.
T-minus 4 days until the long weekend.
Unfortunately, that ‘discussion’ had to wait until the day after, because Nanami’s workplace had been overdue on a few proposals (inconveniently misplaced by the new intern, and conveniently handed to your husband). And he’d ended up driving back home past 12AM, after you’d already put both the kids down to bed.
With you so tired after a long day of taking care of the house and waiting up for him, how could he possibly even think of infringing on your precious hours any longer?
So all Nanami had done was clean himself up hastily, and carry you back to your shared bedroom where you’d been drowsing on the living room couch. Cuddling you to sleep. Promising that you’d talk about it the day after.
You understood, of course.
You and Nanami had been together for about twelve years, after all (if you wanted to know the exact date, down to the number of hours and minutes, you could ask him and he’d certainly remember). From lovers to a married couple, to being blessed enough to adopt Yuji and Choso when they were young.
Despite two bustling boys, you had to admit that yours and Nanami’s sex life hadn’t exactly died down.
Just a sneaky quickie before anyone woke up…perhaps getting handsy underneath the covers after a long day….And with Yuji now old enough to share a room with his older brother (they’d been begging for bunk beds for too long), you could finally start having sex at home again.
Perfect.
Right?
Except, well, it wasn’t exactly the same as it once was—
“N-ngh, fuck…” Your jaw drops open with a sloppy moan, saliva cascading out of you with a splosh! just as soon as Nanami’s stuffing you all the way to his hilt.
Here was the result of your ‘discussion’ tonight - if you could even call it that.
The trimmed golden hairs decoratin’ his base carnally scratch your clit, and you’re lewdly grinding yourself backwards. Every tiny movement leaves him stirring up your insides oh-so-perfectly, and your body wracks with shivers. “Please- please, Kento. S-start moving…”
“So needy.” Nanami’s crinkling his straight nosebridge as he stares you down, with your spine curved perfectly back into him. Those plump lips of his kiss a line down your back—long tongue coming out to taste your skin. “Missed you s’much. Fuck, you don’t know how much I missed you-”
And with that, he gives a heaving thrust that makes you gasp and grab at the rickety headboard. You could feel the plumpness of Nanami’s tip throb-throb-throbbing at your throat- “Missed you, too. Been wantin’ for you to- ngh, fuck me so bad, baby.”
“N’ that’s exactly what I’m about to do.” He’s smugly crooning out, the curvature of his shaft just lightly puckering up at your sweetest spots - Nanami had you mapped out exactly.
Hard and fast.
Moving in slight bucks and grinds.
Smearing his reddened, swollen tip against your tender insides.
“Exactly about to fuh-fuck you until that pussy’s all satisfied.” The toned lines of Nanami’s hips rut into you like such an animal- and his meaty thighs push you further and further up the springy mattress. “To fill you up.” Leaving you whining wildly at his spears. “To pound a ba- mm.” Leaving you limp under his touch, leaving him reaching his hands over and cupping your tits so that he can manhandle you upright and at his mercy when-
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
“Momma? Papa?”
And that was exactly why it wasn’t the same as before.
You freeze instantly.
Tiny sniffles ring out from the other side of the door, and the locked door handle jingles to no avail. Yuji’s small, scared voice pipes up, “Momma, I frew up…”
You look at Nanami, and Nanami looks at you.
“Shit.”
“Shit-”
He’s easing out of you with the loudest, messiest sluuuuurp—! Multiple ribbons of slick n’ precum combine to form a sheen that glues the insides of your thighs together, and you’re shivering at the feeling of his wide girth pulling out.
Letting off a slight noise of discontent as your walls clench emptily, cunt throbbing angrily for him to fuck you again. Your hips buck in primal instinct as you watch Nanami tuck himself back into his pants and put on his large shirt, though you have to hold yourself back - you were missing him already.
“Shhhh, shhh.” Nanami’s clammy palm rests down on your sticky thigh, and he’s carressin’ the skin there back and forth to soothe you. It works…somewhat.
And you’re making to move off of the bed, “I’ll get-”
“No, let me.” Firmly, he’s pinning you back down just with that singular, clammy palm plastered to your thigh. Just that show of his strength is enough to make your glistening hole throb once more- and you’re forced to bite down on your lower lip to stop yourself from making a noise.
He lovingly taps your leg, and lets the bedframe creak in agony after him (you felt much the same). Nanami hums, “I’ll take care of it. You just get some rest, my darling. You did so well.”
You’re burying yourself underneath the soft covers as the spike of light from the hallway enters the room. Nanami - fully softened now, fully shook of the shreds of carnal desire within him - opens the doorway to crouch in front of his teary son. “Let’s get you cleaned up and I’ll read you a bedtime story, how about that, sunshine?”
The pink-haired boy nods, “Mhm!”
By the time he got back, you were peacefully slumbering away.
Nanami Kento only fixed the straps of that cute nightgown you were donning once more, snuggling up to you underneath the covers with the half-asleep promise of a proper (proper, this time) discussion tomorrow.
.
.
.
T-minus 3 days until the long weekend.
Nanami Kento was hungry.
Famished.
Absolutely ravenous.
He’d made it only two steps after getting home early from work. Inside your sweet-smelling kitchen, the scent of vanilla and summer heat in the air- before your strong husband was sprawling you out across the marble counters and lavishing his long tongue down the side of your cheek.
Swirlin’ tastebuds licking away the smudges of cream on your skin, “Mmm—” Nanami’s groaning against the side of your face, his scorching breath simmering against your flesh. “Something smells…” His fingers slipping down between your trembly legs- “-sweet, darlin’.”
And before you know it - fuck, before you can even think of it - you’re gnawing down on the edge of his plush deltoid.
Your moans cracking at the back of your throat as he’s slipping his way inside, the deliciously curved tip of his cock stuffs against the roof of your cunt. Burrowing out a bruise there that makes your eyes roll to the back of your skull, “Shit- I swear you become bigger- ngh, every time.”
“Mmm, that’s because this pretty pussy’s been missing me too much.” He breathily chuckles, a slight hitch in his breath as your sloppy walls clench. “Probably harder for her to take me every time.”
“No no, I swear—” With a whine, you’re arching your back in a signal for him to rover past your folds even deeper. Teeth setting on edge once one of Nanami’s thick veins grope into your slobbery insides, stretchin’ out your cunt to his sheer size.
He was being so gentle. He was being so loving. He was absolutely ruining your pussy on his half-thrusts- just trying to fit inside.
Probe after probe, the slippery line of his slit leaves your mouth watering. The perfect crevice that renders you babbling away stupidly, “I swear you get even bigger whenever we- hck! talk about—ngh.”
“Yeeees?” There was something wild in your husband’s eyes, boring down at you through his clammy blond strands. It was just so fuckin’ cute the way that you lost your train of thought anytime Nanami’s length went mazing inwards- “Whenever we talk about what, my love? Haaaah, finish your sentences.”
As he tuts you’re gasping—and he knows exactly what you’re alluding to. “Whenever we t-talk about-”
“Mhm—?”
Drooling mouth snapping open, he’s bottoming out. “Ba-” Directly hitting your cervix with the crowned, globular end of his shaft. So, so reddened with need. “Bab-”
“Momma—? Papa—?” A voice calls out, young and painfully oblivious to what was obscured in the kitchen. In the distance, you could hear the slamming of the front door.
A bag being set down on the table.
Footsteps.
Choso’s voice echoes out once more when he doesn’t receive an answer, unused to not having his parents respond to him immediately. You could hear the slight pout in his voice even from here- “Can one of you help me with my homework—?”
Mercifully, Choso doesn’t enter the kitchen - instead, keeping himself confined to the television room where he was starting to set out his school books. Choso doesn’t take a peak at where you’d urgently disjointed yourself from Nanami, smoothing down your upturned skirt and taking a look at the clock-
“Oh my goodness, I forgot his art classes were cancelled today- it’s time already.” You gasp, reading the ticking face of the clock that knew what you two just did.
Apologetically, you’re whipping your face around to face Nanami - who was back to tucking his softened length inside in a way that reminded you of just last night. Despite the slight furrow between his blond brows, Nanami shakes his head understandingly. “S’just time.” He grunts, zipping his pants back up and wiping away the droplets of sweat on his forehead. Your husband kisses your temple, “We’ll find some other time, my love?”
“Mhm.” Heart fluttering at the soft peck, you watch as his hulking frame walks out of the kitchen to help Choso with his homework. “We will…”
Though, a part of you doubted you might.
But you hoped.
.
.
.
T-minus 2 days until the long weekend.
“Fuck…” Nanami’s peering down at you through partially-cracked lids, and from down here it looked as if his molten peripherals were almost made of fire.
Burning straight at you underneath his professional work desk. Trying for al his will not to flutter them shut at the feeling of your lavish tongue gliding down his cock—“Fuck, my love- that mouth of yours is absolute sin.”
He’d been wading through some important work documents before you’d ambushed him in his office. Before you’d simply dropped to your knees and fumbled with his shorts like you were a woman starved.
Lappin’ all over his thick, throbbing like the shiniest of lollipops.
Lick after lick.
Your saliva-glazed muscle flattens over the top of his cock for a few seconds. “Mmm—” You’re vibratin’ out your moans against his length, and it sends sparks travelling all the way down from the line underneath Nanami’s plum-colored tip. Where your husband’s shaft was just dribbling out hot wires of pre down to your tastebuds, puddlin’ all over. “Tastes sho, mmm, nice-”
“Oh- fuck!” His head falls back against the back of his chair, and you catch the way that Nanami’s Adam’s apple bobs at the feeling of your greedy tongue.
Just that sensual ridged texture- fuck, it was all that he could think about. A carnal scratch. The way you were flopping it right out into his most sensitive spots, drag-drag-draaaagging it along his elongated length.
Nanami’s right hand comes down to grip his base, and you’re whining as he lifts his shaft off of your open tongue. With a chuckle, he’s placing his cock side-by-side with your face- and your cunt throbs at the fact that his nine, massive inches looked incredible up so closely.
So sensually rubbin’ his girthy hilt up and down the corner of your mouth. Just teasing.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down—
“Shouldn’t be saying these dirty things with such a s-sweet mouth, y’know?” Nanami tuts, merely lining the edge of your lips with a gloss of your pre. He was so hot and syrupy—practically melting against where your tongue was darting out to try n’ taste him even more. “Should control yourself- what if- fuck.”
“Mmm—” Moaning, you’re managing to press his rotund tip against the middle of your tongue once more, starting to suck.
“What if you say those things and- oh, you’re too loud, hm?” He prattles away still, mouth working overtime whilst you stuffed yours. And yet…and yet even disciplined Nanami Kento couldn’t stop himself from bucking off of his cushiony chair, “What if- haaaah, if you’re too loud and the boys hear-”
“Momma—! Papa—!”
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
Nanami groans, “-us.”
Ah, well…you’re removing yourself from Nanami’s still-twitching cock. Red-hot. Rock-hard.
He was so needy that just wrenching yourself off with a wettened plop! makes Nanami’s hips chase the soft insides of your mouth, a translucent wad of precum spraying out of him instantly.
And as he looks down at you with a dismal face, you’re managing out a smile. “I’ll go see what it is.” And Nanami Kento thinks that he might as well pass out before any ‘next time’- because you’re pressing a chaste peck to his mushroom tip, and pulling his shorts up. “Next time, Kento.”
Nanami puts his face in his hands and lightly groans.
With a huffed giggle, you’re sauntering your way out of the office - knowing damn well just how intensely his eyes were locked on the sway of your hips. The way your thighs were more clenched than before.
“Alright-” Unlocking the firmly-shut door (thank goodness for Nanami’s foresight), you’re met with the tear-stained face of your oldest son. Snot-faced and bawling.
Your brows raise right up to your hairline as you take in the vision of your usually-calm Choso, turning your sights to his (only slightly tear-stained) younger brother beside him. Yuji, who hurries to explain what his brother couldn’t- “I wanted bubba’s comics but bubba wanted bubba’s comics, so then we got into a- um, ah…” Slightly squirming underneath your stare, your boys knew you hated when they fought. “-scuffle, and then I got bruised.”
He raises a chubby hand up, and you can easily spot the faint blue-ish mark on his forearm.
Yuji looks at Choso, “But bubba’s the one crying.”
And that was being generous, Choso was all but choking on his sobs. Taking one look at the bruise you were appraising - the place where he’d either directly or indirectly hurt his little brother - and bursting into peels of cries all over again. “I’m so- so- sor- wahhhh—”
“Aaaaalrighty then-” You hasten to pick up your oldest boy, with slight exertion due to his size. Though when you finally do succeed in hoisting him onto your hip, he wraps his arms around your neck and buries his wet face into it. “Now, how about we go downstairs and make ourselves a cup of hot chocolate, hm?” It seems to calm Choso down a bit. “Maybe we can even watch a movie- a movie night?”
“Yippeeee—” Yuji squeals, arms raised as if he wanted to be carried, too. “Me as well?”
“All of us.” Comes a deep voice, and Nanami’s finally making his way out of the office. Having calmed himself down, he carries his younger son and places an innocent peck on your temple.
Choso gags, “Bleh!” Whilst Yuji only giggles - and despite the slight embarrassment coursing through your body at your husband’s obvious loving gesture, you were glad to have Choso express anything other than sadness.
You’re starting to walk as a family, “Now, who’s up for some Kpop Demon Hunters?”
“Meeeee–!”
.
.
.
T-minus 1 day until the long weekend.
“Fuck-”
“Kento-”
“Fuck, just a bit-” He’s hotly whispering into your shoulder, blond strands tickling your skin once Nanami’s jerking his hips back and rutting them into yours. You could feel his thick, throbbing erection against the globes of your ass cheeks - so hard by now that you could count every throb.
Ba-dump.
Ba-dump.
Ba-dump-
And with every furious pulsation, he’s jerking his pelvis forwards- almost thrusting. Dry humping you like an animal in heat. “Just- just a little bit.” So rough that the sheer force leaves you bending even deeper against the dining table, and Nanami has to loop his greedy hands underneath your body n’ jerk you backwards. Push. Pull. “Just want to feel you a little bit- haaah- my love.”
“You’re being so- oh.” Even though you both still had your clothes on, Nanami’s pryin’ aside those flimsy panties of yours to let his bulge smear against your naked cunt. “-so insatiable, Kento.”
And with a few more vulgar strokes, he’s finally answering. “Couldn’t stop thinking of you all day- no, all week, darlin’. I’ve been running into that damned office bathroom to fuck my fist like some- ngh, fuckin’ teenager all week now.”
“Oh, Ken—” With a mewl, you’re grinding your hips backwards- but the friction just wasn’t enough.
Just wasn’t the feeling of his incredible cock splitting apart your insides, and the way that you knew he could fill out your every orifice so perfectly leaves you wanting more, more, more. So without thinking much - without thinking at all, really - you’re whipping your body back around.
Nanami grunts at the loss of contact with your drippin’ wet core- only for a brief moment before he realizes what you’re really trying to do. And the blond-haired man eagerly leans his hips forwards when you start to fuss with the buttons n’ zippers on his trousers.
“Shit-” Impatient, you thrust your hand directly down his pants, and Nanami throws his head back with a sultry shiver at the feeling of your ravenous palm.
Accurately cupping his swollen erection, you feel him splurge out a slimy wad of pre at the mere touch. Just so sensitive. “We’re gonna hafta to be quick.” You’re murmuring, back to fiddling with his buttons. Pop! Pop! “Before they come back-”
SLAM!
“Momma, what’s for dinner?”
Pop!
The last of Nanami’s buttons are torn open- right before they’re forced back shut at the sound of your sons entering the home. It’s a team effort by the both of you, and you’re just barely putting your rumpled clothes back in place, making sure anything was covered, ready to act like everything was normal before-
“Oh, shit.” Your eyes drop back down to the place between your husband’s legs.
His erection had softened by now, and there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary…except for the massive stain of syrupy slick that’d been left by your grinding, gyrating cunt. It darkens the beige fabric of Nanami’s trousers like a puddle, glistening in the yellowish yolky lighting of the kitchen. Your hands are on him immediately - though, not like earlier. “Shit, Kento, you’re going to have to go-”
“Go?” Nanami balks, but he doesn’t resist when you start pushing him out of the second entrance to the kitchen. “Go where?”
The house you’d chosen for your family was one of those large, more open plans; and the kitchen itself had one entrance for those who accessed the house by normal means, and then one more entrance that opened up to the bottom of the house’s staircase. Ones that you lead him up the first few steps of, “Go change those pants!” You squawk. “I tell them that you’re- I don’t know, showering, or something!”
“Good thinking, my love.” He chuckles, clearly finding amusement in your panicked charge. With his palms raised in surrender, he’s making his way up- though, not before landing a peck on your forehead once more.
“Now!”
“Aye aye, my madam.”
Nanami (and his stained trousers) just barely makes it out of the kitchen before the boys walk into the kitchen, mud-stained and slightly out of breath still.
“Cho!” You’re admonishing before they’re able to take their seats, “How many times have I told you not to put your skateboard on the dining table? We eat there.”
“Yes, momma.” The dark-haired boy recites, listening to what you were saying and placing it on the floor. As he kicks it out of the kitchen, he turns to you and asks- “Where’s papa?”
Turning your back to your sons, you’re fussing over the dishes set on the kitchen counter now - what you were doing before you’d been…interrupted, that is. “Papa wanted to take a shower, it was getting a bit ah- hot in here.”
“This time of year?” Choso raises a brow, but doesn’t question it any further.
“Anyways-” You hasten to change the subject, “-why are you boys in so early today? Papa and I had just barely gotten started on dinner.”
And at this, Yuji jumps up in his seat- eyes sparkling as he slams his hands down on the table. “Oh, momma, you’ll never believe it. So Nobara said she had to go to some dentwist’s appointment and Megumi was feeling sick- so I went with bubba’s friends but then we decided to do some exploring- and then there was also this ice cream truck that—”
And so it went on. By the time that Yuji was done with his (condensed for your enjoyment, according to him) version of events, Nanami was back downstairs in a new pair of unstained trousers. The two of you quickly wrapped up dinner preparation, and used the boys’ help to set out the food.
In less than an hour or so, you were all seated around the rectangular table.
Nanami beside you, and your sons in front of you.
“So-” And, to your surprise, he’s the one starting off the conversation. Dinner always was quite a lively event with the four of you, with either you or Yuji being the ones that dominated the nightly discussions most days.
But to have Nanami be the one to start off? It must be something quite important…
So you all turned towards him, excited to see what he had to say.
He gulps down a bite of rice, and continues. “Remember that starting tomorrow there’s a long weekend, my loves. Monday is a holiday.” Nanami addresses all of you, in that soft tone that always makes you melt. Yuji cheers at the mention of such a thing- “It’s rare that we get a treat like this to be together, and I wanted to know what you all wanted to do on those days?”
“I’m fine with anything.” You hum, turning to Yuji and Choso.
“Something fun.” Choso stares off into space ponderously, “Maybe like to the park? Or a resort?”
You nod, “Fancy, I like it. And what about you Yuji?”
And, dear little Yuji - who’d been so patiently waiting for his turn to speak, who oh-so-sweetly hadn’t wanted to speak over anyone else - simply just burst. “Joypolis!” He stands up on his seat, and you don’t even have the heart to tell him to sit back down properly. Chanting, “Joypolis! Joypolis! I want to go to Joypolis—”
Choso’s eyes light as well, excitedly- “Oh- oh, can we?” Turning to face the two of you with pleading eyes.
And, of course, you’re turning to exchange a look with Nanami.
“Of course!”
You’re humming thoughtfully, “And since it’s for a few days, I’d heard of this really nice resort nearby that I think would be a nice place to stay at? We could make it a long stay for Saturday and Sunday, and come back on Monday morning.”
Expectedly, Yuji bursts into even more cheers.
“It’s settled then-” Nanami speaks over the cacophony of voices- and what was clearly not settled were the two boys, who were having trouble listening to your calls to not jerk the table lest they wanted to splash over the food. “Kids, listen to your momma.” Until, finally, some semblance of silence broke through—“We’re going to Joypolis.”
“Yippeeeee—!”
“Hell yeah-”
“Cho, language…”
Nanami chuckles, about to say something more about the plans for the weekend when-
BZZZZZZZZZZZ—!
In your peripheral, you see Nanami reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. Clearly, you imagine, it must be something important for him to forgo (his own) rule about no devices during dinner time. And you’re watching on in slight curiosity-
“Oh.” Nanami’s mouth slightly parts, a somewhat surprised expression dazzling his face. The longer the phone call goes on, the more dazzled he grows. “Oh?”
By then, even Choso and Yuji had quietened down. And you’re tugging on his elbow in slight concern, “Something the matter, Kento?”
He’s shaking his head, attention still on the call. “Oh?” Perhaps unable to communicate anything more eloquent, whoever was on the other end of the line seemed to have said something that made one of his blond brows raise. And for his tongue to finally work, “Have the kids stay overnight?”
.
.
.
T-minus 0 days until the long weekend.
In other words: 9 hours and 17 minutes into the long weekend.
Also in other words: 9:17AM, Saturday.
According to what you, Yuji, and Choso had derived from your instant interrogation after Nanami had set down the phone- it seems that your mother-in-law had won a raffle just that day. The prize? Tickets to a two-night trip to the hot springs of Oita.
Three of them - and she claimed that she didn’t want to spend the holiday with her friends who couldn’t move as well as they were once able to. Might as well give the kids the time of their life, huh? There was much to see in Oita, and they were practically bouncing out of their seats once Nanami had announced the change in plans - neither had been upset about the postponement of Joypolis, either!
With their sheer excitement, the two of you had trouble setting them down for bed. And they’d been jumping on yours like a trampoline before the clock had even hit five-
“After all—” Nanami’s mother had crooned, her eyes wrinkling prettily at the ends as she smiled - Nanami had her eyes, and her smile. The very same dimple at the end of her lips, “-it’s a lot of work taking care of kids, isn’t it? Oh, I was blessed to have one as sensible as Kento, but even then…”
“Certainly is.” You’re chuckling, setting the boys’ luggage down inside her house - one lil’ Spiderman suitcase, and another that was just pitch-black in color (it’d been a long night sorting and packing).
She’s nodding her greying-blonde head, “It’s important that the two of you spend some time together, too. Can’t forget that you’re lovers, as well as parents.” Looking towards your husband, who was firmly giving Choso instructions on how to keep him and his brother safe throughout all times of the trip.
You can feel your veins bubble up, and hope that the sinful evidence of these past few days don’t show up in your expression. “Th-that’s true, it’s quite important to have time for each other.”
“Besides- I’m sure the children don’t mind spending some time with their grandma, hm?” As Nanami finishes off his lecture, your two sons run towards their grandma and hug her tight- agreeing in tandem.
“I can’t wait for the hot springs! Bubba says he’s going to teach me cool new swim tricks, grandma-”
“That are within papa’s safety guidelines.” Choso gulps, feeling his father’s burning stare already. “And all end up with the both of us, as well as grandma, coming home to mama and papa safe and sound and perfectly alright. With no limbs missing and also no ugly souvenirs- only pretty ones, because momma deserves only the prettiest ones.” He recites, beaming back at Nanami’s bemused expression.
Your husband stands next to you and shrugs at your deadpan gaze.
With delighted laughter, Nanami’s mother looks up at the two of you. There was a somewhat knowing look in her eye- “You two don’t mind, do you?”
You glance at Nanami.
Nanami glances back.
You know you’re both thinking the same thing.
In unison—
“I-if you insist!”
.
.
.
10:08AM, Saturday.
A tender goodbye.
A hasty drive home.
A slam! of a door that you’re only later recognizing as your home door.
You could barely even remember anything before you’re suddenly back inside your home and turning to Nanami with a meaningful, “Kent-”
His lips are on you instantly.
Teeth clawing.
Moaning.
Ravenous.
“Fuck- shit, you’re so—” You’re languidly gliding your hands down Nanami’s front, feeling the way his ripped muscles ripple n’ flex through his thin shirt.
And Nanami’s panting so hard that every scorching breath simmers against your face, and as you speak- your husband’s gripping you easily by the back of the throat to re-slot your mouth over his. Unable to even speak past his crashing, open-mouthed kisses.
You’re whining as you tug down on his cold belt buckle, “Kento- mmpf, I want- fuck.”
And before you know it, you’re being pushed against the closest flat surface that Nanami Kento can find. You’re being shoved against the wall. You’re being pinned by the strength in his hips- grinding the raging hot erection already between his legs.
“Hngh, fuck.” You’re hearing him snarl in a ragged tone behind you, kissing your neck, your shoulder, down the length of your spine. “Fuck- fuck- fuck- fuck.” Each one was faster than the last, smooch after smooch after smooch, and there’s a dull thud! ringing out across the empty house when Nanami’s knees finally hit the floor.
“Oh my-” Shivering once his roughened fingertips latch onto your easy skirt n’ flips it upwards. You’re left practically bare, with only your flimsy cotton panties on as he holds up your skirt and shoves his handsome face nose-deep between your folds.
From behind.
Letting the straight edge of his nose bridge plap against your cunt, your jaw drops once you feel your husband filthily breeeeeeathe in—“Fuh-fuck, darling.”
Your knees feel weak already, “Kento, are we really just going to do this over here-”
“No.” Comes Nanami’s guttural mutter and oh…by the husky need in that tone, you already know that he’s far from sane. Already gone. “No, not at all.”
“Really?” Brows slightly raising, you almost want to look back- when another one of Nanami’s hands reach over and flip your restless body around. It doesn’t take him much to manhandle you with his incredible strength.
Your back against the wall. Your glistening cunt facing his mouth.
You’re still standing up. But one of your legs is being picked up and thrown over his broad shoulders, now you’re being held up with partially his support - mostly his support, you imagine.
And it’s with this position that he can take a goooood, long look at your pussy. Your puffy folds spreadin’ open. Your hole clenching around nothing. She was just so dripping wet with your honeyed sap, streaming right down your thighs—“No- don’t you worry, darling.” He mutters, and you wonder just who he’s talking to - you or your pussy, right now.
“Don’t worry, because…?” You’re babbling out.”
“Because-” Nanami’s gusting out with his hot, sticky breath clinging to your cunt. And he’s leaning in closer, closer, so much closer. Until the curve of his attractive chin edges towards the end of your cunt, “-because m’gonna take you here.”
And then your body flinches with a shock of pleasure as he leans his plump lips in and presses a firm peck to the front of your pussylips.
Sloppy and wet.
“And on the dining room table-” Mwah! “And in my office-” Mwah! “The kitchen-” Mwah! “And the- fuck, the bedroom-” He’s snarling, dimpled lips curling as he sniffs your sweet folds once more. “-gonna take you all over the fuckin’ house-”
All those promises - he can’t even finish them before your husband, Nanami, has his face stuffed between your pretty legs and his tongue lapping your cunt like a madman.
Darting to every slippery nook and crevice that his tastebuds can reach- first he’s sliding up n’ down your folds, lapping up the ounces of slick that spray out of you. “Mmmm—” His head throws backwards- or, at least, it tries to. Before that dark, carnal part of Nanami’s own self manages to stop himself, and his quavering hand guides one of yours to grab onto his blond scalp.
“Roughly.” Nanami gasps between your wet pussylips, his drool drenching it in a whole new layer of gluey liquid for him to taste.
Your mouth gapes, “You want it…”
The veins on his large hands pop out as he tightens your fist on his hair, “Roughly.”
Finally letting go of your smaller hands, Nanami’s then holding onto both sides of your waist- practically glued. Pushing and pinning you back down against the cold wall when his tongue slithers out.
So loooooong and lucious, he’s tingling your tastebuds over your swollen clit. “Mmm- mmpf-” Gurgling, gulping, swallowing the cloying wads of syrup that dripped to the back of his throat and alllll over the lower half of his face.
He’s grunting, “So sweet so- fucking- fuck- sweet.” You could feel your husband’s wet lips flapping away at your nub, before they’re finally parting and plunging between your pussylips like he was possessed. “Never gonna get used to this. This pussy- she’s the- hah, sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted- and I think I might just be addicted-”
“Shit- ngh.” You’re clawing at his sweaty scalp for dear life, because Nanami Kento was usually such a gentle lover. Usually so smooth. So slow. But now…“Oh my god- I don’t even want to ask what’s gotten into you today- fuck.”
It takes him a few vulgar strikes with his tongue to even think of responding- to even formulate a coherent enough answer.
And it’s only with a sloppy mwah! that he’s bringing himself to part with your dewy cunt, just the most lecherous damp noise ringing out in the air. When Nanami speaks out, it’s with his ribbons of saliva departing into your quivering hole. “Can you fucking blame me?”
Oh. Your eyes widen, “You- you really are-” Fuck, but his sloppy tastebuds are back to drilling into your entrance. His scratchy tastebuds plaster against the roof of your cunt, back n’ forth. “You really are pussydrunk? But the thing is- already?”
It’s easier for Nanami to detach himself from your damp pussy- with his two thumbs swervin’ down, he’s smearing apart your folds and spitting straight inside your hole once more. “Can- you- fucking- blame- me-”
It wasn’t even a question, and his lengthy tongue probes between your folds after each word. Slipping straight into your deepest depths, with the curvaceous tip of his muscle sticking in, in, in.
Again and again.
Preeeeeeessing into every depth, “Can you fucking imagine what I’ve been going through these- hah, these past days without you?”
“N-no?” His carnal strokes make you throw your head back with a whine, tears starting to bead behind your eyelids. “What have you been- fuck, you’re going in so deep, Kento.”
Though Nanami doesn’t even seem to hear you- “How can you blame me-” Like a mantra, he’s muttering between those swollen pussylips of yours, eating you out so raw that even the slightest movements of his lips make you see stars. “How can you blame me- hah, how can you blame me, how can you blame me—ngh.” The flatness of his sizzlin’ tastebuds moves back and forth into the roof of your cunt, making itself well at home there. “Not when I haven’t had dessert for a week now-”
“Haven’t had dessert?” You’re questioning, your senses slightly hazed by his ministrations between your legs. Is that what he’s been talking about going through? “What do you mean, baby, just last night for dinner we had-”
“No.” He says, meaningfully. And Nanami looks up at you straight in the eyes when he’s spreadin’ that wet muscle of his wiiiide open and probin’ into your hole- “I mean…dessert.”
Your back arches off of the wall, a perfect curvature. “Dessert-”
Your pussy.
Your mewling whines are cut off by the feeling of him pulling out of your cunt with a wet plunge, strings of your slick following his movements n’ still connecting his mouth to your core. There was something crazed in Nanami’s hazy peripherals, something utterly gone. “Yes.” He spits for the nth time into your cunt, swervin’ right past your folds. Pinning you down whilst you try to run, “Don’t you fucking run- don’t you fucking know that she’s my favorite dessert, darlin’?”
And then you sob. With a loud, primal sluuuuurp—Nanami’s splittin’ you apart from the inside.
“And I’ve been without her for too long, my wife.” Perfectly molding your channel to him, the cushy tips of his fingers open your entrance up- and oh, he’s digging them deeeeply into your tiniest orifices. Scissoring in a second finger as if it already wasn’t enough to have his thick joints pushing your insides apart. “How can a husband be expected to go so long without his wife’s pretty pussy?” Gently nibblin’ on your clit, “I’ve missed her.”
“I’ve missed this mouth of yours.” You don’t think you’ll ever get used to just how big his size was, the blustering crowns of his two fingerpads opening up your insides. He filled up every cranny- “Fuck, keep going.”
“You have no idea how- hahhh—” Nanami emits a breathy laugh, like he was in utter disbelief at his own self. And you watch as your husband’s jaw hangs open to collect the glittery wads of slick that constantly leak out of you, “-how fucking thirsty I’ve been. I would eat the sweetest sundaes after work- remember the ones I bought for us? Fuck, just imagining that was you.”
You’re shivering at his admission- he’d what?
But Nanami wasn’t done yet - in fact, he was only lapping away his tongue even harder. And when you get used to the caress of his velvety underside, he’s spanking it down on your clit. “Just wishing that was you on my tongue- but nothing would even come as close.” He gasps, “So now that I have you, oh, I could drink from this pretty pussy for aaaaages with how parched I am.”
You’re tugging at his hair, and Nanami only directs you to pull at him even rougher. To use him. Teasing, “And here I thought that large water tumbler of yours was enough-”
“Oh, my love, it’s not even close to enough- look at this-” You’re being guided to look down at the ropes of sap that he was tunneling out of you- chin hitting your chest. After each movement of his fingers, your slick glazes his wrist in splats.
Sensually, he’s ducking his head down to lick off the polish on his skin. Gleaming like glitter, Nanami moans when the candied taste hits his tongue- “You’re like a fucking waterpark f’me. And I’ve- hah, I’ve been dreaming about her for ages now. Been hungry. Been imagining-”
Lapping and probin’. A third crowned tip rovers inside and starts pushing in and out with the others, “Yes- yes yes yes yes-”
“I’ve had to run to the fucking- ngh, office bathroom more times than I can count.” He admits, spittling between your lips. “All because I spent a whole meeting imagining just how wet you’d feel on my tongue, mmm, like this.”
You’re crying out, bucking your hips into his- and though he might’ve usually pinned your squirming hips down for moving, teasing, now…now Nanami was welcoming those half-ruts. “More- deeper-”
“And look how eeeeeasy I can slip in-” With a final cobweb of saliva, he’s trying to pry inside a fourth finger—managing.
Nanami’s prolonged length empties out right near your cervix with harsh thuds, you could tell that he was searching for that sweet spot inside you.
Babbling away, Nanami seemed to be getting even more drunk on your pussy with each passing second. “Wanted to feel you dripping like this- aaaaaall up in my throat- see- watch.” Your husband commands, and with your head turned down like this you can’t help but watch the way he takes a big swallow of your slick. With a messy glistening face, he grins up at you. “If you could possibly be any- ngh, any fuckin’ wetter then I’d want you to in a second.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been wetter in my life, Kento.” As if to prove your point, even more tear trails of your slick drip down - all for Nanami Kento’s munching delight, of course.
“…Yet.”
And you know one quality that attracted you to your husband the most? It was the fact that, no matter what, he would do what he promised. He would deliver.
Because with a few more sultry slams, his long index is burrowing into your g-spot. Perfectly. It’s as if that bundle of nerves was a target, and Nanami’s able to slide his trimmed nails right where you wanted him to.
Your knees bend limply as the pleasure hits you, and you wail. “Oh- there!” Too gone in your own bliss, he’s actually holding up your weight with one of his strong arms now, looped at your waist.
“Found it.” You can feel his grin against your entrance, “And you did get wetter, my love—”
And he’d found it, alright. Constantly thump-thump-thumpin’ away near the back of your pussy with his relentless fingers, Nanami made sure that the plush pads of his digits would then graze your nerves- making you twitch n’ whine n’ buck in pleasure maddeningly.
“I- I don’t think-” With one of your legs raised upon his shoulders, it was just so easy to squeeze Nanami’s bobbing throat. Almost suffocating him. You blurt, “I don’t think m’gonna last long, Kento-”
“Good.”
The firmness with which he says that one word makes your entire body quiver- and you don’t know whether it’s because of his purely carnal tone, or the way he slithers his fingers inside your cunt, presses down on your g-spot and holds it there.
Unmoving.
No matter how much you squirm or whine.
And Nanami doesn’t waste a single second before he’s immediately trying to topple you over the edge of your high, “Because you don’t have to.” He pants, “Your dear husband is here for a- hah, a reason, my wife. Don’t you know?”
“A- a reason.” You’re babbling, and you don’t know which one of you is more gone by this point.
You’re having trouble holding yourself up, and Nanami claps his chin against the end of your cunt with enough pressure to keep you standing straight. His tongue teasingly rolling out over your clit, “M’here to make you cum.” Push after push, thud! after thud! “Because don’t you know…”
“Don’t I know- fuck, don’t I know what?”
His grin is just sinful—“Don’t you know that you taste sweeter when you cum, my love?” Said in such a tender tone, even though the slashes of his fingers were anything but.
In next to no time, you’re gripping one hand into Nanami’s hair and the other onto his shoulders as you cum all over his mouth. It’s in invisible waves ridden straight from the tip of his nose n’ down to lacquer his chin with gleam, “C-cumming.” Even though he already knew, “M’cumming, Kento. Cum- fuck, s’the best I’ve ever had.”
“Mmm, why thank you, darling.” He’s crooning out lovingly, not even a hint of teasing as he takes it on. All your pushes and bucks- until the skin ‘round Nanami’s mouth was red and raw.
Until his jaw aaaaaached.
And yet, he’s still eating you out through your high, the sparks of bliss absolutely leave you shaking. Toes curled. The top of your crown feeling light and airy- “Think you’ve fucked me- ngh…” Stupid. Even though you don’t say it out loud…at least, you don’t think you do.
But Nanami puffs out a slightly drunken giggle between your pussylips as he hears that word leave your mouth - without you even knowing. Realizing. Dutifully, your husband doesn’t tease you as he plunges his tongue in n’ out, in n’ out. “C’mon- c’mon, c’mon- oh. I was right, you do taste so sweet.”
You’re whimpering as he pulls his fingers out, feeling your convulsing shockwaves peter out into almost nothing.
And even then, Nanami rolls his thick thumb over your clit a few times- just to watch you shake and whine prettily above him. “Done cumming?” He asks, once he feels your body go slightly wobbly. And when you nod- “But I really do wonder if you’d taste even sweeter if I overstim you a little, darling…”
“Oh my god-” Your chin drenches with the spittle that falls out of you unbeknownst to your subconscious, just so sensitive that they’re about the same as the tears dripping from your eyes. “I don’t know if I even can cum so soon again, Kento.”
“We’ll never know until we try.”
He’s tracing squelching wet—hearts?
It feels even more teasing than usual when Nanami’s fingers are toying with your clit, because right now he’s drawing the cutest patterns to watch you react. The way you flinch even more when he draws a big heart- and that cute hitch in your breath when it’s a little one.
“So cute…” Nanami groans, fingers nothing but a blur on your cunt. Spreadin’ you wide open, you can’t believe that your husband then has the audacity to bear his canines and gnaw down on your puffy pussylips. “So sweet-”
“Kento-” You bawl, the pleasure making your senses all bleary. “K-Kento-”
“Oho?” Those blond brows of his raise in interest, and through your tears you can make out the pinkish outline of his tongue coming out to taste his slick-glossed lips. Purring, “It tastes like you’re going to cum again, my love.”
And that’s exactly what you do.
Hard and fast. This one takes you by surprise, just a surge of white-hot electricity that shoots up your spine and leaves your thoughts all muddled.
And, just like before, he’s dragging you through it incredibly. Through every peak of euphoria. Through every flash of bliss every time his slurpin’ tongue accidentally slipped past your entrance when he was sucking you dry.
“Cum- fuck, I’ve already….” Mouth dry. Body shaking. By the time that Nanami’s lengthy tongue has finished lapping up every droplet of your slick, you’ve felt thoroughly fucked through your orgasm. You honestly wouldn’t even have been able to keep yourself standing had it not been for his unrelenting grip on you, refusing to let you fall.
You lean onto his support, feeling your joints protest at the long time you’d spent in this position. “Kento, now I really don’t know if I can cum any- hck! more.”
But Nanami Kento could read what you were saying without saying.
He knew you well enough.
And you knew he did.
Just because you didn’t know doesn’t mean he sure as hell wasn’t allowed to try.
In an instant, your husband’s pulling away—mwah! All that sloppy slick that he wasn’t able to swallow now drips all the way from the tops of his cheekbones, and all the way down his chin. Partly down his neck. Nanami then grips your hips with a loving, pussydrunken smile. “But, when I have a wife that looks like you, my darling, how can I not make you cum?”
Oh.
11:57AM, Saturday.
“Oh my g-god—” Your voice is cracking out in both sobs n’ whines, dribbling out saliva like slick as Nanami’s rutting his naked hips against the globes of your ass cheeks.
It’d taken your husband only a few minutes to manhandle you from the threshold of your house entrance down through the house. Having to hold you up where you were so overstimulated, he’d carried you princess-style. Where he’d pressed you face-down against the polished mahogany of your dining room table.
All fours. Ass up. Cunt dripping.
You’d shivered as you heard Nanami’s pants hit the floor- his belt ending up in a heap with the rest of it with a loud clang! of metal on tile. And he was simply oooozing out thick pre at the sight of you bent over for him like this, just smearin’ it down your pussylips so that it looked like a gloss. “Mmm—” Nanami grunts out from behind you, his mouth watering at the hot feeling. “So pretty like this, my wife- fuck, so pretty.”
And you’re clawing onto the wood - trying not to make too much of a mess (you’ll have to disinfect this entire house, later) - as he just lightly smooooches your tight orifice with his mushroom tip. “Sh-shit- you’re so hard, Kento.”
“Mhm–” Nanami huffs out smugly- so drunk on his cock, you were craning your head over your shoulder to take a good look at him. “Admiring your husband?”
“Yes.”
In all his rock-hard glory. Nine entire inches.
Veins were zig-zagging down Nanami’s shaft, and they end where his sparse golden hairs start to decorate his hilt. He was just aaaaching to enter you- plump tip colored the prettiest shade of pink, almost as if his painful cock was almost shy to meet your cunt.
You can’t help but notice that it matched the blush creeping up on your husband’s ears, as he leans down and purses his lips to spit straight down to your cunt. Hitting his target dead-on, Nanami grins- “I wonder why we haven’t done it like this sooner, daring?” One of his hands attach to the side of your hips, and he’s just smearin’ apart your folds to take a good look inside. “Before me I see the tastiest fucking dinner I’ve ever seen-”
“Y-you’re so filthy, Kento.” You almost can’t even believe your ears, and you arch your back into his touch. Hamstrings quivering when you nudge your hips up into his, “Why don’t you just f-fuck me already- oh.”
“As you wish, my madam.”
Because he’s already entering you as you squeak out your demands - Nanami Kento was never a man that would leave his wife yearning and wanting, of course.
Anything you wanted, it was yours.
And the same went for his throbbing, hot cock- just the curved end of his shaft plops inside your elastic hole. Because of his sheer girth, Nanami doesn’t even have to try to push apart your tight pussylips - you’re already opening up lewdly for him.
With a cracked whine, your snug channel is gobbling his inches up with a sluuuuurp—making the blond-haired man raise his brows with a chuckle. “Oh- oh, my god.” He pants, breaths coming out ragged. “Ohhhh fuck- you’ve been needy, my wife.”
“I’ve been- hah, been what?” Pathetically, you can only turn your face ‘round to meet his and take it- because Nanami wasn’t letting you off easy just because he was rovering his thick cock inside.
No…in fact, he was pounding and pounding his flared tip past your tender orifice- or, at least, he was trying to. Despite the slight resistance of your tightness, Nanami has one hand on your hips, dragging you back into him with each thrust. “Fucking- needy-”
“Not as much as you.” You’re protesting, feeling the wetness of his precum mix with your slick to travel downwards. “You’ve been the one eating me out like you’re addicted-”
“And you’re the one swallowing me down like you’re trying to suck me dry, my love.” He’s bickering back gently, “Or…” And there was a tinge of something in his carnal tone that makes you shiver, “-should I put all the blame on her instead?”
Her.
Your sultry, wet pussy.
The one he was probin’ his split-ended cock into. The one that was making him grunt after every one of your slight squeezes. The one that was so cozily tight that Nanami had to hold onto your hips and jerk you backwards to try and fit himself all inside.
Jerking and pulling.
Manhandling.
When he feels the tight shield of you still trying to get used to his sheer size, Nanami properly loops his arms ‘round your thighs. And then he’s fucking holding you up- your heels dangling off the tile, your body supported only by the dining table and your husband.
Your geysering cunt purely at the mercy of him, him, him.
“O-ohhhhh, this pussy.” As he sinks in, it’s so good that Nanami hunches his bulky body over - as if he was breaking apart on your hole. Properly in half, breaths heaving out. With every inch of his globular cockhead spearing inside, you can feel Nanami grow more and more feverish. “Oh this pussy- oh, this- this pussy-”
You’re moaning at his broken mantra, “Nanami, are you fuck- alri-”
“The first time in- in what feels like ages that m’getting to fuck you the way I’ve been aching to.” He’s spitting out - literally, back down your sultry slit to make you even wetter for him. And with that, Nanami’s voice veers octaves higher. Crazed. “And you ask me whether m’fucking alright, darling?”
“Well I’d say you were becoming- ngh, pussydrunk already.” You’re whining out, staring into Nanami’s eyes and oh—they were so dilated.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen them this dilated.
They always were, whenever he was gazing at you. But to this extent? It seemed as if his entire iris had just turned back, and Nanami Kento was hanging on your every word, your every breath. You’re whispering, “But…but I think you’re even past that now.”
“P-pussydrunk?” He breathes out the word as if it was a joke- spits it out in almost distaste. Which was strange…because it was honestly one of his favorites. “You think I’d be pussydrunk by now?”
Confused, “Y-yes?”
Before you’re being shocked by a sudden burst from his hips, his meaty thighs striking the backs of yours until his skin there turns red. His blustering tip scrape-scrape-scrapes your insides carnally, and you can feel the line of his slit driving in even deeper.
“Oh, honey- oh, my love- oh, my wife…” Nanami’s droning on out, and if you were in any better state of mind then you’d have realized that the usually-eloquent Nanami Kento was slurring. Smack! Through your kaleidoscope of tears, you’re registering that the skin of his pelvis had just slammed into yours, a stinging impact.
Your husband pliably scoops you up, dragging your hips back down his shaft as if you were nothing but a ragdoll. Your gummy channel was being meshed apart for his upright erection, sliding down it slooooowly. Bit by bit. Inch by solid, throbbing inch. “Don’t you know that- hah-” Until you were fully bottomed out, “-I’ve been pussydrunk aaaaall week?”
All week?
Your mouth opens - perhaps to question him, perhaps to counterpoint him - but the only thing that echoes out is a sensual whine as he then starts ramming into you at a sloppy cadence.
Sloppy and fast.
Hard.
Nanami’s pulling all the way back till juuust the crown of his red tip kissed your entrance, then shoving back in until the hilt. Your orifice stretched all widely open ‘round his base, the spattering of curly golden hair tickling your folds. “Don’t you know?” Your husband asks, “Didn’t you know I’ve been- hngh, ruined on your pussy all week?”
“Ruined?” You repeat, clawing onto the table for some semblance of stability. “But we haven’t even properly-”
“Exactly.”
Oh.
He was now rutting into you like an animal, the curve of his luscious tip swabbin’ at your every ounce of space. “You don’t know how fucking greedy- how impatient I’ve- hah, I’ve been-”
And that surprised you, “Impatient?” Though, he was certainly fucking you like it. After every rugged bash of Nanami’s cockhead, he was surging back in for more - barely even letting the springy recoil of your walls start before he’s plummeting back in.
Again and again.
A particularly hard thud! has you feeling him at the back of your throat, and your cheeks stain with a few lacquer of tears. “I almost can’t believe that- oh-”
He’s pinning down your squirming hips, and you can feel the line of Nanami’s happy trail scritch-scratch your skin. “I am not a patient man, my wife.” He says, darkly. Holding you down whilst he fucks you like a madman- “I could barely hold myself back this entire week- could barely- haaah, you don’t know how many times I’ve almost cracked n’ called off work just to be able to stay home and fuck this pussy stupid for a few hours.”
“And- and then?” You’re hiccuping, feeling his slamming tempo get even faster. “Then what?”
“Oh, you’re enjoying this—little slut.” Pure shock sparks down your body at the words he was using - absolutely filthy. “Let’s see how much you like this then-” And before you know it, one of his hands lifts off of your waist to rover down to between your legs.
Nanami’s rough index and thumb pinches your clit- “Fuh-fuck! Kento!”
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He watches with relish as you shake beneath him, “If the boys weren’t there- ngh, you have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to just reach over as you ate and pinch this cute clit. Just to tease. Just to see if you’d gasp.”
“Please- please-”
Only toying with your sensitive nub even harder - no matter what, he was always such a rough player. “Wanted to see if you’d scream my, mm, name like that.” Now alternating with his sensual drags of your clit, and rough rolls of his thumb flat. “If this hole of yours would get even wetter because—fuuuck.”
And then the girth of his length starts snaggin’ against your pussy walls, every ounce of blood in Nanami’s body flowing to his cock and swelling it up even further.
“-because I’d sure get harder when you do.”
Just as he said, he had.
Your head lolls stupidly in front of you- but of course, Nanami couldn’t have that. So he’s using his free hand to help you rest your clammy scalp back against his shoulder, so bent forwards that it wasn’t much of a stretch, honestly.
Like any good husband, Nanami Kento wanted to gaze lovingly into your eyes will he fucked you deep.
“Aaaand then there’s this spot-” Plop! The raw vibrations start from where he’s bashing in your g-spot, set your teeth utterly on their edges. He angles his hips so that it digs a pretty bruise right there on your nerves, “-this spot that I looooove- n’ I know she loves me, too. Because she’s- haah, squeezing me so tight- never wants to let me go-”
“Right there-” You cry out, as if that wasn’t already obvious. “There there there there- faster, Kento.”
Precisely, Nanami’s smoochin’ away at your g-spot - with such incredible accuracy that your dazed mind starts to wonder whether he has some sort of superpower that lets him calculate the ratio. The speed of his hips- the vulgarity. He’s viciously gnawing down on your ear as you try to buck, “Just how many times have I squeezed my c-cock like this, just imagining that it was you-”
“You h-have?”
“Mhmmm, and all those times I’d fuckin’ salivate just imagining—” There’s almost a pout in his voice, something so starkly cute whilst he tunneled into you savagely. “But it never was quite the same.”
“I thought about you so much, too, Ken.” You admit, your thighs clenching together- which your husband easily swats away to start twisting your clit even harder. “Wanted you to fuck me just like this-”
A sultry smile spreads across his lips, “Oh yeah? And was it just like this?”
“Mhm—” You’re fervently nodding, “Just like this and I- also…” And only at Nanami’s reassuring look do you continue, “…you also had your- hah, your leg up.”
“My leg up?” Nanami asks, “Like…this?”
There’s a thud! and then a clutter once one of his meaty thighs rests up on the table, capped knee coming to rest where your peripheral vision could see. This change in angle made him just enter his round cockhead into completely deeper parts of your womb.
Swirlin’ around your gummy walls, just pushing his bawling divot into spots you didn’t even know existed. Again. And again. And again and again and again—
“And you know what I was fantasizing about?” He’s panting out in scorched waves, hips leaving a fever pitch.
“Wh-what?”
“Ohhh, you know…just like this-” You could hear the grin in his voice, “-fucking you rough. Fucking you hard, feeling your hot pussy for the first time in- hck! ages. I’d been missing her so much, taking her so much. My favorite lil’ meal- oh, I really want to taste you right now…”
Arching your back into his glissading abs, “Kento, don’t stop. I feel like I’m about to-” Cutting yourself off with a breathy intake of air when he’s drawin’ hearts on your pulsating nub.
“Oho–? Then perhaps I should go on- I was thinking of you exactly like- ngh, this, my love. Except for one key difference…”
“And that is?”
To answer your question, Nanami gets up reeeeal close in your ear- he glides his hot lips down the side of your face, letting his breath send shivers skittering down your spine. “It’s that not only was I fucking you rough, darling, I was fucking you with the intention of getting you pregnant-”
And then it’s white-
And you’re cumming.
Surging even harder than any of your ones before, your heartbeat thumps in your ears like a war drum. Body at the mercy of your husband, Nanami Kento, as he bucks and bucks and bucks you through the perfect peaks of your high. Until, ultimately…
“F-fuck.” Even with your popped eardrums, you manage to catch the way that Nanami’s voice breaks as he swears his surrender. The drivelling circle at the end of his cockhead suddenly bursting into his own high- “Fuck, exactly like this-”
Hunching over. Pinning you to the bed.
He’s shoving his leaking cock deep into the goopy crevices of your pussy, letting you flood up with each miry line of his cum. “Exactly like this- just like this-” Nanami’s groaning out, webbing up your sweet insides with his orgasm. “This entire week I imagined pinning you down like- this—”
“Oh, please.” You’re blinking back the stars in your vision as one of his hands lets go to push down your hips. Wrestling you into stillness for a second-
“And then my cum- fuck, your pussy’s so hungry for my ngh, cum. She’s sucking it up like- th-thiiiiis—” You’re feeling the exact moment that even more of his ivory syrup seeps out, trickling against the back of your cervix. He’s fucking you through both of your highs almost aggressively, “And then- and then…”
“And then?”
“Oh, honey—” Nanami grins, like he knew something you didn’t. The hand pinning you down slowly scrapes down until it was plastered against your front, pushing down where a lil’ cumflation was threatening to start. A little bulge. In many ways. “-then you’d be pregnant, is what.”
3:01PM, Saturday.
It was only a few more rounds and a hasty lunch later that Nanami had cornered you again (or perhaps you had cornered him, it was hard to say with just how ravenous the two of you actually were). Until, ultimately, you were perched atop the very kitchen counter that the two of you had made yourselves lunch in.
Your body draped across the frigid counter, your legs in the air.
Cunt directly in the line of sight of your husband, who’d just been hankerin’ for something more…sweet (and had rejected every other dessert option until it came to this).
Nanami’s looooong tongue was dipping in and out of your hole, gathering up all those creamy wads of cum that he’d stuffed in there just moments prior. As if he was forgetting his objective of getting you pregnant- and then starting all over again.
“Mmm—mmpf.” Came his strangled moans, being completely crushed between your legs- and his two hands plastered upon either side of them as if trying to get them to tighten ‘round his neck even more. “What did I say about this being my favorite dessert—?”
Slightly leaning back, you can see the full scope of the messes that you and Nanami have made of each other. Slick n’ white cum glued across his face, a sheen that his tastebuds dart out to lick every ounce of.
Dripping wet.
Plunging in and out.
Lavishing his mouth between your trembly, overstimulated legs for more, more, more. It was just so wet that it felt like you were melting underneath him, with all your excess staining down his throat now.
With a shiver, you’re clawing at Nanami’s blond head and attempting to push him down- “And wh-what have I said about not talking with your mouth full?”
Unexpectedly (or perhaps not, you shouldn’t be surprised by now), this doesn’t deter Nanami a single bit. Doesn’t make him falter a single shred.
In fact, he’s actually wracking with primal shivers, the lower half of his body that was obscured by the angle below ruts—“Ohhhh, love when you go all momma mode.” He’s spitting between your pussylips, plastering those swollen lips of yours to his own. And just bubbling out in dewy wads every time he’s pokin’ his tongue inwards and swirling it all around, “Can’t- hah, can’t wait to make you a momma all over again. Can’t wait to fuck a baby into ya, my darling. All round and glowing and- and mine…”
Faster and faster. You’re wondering just how it was possible for Nanami to talk with his mouth all full, and his tongue working overtime to reach for the hidden spots deepest inside you. “And how will you do that when you’re- ngh, greedy for every drop of…”
He looks up with a darkly amused glint, “Drop of what, my love?”
“Drop of- of cum.” You’re finally managing to shrill out, and you think it may have something to do with the fact that Nanami had finally gulped down any and every bit of evidence of the mess he’d made of you. That glistening lacquer of creamy white not dotted his lips, and he was rovering his mouth over your clit and biting it now-
“Drop of cum, hm—?” Nanami pretends to think, so seriously that it reminded you of the way he’d be when he was in the midst of some important business project. “Oh, you’re right. I do need to fill you up with my cum before I can get you, ngh, pregnant.”
You’re squirming, “I genuinely can’t tell if you’re seriously that gone or not, Kento.”
“H-heh…”
And it seems that that was all the answer you’re getting for that particular answer- as for the other demand of yours, Nanami doesn’t quite answer it until you’re cumming ‘round his mouth all over again.
He licks up the tenderest spots of your insides until you feel yourself tipping over the edge - by now, your orgasm was nothing more than a few tingles that ran from the pit of your belly n’ left you all numb.
All quivering.
You look down and realize, with a jolt, that he’d cleaned you off perfectly - and Nanami Kento always was great with aftercare, but this seemed to be something else entirely. Something filthy. And your cunt almost missed the hot splashes of cum that were once overspilling out of you.
Tears slick down your cheeks and - for the nth time that night - you muse that you can’t possibly cum again, for at least a few weeks.
“Oh yes, you can.” He answers—oh, you’d said that out loud. Fuck. “And you will-” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. With a final few slurping smooches, Nanami wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gets up from his place kneeled on the kitchen floor. And you can already see that his dick is rock-fucking-hard-
“After all, I have to fill you all over again, don’t I?”
7:18PM, Saturday.
You haven’t even had dinner yet.
You haven’t even had dinner yet - but Nanami Kento was making sure that you were stuffed.
Like the cutest of lollipops, looooong and hard. His blushin’ cockhead was licked pink at the very tip, dribbling out in wads of precum that leave your tongue feeling all sticky. He pinpoints the salty taste of it right against the back of your throat, and you whine—
“Sh-shoooo- mmpf.” You manage to gurgle out, and by the way that he’s swabbing every inch of your maw with his length- it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you were claiming he was ‘soooo big’.
But Nanami wanted to tease you a little bit…
“What was hah! that, my love?” He’s crooning, overlarge hand coming down where you were seated beneath his meaty thighs. They quiver every time the lavish muscle of your tongue traced his muscles, like that was all it took to leave your poor husband on the verge of breaking.
Oh, and how cute you looked with your angrily furrowed brows, mouth full of his cock, huffing n’ puffing at the question he’d just asked.
You were underneath his office desk by this point, and Nanami’s leaning his body back in his chair to buck up ever-so-slightly inside you. Hushing at you all the while to relax your throat, “Shhh—breathe through your- ngh, nose, darling, breeeeathe. Breathe n’ try to repeat that sentence f’me?”
You’re popping off of his flared mushroom tip with a wet pwah! “But why—? I said you’re so-”
“I want you to say it with my cock in your mouth, m’kay?” Nanami says in that stern tone of his. And you’re letting his massive palm cradle the back of your throat to get you moving your maw over his length once more, nuzzling the curly hairs of his happy trail.
You’re breathing in his musky masculine scent, “Just so mean.” Pouting, and your dear husband already knows that he’s won.
That when you perk your head up, he’ll be guiding his flushed tip to tap-tap-tap against your puckered lips. Your mouth was just so raw from so many kisses that you wince at the stinging sensation, your spit drivelling down both sides of your face.
“I said- hck!” Cut off right as Nanami plugs your dewy mouth hole with his cock, plunging iiiiin—“That you’re so- mmmpf—”
Intentionally, whenever it showed even the slightest signs that you may be emitting any coherent sentences, Nanami would buck his mean hips. Until the toned lines of his pelvis massaged your jaw, he’s lodging his beading cock all the way against the back of your throat- and then has the audacity to coo. “Awww, why aren’t you speaking, darling? I just looove your voice so much.”
“Mmmpf-” You rake your nails down his milky thighs, leaving sinful marks for days. “Hngh-” Slightly managing to find a bobbing pace that let you breath enough, “I said you’re so-”
“Aaaand there we go ag-fuck, again.” Before you can finish your sentence, he’s then reaching over to pinch your two nostrils together. A mean smile twitching at one corner of his mouth as you struggle and claw your way down his thighs even more.
Head bobbing desperately, he’s finding that that cute jaw of yours unhinges even more when he restricted your air like this. Interesting…
Finally - finally - letting go of your only form of breathing, Nanami lets you pull off of his throbbing red cock with a gasp. Lines of miry precum still connecting your mouth to his tip, chest heaving- “Fuh-fuck, Kento. What I was saying was-”
“And how can you expect to teach our new baby all those phonetics if you can’t even- ngh, string together a sentence yourself, my darling? No offense but—oh, fuck, that feels good.” He whispers, shutting you up with his girth once more.
Nanami’s cock was just so wiiiide that he made your mouth create the cutest lil’ ‘oh’ whenever he rammed himself right down to the base. Right. Down to. The. Base.
Your husband airily asks, “Now…what were you saying a-again?”
12:27AM, Sunday.
By this time, you’d finally reached the bedroom - though, only after Nanami had taken you on every single spot inside your shared home and saved your king-sized bed for best and for last.
You were practically running on fumes by this point, and could barely even hold up the messy mating press that he’d pressed you into. With his beefy arms tangled up with yours, his thighs pressed against the backs of yours, cock probing into you deeeeeeep.
You swear you could almost taste the salty sweetness of his cockhead at your throat, just oozing out in creamy white wads- almost as if cumming was a perpetual state that Nanami was in whenever he was inside you from now onwards.
Again and again and again-
“Please!” You’re wetly gasping out, head thrown back into pillows that were drenched with your tears by now. “Please- I think it’s already t-taken by now, Kento-”
“Taken?” Nanami asks, almost in a daze. “Taken- you mean…”
And then you watch - in real-time - as the blond-haired man’s mouth parts ever-so-slightly. As understanding washes over his face. As he’s once again swatting at the door to your womb, and you can feel it splosh! with the overspilling remnants of his ivory sap.
It trickles out of your overworked hole in a line of white, and Nanami languidly rovers his hand over to push back in those excess wads. He grins, “I almost forgot that we were s-supposed to get you pregnant, my darling.” You gawk as he continues, “To be quite honest, I’ve just been- ngh, addicted to your cunt.”
“A-addicted-”
“Can’t pull out.” He admits, slashing rude spanks into the back of your pussy with every hoarse syllable - you’re sure that you weren’t too far behind, and that your voice would give out soon. “Can’t even imagine it- can’t even dream of it-”
You squeal as a hand at your throat helps Nanami pull you back along to every one of his rugged thrusts, his plap-plap-plapping hips almost stinging against yours now.
“All I want is her- all I need to feel—” Growing even rougher with his nudgin’ at your cervix, you wonder whether you might just pass out and see the pearly gates at this rate. “All I need to see- taste- smell- feel—h-hck! Oh, I can feel my cum swirlin’ around inside you- s’like heaven.”
With a shiver, you’re feeling him splat! out a few more wads of ivory white cum, emptying out to add to the rest of the slicked mess he’d made. You might just be reaching your own high, as well, but with how far you were overstimulated- you couldn’t even be sure at this point.
Gasps scorching as he says, “And it makes me…”
Oh, you knew something was coming up when he started speaking like that.
“And- and it makes you?” You claw onto the dampened sheets- you might just have to change them soon, because something told you that you won’t be leaving this bedroom for a while.
“Makes me want to…do it all over again.”
4:56AM, Sunday.
“Get pregnant-” Nanami grunts, furiously pumping his reddened, raw cock inside you. Absolutely furiously. “Get pregnant- get pregnant- get- get pregnant…”
“I think- fuck, can feel it—” You’re sobbing out, holding onto Nanami for dear life by this point.
You were right in assuming that neither of you would be leaving this very bedroom for a while, because it’s hours later and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep - hours later and Nanami Kento was still trying to mold his thick, vein-covered cock to your walls. Still trying to get you pregnant as soon as possible.
Right now, actually.
Not even in a proper sex position by this point (you’d already tried everything there was to try), this was more of a sloppy prone bone. With your legs sprawled behind you, and Nanami’s hulking body melting down into yours.
His abs gluing to your back, his thighs shivering from behind.
He could barely even hold himself up on overworked limbs, and Nanami was left collapsed on top of you. Pinning you down helplessly. Crushing you to his sculptured body, his sweaty abs mingled with your back as he pushes n’ probes n’ cums—“A-another…” Nanami pants, and something wet hits the line of your spine—tears. Nanami Kento was crying overstimulated tears.
“Gonna get you pregnant with th-this one- I can, haaah, feel it, my love.” His hand scours underneath your tummy, and you can feel him preeeeess into the spot of your womb where you were all filled up to the brim. “I just know it- I, fuck, just know this one left that pretty pussy o’ mine pregnant.”
“Of yours?” You’re babbling away, feeling so full. You’d only have done this for Nanami - for his ravenous urge to get you pregnant with your third child.
“Mhmmm, of mine.” He answers, grinding so that his tender ballsack scrapes your puffy folds. “Of my lovely wife. Of the beautiful m-momma to by three beautiful children- fuck, just saying that made me cum again, my love, look at that…heh.”
“I think m’close to…” You’re babbling pathetically, not even sure if you could by now.
But Nanami was probin’ against that spot so perfectly still, and by now your nerves were so tender that every tiny graze sets your teeth on edge. Vision a kaleidoscope of tears- “Kento, I think m’gonna-”
And before you can finish your sentence, you’re cumming.
Well, you’re not just cumming, to be quite honest.
You’re squirting.
Thick, watery splashes of your high that leave your husband’s sloppy staccato faltering for but a few seconds- as he takes in the constant gush of sap that was leaving you. Gush after gush. Directly following the peak after peak of your orgasm.
And what does Nanami do?
Well, other fuck you ferally through your squirtin’ high, that is? He’s slithering a hand down to roll over your clit whilst you cum, making you whimper at the delicate feeling.
Intentionally, he’s drenching his skin all a gleaming sheen to- fuck, to bring up to his gluttonous maw and lick off—
“So…baby names, my wife?”
.
.
.
1:26PM, Sunday.
You think you might have passed out some time after you’d squirted, and slept straight through until it was past noon. When you’d awoken, you discovered that you’d actually been…cleaned off and tucked safely under the covers.
The bedsheets had been changed, too, with one of your favorite pillows fluffed underneath your head. Blankets raised high. Food on your bedside counter in case you’d woken up hungry. And your husband cuddled up beside you, waking up to your lethargic movements.
Of course, he’d taken you then, too.
It’d been slooooow and sleepy this time- and you think that Nanami had barely even registered the fact that he was awake before his primal mind was immediately filled with the urge to impregnate, impregnate, impregnate.
A slight tear track lined down his handsome cheek and to his (thoroughly bitten) throat once he pressed his plummy cockhead inside- smiling at the whoosh of cum that’d just splashed out of you. “Hungry, my love?”
“Not that much-” You’re answering, “Since we already…” Only- you realize that your husband wasn’t looking at you at all.
He was looking at…
A wet sluuuurp emanates once your entrance swallows his cock past your puffy pussylips, welcoming the lines of Nanami’s veins back inside once more- oh, how the tiniest of crevices inside you had missed him already. “Oh, you had been hungry.” He titters, almost to himself. “Look at you g-go-”
You’re yelping as he bottoms out, “So you were talking to-”
“Oh? What’s that?” Knowingly, Nanami’s cupping his ear to lean down and listen- the most lecherous of noises once he ruts in and out of your treacly cunt. In and out. In and out. In and out. “Uh uh? Uhhh uh—oh, I see-”
With his devilish eyes, he’s turning towards you and you almost flinch at the look in them-
“She says the baby’s hungry, my wife-” One of his hands ends up on your right tit, and Nanami brings your hardened nipple up to his mouth to suck—and, oh, the poor thing was sensitive? It made you thrash?
Worry not, because in a singular fluid motion, Nanami’s reaching over towards the bedside table to grab one of his infamous silken work ties. Using it to tie your wrists up- “At least, my baby’s hungry- for me to fuck a baby into her.”
Again.
5:44PM, Sunday.
You’d had a brief call just before this with Choso and Yuji in Oita (with the video option carefully turned off on your side so that they wouldn’t be able to see the state their parents were now in, all bitten, broken).
And right after- oh, right after, Nanami had all but pounced on you.
Maybe it had been the joy of seeing his sons again, maybe it had been the urgency of realizing that they’d be home by this time tomorrow. Tomorrow morning itself.
But he had you bend like a lawn chair back into your favorite mating press position, your hamstrings screaming at you to slow down- and your husband doing anything but that. “Preg-pregnant-” He’s whispering out brokenly, unable to manage anything above a rasp. “Have to get you pregnant- have to have everyone look at you and just know what I did-”
You feel his reddened tip twitch inside of you and you moan, “Yes- yes yes yes yes, Kento-” His cum spurting out in sloppy streaks. “I want it all inside, I want a baby with you- ngh.”
“Fuck, don’t say that- s’just gonna wanna make me go again.” He pleads with you, overstimulated lower lip wobbling at the feeling of your velvety, heart-shaped insides clenching ‘round him. “Just gonna make me- ngh.”
“Fuck, Kento-”
“P-pregnant…” He babbles onwards, “I get the f-feeling s’gonna be a girl, momma.”
8:45PM, Sunday.
After that, there were likely multiple more rounds that melted into one lustful haze in your mind. But the one round that you remember the most fondly out of that particular Sunday, was the one directly after Nanami had skipped dinner to go straight back into fucking you.
Your last round.
He was a crying, whimpering mess by this point - this large, towering hulk of a man that had been reduced to absolutely nothing on your pussy. You could clench and it would be enough to make your husband shed a few tears, his strawberry-red divot streaming out in pearly beads of cum. Allllll emptied out in the back of your pussy-
“I think-” He’s gasping out towards the end, feeling your slimy walls contract with what might just be another one of your highs once more. “I think this one—hnghhh.”
“Oh my-” You’re speechless-
Because Nanami only lazily probes his thick cock inside you, holding onto the front of your stomach- he presses doooown right where his mushroomy tip ended at, thudding deep into the front of your overspilling womb by now.
Drenched in his cum.
A white, hot mess because of him.
And with a carnal grunt of your name, Nanami’s finishing out once more. With a few vulgar strokes of him swirlin’ aside the webs of sap already inside of you- you’re realizing that-
“Fuck…” Your maw drops agape, “Did you just- hngh, c-cum dry, Kento?”
“Wha—” He’s hazily turning his eyes downwards, only now realizing that the end of his shaft hadn’t burst out in creamy white like it always did these past two days. He had the faint sparks of electricity, all the twitches—but Nanami hadn’t actually cum.
You’d sucked him dry.
He was cumming dry.
The realization hits him hard enough that his breath hitches, “O-oh-” Tears glitter the ends of his molten stares, “You’re right, my love, I did cum dry.” With his palm still plastered against your front, Nanami pulls you towards him - no position at all by now, just a tangled heap of limbs. “And you wanna- fuuuuck, don’t squeeze me like that- you wanna know something else, too?”
You’re cracking your teary lids open at him, “What?”
Only for your husband, Nanami Kento, to lean down and whisper—“I think it really took this time, my wife.”
“Oh…” You’re smiling up at him, your lids heavy. “That’s…good…Kento.”
And it’s the last thing you remember before you’re closing your eyes into a deep, deep slumber.
.
.
.
“Oh, fuck-” You’re shooting upright in your comfortable bed, which only seemed to wish to drag you back down onto its springy mattress with invisible arms. And it was tempting, you have to admit.
Very, very tempting.
If only sunlight hadn’t been flowing with gusto even through your bedroom curtains, and birds and traffic weren’t twittering in competition outside. It was one of those mornings when the world just seemed a little bit brighter- and with growing panic, you’re slamming your hand out to grab your phone off of the bedside table.
Muttering to yourself, “Oh, fuck fuck fuck- fuck.” It hurt to even move your limbs out for this simple action, though that was the least of your worries right now. “It seems so late- don’t tell me I missed the pick up time for-” You tap on your phone screen—
10:45AM, Monday.
(Public holiday)
“Fuck, I did-”
3 missed messages from Hubby <3
“No- wait.”
Hubby <3: I went to go pick up the kids, so don’t worry, my love. I’ll also take care of breakfast so don’t even think about it!
Hubby <3: You just get all the sleep you need. I love you.
Hubby <3: So, so much.
You’re exhaling in relief, falling back against your pillows. Out of curiosity, you’re checking the timestamps on the messages that Nanami had sent, and find that it had actually been a fair amount of time before you’d awoken. So that means…
“Papa, where’s momma?”
Ah, Yuji’s loudly curious voice emanates from downstairs - as well as the sweet, simmering smell of pancakes and syrup. Just hearing your sons so close by makes you excited to step downstairs (and you had to admit that the thought of breakfast made your stomach rumble, too)- and yet, you persist. If just to hear what excuse your husband might come up with.
Fuck, it hits you all at once - right along with the immensely satisfying fatigue in your body. The soreness. The bruises. The bites. You’d just fucked like animals for two days.
“Ah…” Nanami’s deep voice hesitates, “She’s asleep, sunshine.”
“Still?” Choso pipes up this time, and you could almost imagine the way that his dark brows would knit together when he wanted to get to the bottom of a mystery. “That’s odd, is she sick or something?”
“Or something.”
Yuji pouts, “What’s that mean, papa?”
“Momma’s just very ah- tired, you two know how hard she works.” He replies, and your heart soars as you listen to two little voices of agreement. “Let’s let her sleep, okay? And maybe if she isn’t awake by the time we finish these pancakes- then you two can get momma’s plate ready, and I’ll go upstairs to help her down, alright? We can surprise her with a fancy breakfast just for her!”
“Yes, papa—!”
“Sounds good!”
You hear Nanami chuckle, “And make sure you plate quite a bit, kiddos, I have the feeling that momma’s gonna have to eat for two very, very soon.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, papa?”
“Heh, that’s a secret, sunshine…”
A/N. Y’all were asking for thisssssss so ofc daddy has to deliver mwahahaha…
Summary: What a night of airing your jealousy over your girlfriend's lovers making them finish leads to you getting your soul eaten from your body from a man for hire names toji Fushiguro
The sheets below were scratchy, leaving your skin feeling even more sensitive than typically. Your eyes stared up at the ceiling, paying way too much attention to a small paint chip than necessary. “Hey, whatcha lookin at pretty?” Your eyes shot down to the hulking man at the foot of the bed. To say you felt uncomfortable was an understatement, having only spoken maybe a few sentences with him in total.
Toji Fushiguro, a name you'd heard passed around a handful of times. He was what some would call a mercenary, a male for hire, some even a hustler.
To say your past escapades were, lackluster at best. It was rare to find a man who knew how to make you finish was harder than finding a needle in a haystack. Besides the lack of trying, you'd just never found much enjoyment in sex. But you still felt the jealousy when you'd hear your girlfriend's going on about how fantastic their lovers were, how exciting sex could be. You'd only found true release doing it yourself or some cheap toy you impulsively bought. When you voiced your complaints, albeit with a few drinks in your system, one of your friends had mentioned the aforementioned man.
You were pulled from your thoughts when his hands held both sides of your hips. His thumb ran over your bumpy skin gently, almost soothingly. “Got your head in the clouds or somethin?” Heat blossomed through your skin, making your head fall back onto the pillows below. “I just, don't really know what I should be doing.” You heard a barley there chuckle from his lips, as his hands squeezed your hips gently. “Well you, don't gotta worry about that. You just lay there and let me handle it.” His fingers went to the sides of your panties, but before he could peel off the garment your hands shot out to his. His verdant green eyes looked up at your panicked ones. “Please, I-I don't. I don't know” his hands came off from your hips up to your face, his hand rough but incredibly warm cupped your cheek. His large frame rose up from between your legs to hover over you. “Hey hey, it's alright. Just a lil nervous huh?” “The scar on his lip drew your attention to the smile he wore. God, how could you even attempt to remain sane with such a gorgeous man between your legs. “Here, let's get ya warmed up.” His breath hit your face as he spoke, before his lips finally leaned in. His lips were warm and slightly dry, but the rough texture grounded you as his lips moved expertly over yours. His hands held your waist, running his thumb over your top just under your breast. Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, as you involuntarily clenched. Your breaths were harsh as you kissed, lips parting as his tongue breached into your mouth. His mouth tasted of cigarettes, something that was uniquely hot to just him. His lips broke away from yours, your head moving with him as a whine escaped your kiss bitten lips. He chuckled against your skin, as his mouth went to the side of your neck. He laid open mouth pecks to your skin that was riddled with goosebumps, his hands running up and down your waist. “Gonna get ya nice and ready, till there's no room for you to feel embarrassed.” You whined out, face still flushed at his words. You felt your core clench down, trying to stop the beating of your clit. Your legs involuntarily tried to clench together, but his hulking form prevented you from that sweet pressure. He chuckled into your skin, his hand moving from your waist to the top of your hip. You core was still separated from him by your panties, and he made no move to remove the fabric. His thumb went down your panty line, before his finger skimmed down your folds over the cloth. Your head threw back, letting out a choked moan at finally feeling some relief. Heat bloomed across your face at the mere idea that he's gotten you this worked up so quickly, feeling more like a horny teenager than a grown woman. But he didn't give you much room to dwell on your thoughts as his thumb ran up and down the crotch of your underwear. Wetness seeped through the fabric, wetting his fingers as he pushed his digit harsher. “Ya feel that? She's crying for me.” His voice had an edge of a laugh to it, as his lips crashed to yours briefly. His eyes looked into your hazy ones, “you think you're ready sweetheart?” Any past feeling of embarrassment was replaced with a need you'd never felt before, as you nodded your head yes.
He scooted down your form, laying a kiss to your chest before his shoulders fit between your speed thighs. Your chest clenched as panic set in despite the heavy need you felt. You were reminded of the deal you made, of what service you paid for. Never had you enjoyed a man going down on you, not a single time. It always was either too sloppy or intense and tickled in the worst possible way. Before you could dwell, his fingers hooked around the sides of your underwear. “Alright, you said in your message you never liked being eaten out.” The crude way he spoke made your cheeks warm and your head fall back in embarrassment. “Mind walking me through what you do and don't like while I get ya ready, can't read your mind sweetie.” The pet name made your core clench again. “Tell me what part you don't like bout it.” It was hard to concentrate on formulating words, let alone recount past experiences with him mere inches from where you need him most. “I, I didn't really like when he'd go really fast. It, made it tickle like someone jabbing your sides or armpits.” He chuckled against your soaked through underwear. “What else pretty?” You licked your lips, trying to wrack your brain as he finally peeled your panties away from your core. Your slick thick enough that it made a string cling to the fabric and your skin. “I didn't like when it got real sloppy, it again was just way too much to handle.” “so you want it slow?” “Not slow, cause one of them tried that and again, that tickled. I don't know what makes it so bad, I'm sorry.” He let out a laugh that hit your core, his chest rumbling against your bed. “Don apologize for it, I've heard it before. I think I got an idea of what you'll like.” Before you could overthink the situation, his hands pushed the back of your thighs up more as his head lowered. His lips gently kissed over your slit, making you let out a gasp. His lips danced over your lips, kissing the puffy skin gently. It wasn't too hard but wasn't feather light as he laved over your core. Your core clenched as his lips teased just out from inside of you, making more of your wetness cry out. Your hands fell from the sheets to his head, trying to push his head in. But he didn't budge, his lips just outside of your core. “Not gonna happen sweets. Gotta get you so worked up that'll feel more like a relief than a tickle.” Your head pushed back into the pillow, a cry leaving your lips as he went back to his cruel ministrations. He kept kissing your folds, wetness pooling below your ass.
He kept at this for what felt like an eternity, his lips never breaching past where you needed him. A frustrated cry left your lips, at tears collected behind your lids. He stopped his lips from kissing your folds before his tongue finally licked up the side of your puffy lip. You let out a gasp as he continued to lick the seam of your cunt. Finally, his fingers left your thighs as they spread your core apart. The cool air made you clench, as his breath fanned over your skin. “Need ya to tell me if you like or don't like something mkay?” “Mhm” your lips were tight as you bit them. His head finally lowered, his tongue swiping though your core. A breathy, drawn out gasp felt you as he licked up your core. And true to his words, you were so worked up that it felt like a relief to finally have his mouth on you.
His jaw flexed as he licked you up and down, not too fast and not at a snail's pace. He licked over your clit, making you body twitch. Your leg tried closing in, foot nearly hitting him at the ticklish feeling. “Alright, so you don't like that, we can work with that.” His eyes looked up at you, gauging your reaction as his mouth opened around your clit. “Tell me if this is good” his lips sealed around the entirety of your clit, sucking it in. Your head threw back as you cried out, your hand going to his inky black hair. He continued to suck on your mound, not too harsh and not too light. He kept at this as your thighs shook around his head, feet planted to his back as he made out with your bud. He unsealed his mouth from your clit, licking down your core over your weeping entrance. He licked over it repeatedly, laying his tongue flat to it as it cried out into his mouth. “Mm, nice and sweet” he spoke into your core, voice muffled as he continued to slurp up your wetness. His tongue breached past your entrance, making your head shoot up as your legs spasmed. He immediately pulled his tongue out at the sudden change. “T-to much.” “Mkay.” His hand left your inner thigh, pushing two thick fingers into your core. Your head fell back as he pushed them in, the stretch was unbelievably intense but so relieving as they plunged deep inside. His mouth went back to your clit, suckling on the engorged bud as he curled his fingers. Your stomach clenched as he rocked his fingers in without pulling them out, pressing deep inside as his mouth sucked on your clit. His fingers pressed on a particularly sensitive spot, making you cry out. “Ya ever feel that bump in there sweets?” You could only manage to nod your head yes as you moaned out whoreishly. “It's your gland that makes all your juices come out. Means you could be a squirter.” You could hardly pay any attention to what he said as he continued to pump his fingers deep inside your core. He kept at the same pace, not alternating his moves or speeding up. Your hands clenched at his hair, pulling the strange tightly, making him groan out. His free hand went to your hands, pulling them away. Your hand fisted the sheet as you let out harsh pants, thighs clenched tightly as it felt like a tight knot was wrapping itself deep inside you. Your hand went back to his hair, holding it tightly without ripping it out as he pushed his fingers in harder. His mouth sealed around your clit, sucking and licking it as your moans grew louder and more drawn out as seconds ticked by. Your legs stopped thrashing, merely shaking as the knot grew impossibly tight. Your lips clenched together, your breaths shaky as you concentrated on the tight knot in your core. He pushed his fingers as deep as they could, making your lips break as you cried out.
Your core thumped wildly as you came, your head pushing back as you cried out in ecstasy. He continued to suck on your clit as your legs rose and fell, pulling more from you as waves of intensity swam through your body from your core. The peak finally ended, slowly bringing you back with his tough growing slower till he finally pulled himself away. His chin was drenched all the way down his chest, lips plump and red as he caught his breath.
Your head was laid back on the crumbled pillow, harsh but deep breaths fanning out as your mind tried to catch up. You could hardly concentrate as his body shifted up yours, till you felt his lips on your cheek. They were wet and incredibly warm as he kissed your skin. “Did so good for me sweets” he muttered against your cheek, lips continuing to kiss your flushed skin. His arms, large and warm pulled you into his chest, laying you on your side into his frame. Your head fell against his large but soft chest, hearing his heart thumb. “Taking a little break, cause that took a lot outta ya.” You could only nod, as you relaxed into your bed and his hold post orgasm bliss making you feel drowsy. His hand went to your hair, scratching your scalp gently. “Just relax for now.”
Notes:I haven't posted anything in literally years, but after seeing lyn3vspx edit of toji, I couldn't help myself. I'm a little rusty so be warned, but hopefully it's enjoyable.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Fushiguro Toji
Additional Tags: Top Fushiguro Toji, Fushiguro Toji is His Own Warning, Soft Fushiguro Toji
Summary:
What a night of airing your jealousy over your girlfriend's lovers making them finish leads to you getting your soul eaten from your body from a man for hire names toji Fushiguro.
Hey guys Ik I said I’d come back with some Dream content, and like I always do I over complicate them and make them extremely difficult to write. I’ve also just had a hard time keeping up with everything he’s doing and trying to incorporate them all in is just very overwhelming. I came on here to ask you guys about something. My best friend Cryo has a story up called the hero association, it’s on Ao3 and his handle is cryospace. It’s become one of my favorite stories and I’m so incredibly proud of him and how amazing he’s made his characters, and Ik I don’t have a huge following but I do have a semi decent one and would love it if you guys would check him out. He also makes content on YouTube and tiktok and is genuinely one of the greatest content creators I’ve ever met. Okay now back to what I was going to bring up in the first place lmao, he’s made a character named Alex that I’m quite literally obsessed with, and have had an idea for a one shot. Only thing is, this is an extremely small community of people who read the story, and I do care about what people want to see from me where I’m putting in so much work. I love this character and the story I’ve come up with, but I just didn’t know if anyone would be interested in seeing something from it. Let me know what you think and I’ll link his story here
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Been a fat minute since I’ve wrote anything and been an even fatter minute since I reached out, but since I feel like most of the internet is going feral for the little homeless Teletubby, I feel like I should get back to writing. I’ve had a thing in the works that’s gonna be LONG as all hell, and it’s gonna take me a minute to get it out since I’m moving. So in the meantime, I got a question. Would any of you guys wanna wait for the longer oneshot I have for cc!Dream, or would you wanna see smaller blurb like things for him? I do both c!Dream and cc!Dream, I’d prefer to keep it SFW if I can. I’m both reaching out to the people who already follow me, and for anyone who’s seeing my page for the first time. Hope to get some feedback :)
im not trying to offend you or anyone who is stupid rnough to write for him. but you do know that corpse is not the angel his die hard simps portray him to be right? i dont get why you lot still supports some random ass hobo with a habit of obviously using a voice changer. hes not a nice man and if you get comfort from him then you have a problem. simple as that. he hurts his friends dont you knoe that? he insults brooke a lot, he regularly tells his friends to shut the fuck up, hes a dirty flirt because he flirts with his friends who is taken. HE BRUISED TINA. he hit tina with a silver brick hard enough to bruise and never apologized for it. idk about you all but i am not supporting someone so violent. dream is better. you thirsty simps need to get a life and stop obsessing over some "anxious" and "chronically ill" waste of youtube.
Dude I wanna fuck dabi, chrollo and wanna be gag on gyutros bumpy cock so your point? And even if corpse did do any of that crap I think he’d be in prison but thanks for the laugh 😂
Had a mental breakdown and my mental state has been literal shit so here’s this one scene idea that made me wheeze laughing
Dabi x reader
A tired but relieved moan leaves his lips as he steps in, the feel of the lukewarm water cooling down his skin a welcome for what was a difficult night.
For as long as he could remember, each and every time he used his quirk, he could feel the almost cold bite from his skin being burned from the inside out. In the last few years, he’s usually greeted with the welcoming sensation of numbness immediately after. The feeling of all his cells being killed to immediately feel nothing does nothing but fuel his adrenaline, making him feel drunk from it all.
Usually, his entire body was numb afterwards. If he was asked what it felt like, it was a feeling as if he didn’t exist. That he wasn’t a whole person on this earth, but a feeling of heaviness takes over as well, making him feel both thin as air but heavy as the world. But, having grown used to it, it’s a welcome feeling that each night he hopes for.
While other nights, it was the exact opposite.
It can feel like small needles are stabbing every inch of his body. The feeling of his cells screaming out nearly making him cry out in agony as he lays down due to the pain making him immobile. The feeling of his body being hyper aware of every bit of air that brushes past it, every stitch of clothing, the feeling of his skin laying against the ground or bed along with a feeling that he can’t move, nearly makes him go further into insanity. It’s as if he can feel the entire world on his skin, but also not in control that makes him wish he was dead.
Sometimes, the pain grows so badly that on the ride back to the hideout, he feels as if he’s going to throw up. The pain being so bad that it causes him to have to lay back and pretend to be asleep, when in reality his quiet demeanor is because he’s unable to form a word, the action too hard for him to make a single sound. Most of everyone knew that the look of exhaustion was a lie, knowing the Immense pain he felt both inside and out he was feeling. But it goes to say he didn’t sell it well. If it wasn’t for the harsh breaths he let out so often, they would truly believe he was in a deep slumber.
Some felt nothing as they drove back, having their own pain course through their very bones or minds, while some couldn’t help but notice that whenever they’d drive over a bump, the scrunch on his face of pain. But, the closer they grew to the hideout, the better they knew he felt, as he was closer to the one person who knew could help him.
They all watched from the side, as his shoulders finally dropped, a faint smile growing on the corners of his lips as she walks over to him, made even the usually hard spinner smile.
She always waited up for him,each and every night he’d be gone, she waited for his return with a smile adorn her face. No matter what state he came in, she always held the same loving look, as if he just got back from war. Which, in a way, he did. A war that they all truly believed in their hearts, some had a different mindset to it, but they all caught the same battles.
They knew as soon as he stepped inside, never to bother him again. This was his time, no,their time. The time they knew was almost sacred to them. A time where he can finally feel happiness.
“Careful love, I don’t want you scrubbing so harsh.” She said, as she watched him use the washcloth to scrub away all the dead skin his skin produced. “I can’t even feel it babe.” He chuckled, as he slowed his scrubbing to a gentle rub. She was the only person he’d listen to, the only one who could get him from his most stubborn mood. The only person he trusted with his life, even if she was a bit too careful at times. “Yes but you’ll eventually regain the feeling and you’ll be complaining of how raw you rubbed your skin, again.” This made him chuckle, because she was right. Many times, he’d scrub off all the grime from the day, not caring about the inevitable pain he’d feel some few hours later.
His head fell back against her chest, a small smile on his lips as he felt her breathe. Nine times outta ten, it was her that held him during these baths. It was her idea in the beginning, offering that she could wash his hair and body easier that way. He agreed to it as he could feel her soft body behind him, rather than the harsh bathtub. Now it became a ritual for them, something he always looked forward to.
A soft hun left his lips as her hands worked through his hair, finally feeling clean after so long, it made him feel like a new man.
“You know, I think I’m starting to feel a bit better,” he said, as he rubbed the soft flesh of her thighs that wrapped around him. “Oh hell no, we are not having sex tonight, especially with how you’re feeling.” “Awe come on babe, wouldn’t it be romantic, like all those romance movies you make me watch? Where the couple always ends up taking a bath and having soapy sex and get water everywhere?” “Yeah and one thing they don’t tell you is the uti you end up getting shortly afterwards.” This made him laugh, a full laugh that made him nearly choke. Wheezes let out past his lips, that in turn made her laugh so hard, he could feel her breasts shake below him, causing him to shake even more.
“And besides, I’d be shocked if you could even feel it, you’re laying here like a dead fish.” She teased, making him smirk. “Oh believe me, if you said you wanted to, I’d spring into action faster than you when you gotta pee.” A large laugh left her lips at how truthful he was, the amount of times she’s ran down the hall at the ass crack of Dawn attests to that. No matter what time it was, he always let out a large laugh each time she did, nearly making him grow a hernia.
They laid there in silence for a couple of minutes, the only sound being their breathing and the slight movement in the water.
The silence was quickly interrupted, when he moved himself to lay his chest against hers, his head ever so slightly above her neck. Even with the rough skin and cold staples, it felt like home to her warm skin. She doesn’t know how she grew to have his skin be a comfort to her, but nonetheless, it did.
A soft kiss landed on her cheek, his lips staying there as her cheek grew more plush due to the smile that creeped it’s way on her face. His lips stretched just the same, as his lips moved towards hers, her hand cupping his cheek.
It had been another few minutes, before he again broke the silence by asking her a question, “mind if I get behind you now?” A smile grew on her face at his question. It wasn’t how sincere it was, or how kind his voice sounded. No, it was the knowledge she had about him. Whenever he’d start to feel better, he’d ask her if he could hold her instead, it was a small way of him voice his comfort in his own little way.
She of course knew of his life, and the problems that came along with them. Overtime, she noticed small things about him, one being that he’d rarely voice comfort or joy in a normal manner. He was one of the most blunt individuals, but also a man who you had to read his words correctly. But it never was a bother, she knew that this was his way of communicating, and she cherished it every time.
Her head leaned back against his chest, the feel of his chest moving with each breath nearly lulling her to sleep. The only thing that kept her awake, was the feel of his hands slightly caressing her stomach. He always did this when he held her, even when he was half asleep, his thumb would be rubbing back and forth over the skin. He said it brought him comfort due to how soft it was, not tight and rough like his. She could feel his head lean slightly on her shoulder, a soft smile on her face. “I’ve always wondered how it’d feel if there was a baby in you.” He mumbled, his voice sincere. “Then I think you’ll be wondering for a while love.” A small groan left his lips at that, his arms wrapping slightly tighter around her. “Aw come on babe, I thought you said you wanted one the other day?” A small laugh left her lips at that, the memory of which he spoke.
It had been a night of sincere passion, one that both of them cherish each time they had. It didn't happen nearly as much as she thought, for when they met she assumed he partook in the act regularly. But no, as to her shock shortly after the first time they did, he in a nonchalant tone, told her she was his first. She was extremely shocked by this, as his naturally bedroom eyes and rough but alluring voice would garner him many lovers in his life. But no, he had never been in a true or even unofficial relationship. He had never had the drive or want for one. No, not until he met and grew to know the girl, did he ever think he was capable of such a feeling as love.
Silace overtook them again after the talk of a family, one that wasn't uncomfortable or forced. They rarely had a time when they felt awkward or even bored of one another, they truly just enjoyed each other's company.
That feeling quickly dissipated, when a rumble of the water, greeted with a putrid smell of eggs washed over the bath as he let out a laugh that made the fart continue in a tone similar to his. She quickly covered her nose, but the smell had already locked in her airway. A laugh let past her lips despite the fact they would have to leave the bath shortly, as whenever he passed gas, it permeated the room for a time much longer than anyone wanted.
The two laid beneath the sheets of their bed, skin softly touching as they looked into each other's eyes, growing tired from the water they laid in for what felt like hours. Both whispered a soft love you, as they held one another closely.
