Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.
Clark “Superman” Kent
word count: 3k
a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now
warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language
Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.
And yet—
“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.
You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.
“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”
Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”
Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.
You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”
Clark glanced down.
The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”
The bullpen erupted.
Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.
Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.
And weirdly adorable.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”
“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”
Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.
Clark shot him a betrayed look.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.
Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.
It hit you like a truck.
Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.
Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.
He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.
“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.
-
Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.
Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.
You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.
Mostly because of Clark.
Which was ridiculous.
You barely knew him. Technically.
But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.
He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.
Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.
Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.
And his eyes.
Jesus Christ.
You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.
Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.
Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.
At first you thought you imagined it.
Then you noticed patterns.
Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.
It was honestly kind of endearing.
Today, however, was especially bad.
You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.
Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.
Clark stared down at it in horror.
You stared at him.
“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”
Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”
You pointed.
The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.
Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”
“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”
He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.
“It was slippery.”
“The mug exploded.”
“It’s a very slippery mug.”
You laughed again.
Clark visibly melted.
Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.
It was becoming a problem.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”
Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”
“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”
“They can interfere with technology.”
“Sure.”
“It’s science.”
“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”
Clark huffed out a laugh.
God.
That was dangerous too.
Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.
You liked making him do it.
Probably more than you should.
“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.
You blinked.
Shit.
“I am not.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Clark’s ears turned pink.
And for some reason, that made you bold.
“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”
Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”
“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”
“I really don’t think I do.”
“That’s actually insane.”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”
The room went completely silent.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.
Then he physically walked into a cabinet.
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Never better.”
“You hit that cabinet really hard.”
“I’m durable.”
You snorted.
Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.
-
Lois Lane cornered you two days later.
“You like him.”
You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”
Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.
“You and Smallville.”
“We are coworkers.”
“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Lois smirked.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”
You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Absolutely.”
“This is humiliating.”
“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”
Cute.
Right.
Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.
Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.
It was that he was good.
Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.
Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.
Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.
Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.
Who does that?
Who is actually like that?
“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”
“What?”
“With Clark.”
You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”
“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.
You looked up instinctively.
Big mistake.
Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.
Which honestly was possible.
The man moved weirdly fast.
Clark smiled the second he saw you.
And there it was again.
That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.
Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.
“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.
“Worth it.”
Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.
Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”
Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
“Everything,” Lois corrected.
Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.
Clark looked adorably confused.
You looked anywhere except directly at him.
“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”
He handed them over carefully.
Your fingers brushed his.
Clark froze.
You felt him freeze.
The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.
It was ridiculous.
A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.
And yet.
Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”
“You’re asking me?”
A nervous laugh escaped him.
“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.
“What?”
Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”
“Clark.”
“It’s not important.”
“Clark.”
His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”
The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.
“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.
Clark blinked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“But you seem so calm around me.”
You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”
For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a soft huff.
An actual laugh.
Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.
Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.
“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.
Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.
“I think you’re incredible.”
Oh.
Oh, you were in serious trouble.
-
It started raining halfway through your walk home.
Not normal rain either.
The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.
You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”
“You forgot your umbrella too?”
You turned.
Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.
Of course he had an umbrella.
Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.
“You stalking me, Kent?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”
He lifted a paper bag slightly.
You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”
Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”
You narrowed your eyes.
Clark smiled innocently.
Suspicious.
Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.
Warmth immediately surrounded you.
Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.
You tried not to notice.
Failed horribly.
“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”
Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.
Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.
Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.
Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.
“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.
Clark blinked. “I am?”
“You’re getting rained on.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, move over.”
You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.
Clark immediately went completely still beside you.
Your arm brushed his.
Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.
Clark looked down at you slowly.
And there it was again.
That look.
Like you were something precious.
Something worth handling carefully.
It made your chest ache.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”
Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”
“Is that what this is?”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”
Rain hammered softly overhead.
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.
And suddenly the space between you felt very small.
Very warm.
Very dangerous.
A car horn blared somewhere nearby.
Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”
“Yep.”
“That was—”
“Definitely something.”
Clark laughed nervously.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.
Clark went silent.
His fingers instinctively curled around yours.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.
You looked up at him.
Clark looked completely undone.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”
Clark stared at you for one long second.
Then he smiled softly.
“I might argue you did.”
Your heart was never recovering from this man.
Ever.
-
By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.
Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.
You were trying not to look equally affected.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.
Neither of you moved.
“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”
Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”
Neither of you let go.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
Clark noticed instantly.
“What?”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.
“Oh.”
But he still didn’t let go.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
The movement was absentminded.
Gentle.
Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.
Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.
His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Clark stared at you.
You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.
“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”
Clark still looked frozen.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
Your eyes snapped back to his.
Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”
The rain suddenly felt very far away.
Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.
Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.
You leaned into his touch before he could ask.
Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.
Then he kissed you.
And—
Oh.
That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.
There was nothing uncertain about it.
Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.
Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.
Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.
Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.
Sweet.
Tender.
Like he was trying to memorize you.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.
Clark looked completely wrecked.
His glasses were crooked.
His hair was damp from the rain.
And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.
“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.
You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”
“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”
“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”
“You walked into a wall?”
“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.
“That is somehow worse.”
Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.
“I’m trying to be romantic.”
“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”
The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.
You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”
His ears turned pink again.
“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”
Clark looked away innocently.
“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”
A soft smile spread slowly across his face.
Then he leaned down and kissed you again.
Softer this time.
Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”
Clark considered that seriously.
“…Probably not.”
You laughed.
And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
summary : when you’re husband gets put on time out after a nasty mission, you suddenly find yourself seeing him in ways you haven’t seen before. CW : suggestive, reader is a freak, breast play ᵎᵎ
masterlist ノ DC masterlist ੭﹕﹒
Bruce Wayne had been benched for three weeks.
A nasty hit to the ribs during a patrol gone wrong had Alfred putting his foot down: no suit, no rooftop jumping, no “I’m fine” excuses. The great Batman was stuck at home, healing, and slowly going insane from boredom.
You, on the other hand, were enjoying every second of it.
The first few days he was sulking in sweatpants and an old college hoodie, grumbling about “rusting” and “losing edge.” By week two, the stubble on his jaw had grown into a proper beard, and you were shamelessly obsessed with running your fingers through it.
But the real surprise came when the body hair started growing back.
Bruce had always been meticulous about shaving everything that the suit touched. Chest, arms, legs — smooth as marble. You’d never seen him any other way. So when he came out of the shower one morning in nothing but low-slung sweatpants, towel around his neck, you nearly dropped your coffee.
There it was.
A soft, dark trail of hair across his chest, thickening between his pecs and fading down toward his abs. Not overwhelming, just… natural. Real.
You stared. Openly.
Bruce noticed. Of course he did.
He raised an eyebrow, drying his hair with the towel. “What?”
You set the coffee down carefully. “You… have hair.”
He glanced down at himself, almost self-conscious for the first time in years. “It grows back when I stop shaving. The suit chafes otherwise.” He rubbed a hand over his chest, looking vaguely embarrassed. “It’s been a while since I let it. I can shave it if—”
“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t. It’s… nice.”
Bruce paused, then a slow, amused smirk tugged at his lips. “Nice?”
You crossed the kitchen, unable to stop yourself. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers threading through the soft hair there. It was thicker than you expected, warm from the shower, and felt ridiculously good under your palms.
“Really nice,” you murmured, voice a little breathless. You leaned in and pressed a kiss right over his sternum, then another, then another, working your way across his chest like you were discovering new territory.
Bruce’s breath hitched. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides through your robe. “You’re… very enthusiastic about this.”
“I’ve never seen you like this,” you admitted, kissing lower, right over his heart. “It’s… hot. You look like a real person. My husband. Not the polished billionaire or the statue in a suit.”
He let out a low, surprised laugh, but it turned into a soft groan when your lips brushed one of his nipples. His fingers tightened on your waist.
“Careful,” he warned, voice rougher now. “You keep doing that and I’m going to forget I’m supposed to be resting.”
You looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe I don’t want you to rest.”
Bruce’s eyes darkened. He cupped your face with one hand, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You’re going to be the death of me, Mrs. Wayne.”
“Good death,” you whispered, rising onto your toes to kiss him properly.
The kiss started sweet but quickly turned heated. Bruce pulled you closer, one hand sliding into your hair, the other slipping under your robe to rest warm against your bare back. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it — deep, slow, full of all the love and want he usually kept so carefully controlled.
When you broke apart, both breathing harder, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I love you,” he said softly. “Even when you’re ogling me like I’m a science experiment.”
You laughed, pressing another kiss to his chest, right over the soft hair there. “I love you too. Especially when you’re all… natural like this.”
He groaned, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But I’m your ridiculous,” you corrected, kissing lower, lips brushing over his abs. “And I’m keeping you exactly like this for as long as you’re benched.”
Bruce’s hands tightened on your waist. “You’re going to kill me before I’m cleared for duty.”
You looked up at him with a wicked little smile. “Worth it.”
He pulled you back up for another deep kiss, hands roaming your body with that perfect mix of reverence and hunger. The robe slipped off one shoulder. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, then higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
You shivered, pressing closer, feeling the warmth of his chest hair against your skin. It was softer than you expected, and the way it brushed your nipples when you moved made you gasp softly.
Bruce noticed. Of course he did.
He smiled against your lips. “You really like this, don’t you?”
“Shut up,” you mumbled, kissing him again to hide your blush.
He chuckled, low and warm, and lifted you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. His mouth moved to your neck, then lower, kissing and nipping gently across your collarbone. One hand slipped inside your robe, palming your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you arched into him with a soft moan.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin. “My beautiful wife.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close as he worshipped you with slow, deliberate kisses. The world outside the penthouse didn’t exist. There were no missions, no galas, no Batsuit waiting in the cave.
Just Bruce. Just you.
Just the two of you, tangled together in the morning light, rediscovering each other in the quiet weeks of his recovery.
When he finally pulled back, lips swollen and eyes dark with want, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I love you,” he said again, voice rough but sincere. “More than the suit. More than the money. More than anything.”
You smiled, cupping his face. “I love you too. Hairy chest and all.”
He laughed — bright, genuine, the kind of laugh that made your heart feel too big for your chest.
“Brat,” he murmured fondly, kissing you once more.
The coffee went cold on the counter. The city kept moving far below.
But in the warm glow of your kitchen, Bruce Wayne held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
And for once, the detective didn’t need to solve anything, and he already had everything he needed.
a/n : this is unbearably self indulgent because I like body hair. Just wait till I start writing about biceps 😊
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆! jason finally fixes your car, but he has to make sure it still runs properly as well. for your safety, right?
𝘁𝗮𝗴𝘀! afab!reader, tension, inaccurate car information, time skips
𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁! 4871
𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! find it here <3
the familiar musk of jason's shop filled your nostrils once again.
your thighs were frozen to the thin metal chair that remained beside jason's work station. the rusted legs creaked under your weight, threatening to break with each movement.
you tried not to let your mind wander this time.
the events of the prior night plagued you through visions. his arms — the way they flexed with each turn of the wheel, the way his body leaned closer to yours as he retrieved his sweater from the back seat.
his words stuck to your back for the rest of the night. "see you tomorrow, pretty girl," landing and ironing itself to your skin.
you recalled his scent — vanilla musk, mint, and the faintest hint of the cigarette he had smoked earlier that clung to the tips of his hair.
in front of you was a familiar scene. dark wash jeans, and a black t shirt. brown boots. body laid supine on a trolly underneath your car.
"how long do you think this will take?" you asked, cringing slightly from the chair's loud screeching.
"tryna get away from me that quickly, darling?" he called back. you hear the smirk in his words. smug bastard. "i'm just getting started down here."
"tim said that you said it would be an easy fix,"
jason's only response was a hum of confirmation. he hadn't lied — it was an easy fix. but he couldn't bring himself to let you leave just yet. he couldn't. he was selfish, he knew, he wanted to stay in your presence just a little longer. because you… you were off limits. you would go back to your life — school, work, tim, your friends. jason didn't believe that he needed to fit into your life alongside those factors.
"that it wouldn't take long?" you continued after his lack of response.
"that was before i saw what a mess your car is,"
"shark is reliable," your voice rang back defensively. your car was beautiful. a 99 chevy cavalier. perfect for you.
"you named your car 'shark'?" his lip curled above his top teeth. of course you had named your car. you had seemed like the type who would. the name was cute, jason would admit, you were cute, but denying it was easier than admitting it.
"yeah," your tone was flat, defensive. "it's grey, and strong — therefore, a shark."
"right," jason agreed for your sake. the name of your car didn't change his life in any way. he rolled himself out from the undercarriage and stood in front of the hood of your car.
he took a moment to inspect and assess. seeing him in his element was mesmerizing. his calculating gaze showed care and experience. his eyes roved over each part, and how they worked together.
"come here," his voice called out, head nodding invitingly. your feet were moving over to him before your brain even realized it was happening. he was a magnet, one that you didn't think you could stay away from even if you wanted to.
"see this?" he murmured as he stepped to the side to make room for you. you nodded. his finger remained pointing to a part on top of your engine. "that big thing is your engine. and this is your valve. it's leaking and is what is causing problems."
you nodded again in understanding, leaning your upper half closer to inspect it. jason tried to keep his gaze on your car as well, and keep from wandering down your back. but fuck you were so close to him. and the smell of your perfume was flooding his senses. his fingers hovered on the small of your back, fingers brushing the hem of your tank top — black this time, and just as tantalizing.
"the good thing is, your engine is fine," he explained. his words were so close to your ear, and you were aware of his proximity to your back. the way his "want me to show you how to fix it?"
your head tilted back over your shoulder to regard him. his face was so close to yours, close enough to cause your breath to hitch in your throat.
"yeah? so i can take your job?" the corner of your lip twitched upward.
jason's expression softened fractionally, his eyes roving over your face. "you think that's how this works?"
words died in your throat. his gaze on you almost stopped your heart. your lips parted to respond, a witty response ready and shaped under your tongue. yet all you could do was press your lips back together and turn back towards the car. jason was entranced by the curve of your mouth. his own mind was short-circuting, just the same as yours. at the sight of your lips pressed together, he took that as a sign to step up closer behind you.
"okay," he murmured, his arm circling you. his biceps caged you in, pressing against your shoulders. "we are gonna take this rag and wrap it around here,"
his voice was breathy against your ear, but still low and controlled. his weight against your back was grounding, yet completely debilitating. every ridge, every crevice of his chest pressed into you.
"and then, we're gonna pull," a loud pop followed the end of jason's sentence. your eyes remained on your engine under the valve, scanning, questioning.
jason's own gaze remained fixed on your face. your fascination, your concern, was evident on your features. your brows dipped slightly as your mind worked around the inner workings of your car — he was speechless by the sight.
clearing his throat, he let go of your hand and removed himself from behind you. "and, she's all fixed up,"
you immediately felt the loss. a steady chill crawled up the back of your spine. his chest had been so warm and solid against your back. a small part of you was upset at how easily jason fixed your car. you almost wished there was more wrong in order to spend more time caged in by his arms.
"thanks for fixing her up," you turned to face the front of him, gaze lifted to meet his. his height was towering, no matter the size of your own body. he commanded space. took it up without meaning to — without even wanting to. he was inescapable, a large mass that captured your attention. "how much do i owe you?"
"don't worry about it," his response was short. dismissive. nonchalant. his arm reached by your head, unhooking the hood of your car and letting it shut.
"jason." you stated, disbelieving. "i'm serious."
"so am i,"
"just tell me how much i owe you,"
"nothing. was a favour for your boyfriend," he shrugged, his expression remaining unchanging.
"he's not my boyfriend," your face contorting into a look of disgust. tim was the last person you would choose to date. especially when there was someone else on your mind, someone who happened to be standing in front of you.
"right, well, still a favour for the piece of shit,"
you gave him a look at his choice of words to describe tim. there were a few beats of silence between the two of you.
"shop policy is that we need to test run the car," he gave you a sidelong glance, his hand brushing over the hood. "make sure it's running properly."
"you do this with all your clients?" you raised a brow, unconvinced.
"can't let you go unless i know you're safe in that thing," he ignored your question, "in good conscious."
"do i get to drive?" you raised a brow.
"in your dreams," his voice muttered. he had already opened the passenger door of your car, hand gestured for you to get in.
"it's my car and i don't even get to drive," you snarked, slipping by him, your back brushed against his chest again briefly.
"as long as you're with me, you don't have to touch the wheel again," jason's voice was barely above a breath, words uttered as he shut the door after you got settled.
he hoped you hadn't heard.
he hadn't even known why he said those words. he didn't mean them. he didn't know you, and he didn't want to know you.
you were tim's friend, not his.
﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒
the front of your hood burnt the bottom of your thighs.
how you ended up in the meadow on the outskirts of town was beyond you.
jason was perched beside you, arms folded as he gazed at the over grown grass.
"this place is quite far from town," your voice drifted into jason's ears alongside the gentle breeze that swayed the grass.
he nodded, his eyes fixed ahead.
you left it at that, following his gaze ahead. there was peace in the view. an endless expanse of green that contrasted with the cut of the sharp blue sky.
"i come here quite often," he responded after a while of silence, turning to gaze up at you.
"peaceful," you added. you didn't feel the need to add more, he understand what you were implying with your words. "do you ever go sit in the field?"
he shook his head, "i like to watch from here,"
you pushed yourself off the hood of your car, feet landing on the road below. rocks crunched under the sole of your shoes, dust settling into the ankles of your jeans. "well then, let's go,"
"no," he shook his head, shifting against the hood. he looked down, knowing that if he continued to look into your eyes he would give in. jason felt himself wanting to give him, wanting to do whatever you wanted. and it was terrifying him.
you rolled your eyes at his response, "come on, jason,"
he fixed his gaze back ahead, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. it wasn't that he didn't want to — god, he fucking wanted to. he couldn't allow himself to. you were dangerous.
you took his silence and nodded slowly. "well, i'm gonna go and enjoy myself. and you can stay here, loser,"
you smirked at him, nudging his arm before you turned around and took off running into the grassy area.
the sun cut down through the wind, warming your shoulders. you weren't gonna let jason's reluctance stop you.
jason watched you run, watched the way your arms swung by your side. his body subconsciously pushed off the hood, moving to follow you into the sun. you felt like his sun, and he couldn't help but want to orbit around you.
he let out a soft huff, his nails biting into his palm for a moment.
"fuck," he muttered under his breath before he took off running after you. it felt good, but he wouldn't admit that out loud to you. it was scary how natural this feeling was for him, how easily this path to you opened for him to chase.
it was scary how fast jason caught up to you. the head start you had was diminished in seconds. he kept a steady pace just behind you, not yet matching your pace, just watching.
the smile you flashed over your shoulder was blinding. jason almost tripped over his feet at the sight. your teeth beaming with genuine joy, your tongue peeking out from behind the top row. and then your laugh. a breathless laugh from the belly that punched into his chest.
"tag!" your hand reached back to swat at his arm, while you stumbled over the grass in the process. you righted yourself and cut immediately to the left.
you took off sprinting again in the opposite direction. the melody of your laugh continued to fill jason's void, and he followed without a second thought.
he chased after you, breath barely puffing out of his chest. he wanted to prolong this moment for as long as he possibly could, to preserve this memory in locket and wear it around his chest — he didn't even know if he would see you again after this.
all he was supposed to do was to fix your car, as per tim's instructions. that was all. it was only a favour. nothing more. yet, it felt like everything to jason in this moment. how quickly his life had been changed within a couple of days was something he was unable to comprehend.
his arm circled around your waist, lifting you up into his chest and spinning you around to carry your momentum. you gasped through a shriek, legs kicking into the air at how suddenly you were airborne.
"got you," his chest rumbled against your back. his other hand latched onto your thigh to steady you back on the ground.
"jason, oh my—" your hands gripped his arm as the world suddenly spun off it's axis. your foot caught in a hole, your body stumbled forward. the ground was approaching faster than you could process, than you could react. your eyes shut as you braced yourself for impact. you could practically feel your body hitting the ground, the grass catching between your fingertips and sticking under your nails. you were already cringing at the thought. that was gonna be a pain to get out later.
only, you didn't hit the ground — not really. your bottom did, but not as hard as you had anticipated. the back of your head was cushioned, along with your upper back. you realized it was jason by the way his knees thudded against the dirt, bracketing your thighs. jason was practically straddling you. his hand crunched beneath your head before the arm around your upper back pulled you up, hovering your body a few inches off the ground.
your eyes were wide and wild, gazing up at him.
he was so close.
again.
you had seen him up close before, the two of you had shared a few moments in a proximity that was closer than you should have been, but none of those times compared to this.
he was right there.
small freckles dusting his nose, blue irises that carried hints of green, and complete and utter perfection.
and for, jason, god he was speechless. it was instinct on his end, really. his hands moved on their own — thrumming with the desire to protect you. he would let his arms take the brunt of any pain if it had meant you would never see harm.
was he that pathetic? that you had managed to have him under your thumb within such a short time of knowing you? clearly, he was.
your fingers instinctively curled into the collar of his shirt, keeping him close. your chest was expanding with breaths that never quite sat right in your lungs, leaving you more dizzy than anything else — or was that because you were close enough to smell jason's natural musk?
jason lowered your body slowly — hand slipping from under your head, arm uncurling from your upper back and letting you rest on the grass. the green blades framed your head like a halo. angel. you were his angel.
he followed you down, unable to put space between your bodies. his hands rested beside your head, further bracketing you beneath him. his eyes roved over your form in concern.
"you okay?" he murmured softly. he checked for injuries, anything, he angled his head to gaze at your ankle — the reason why you had fallen in the first place. it looked fine to him, thankfully.
you nodded slowly, lips parted in slight shock, eyes still transfixed on his face.
"need you to say it. are you in any pain?" he repeated, gazing back into your eyes. "does your ankle hurt at all?"
"i'm okay," you swallowed thickly. "my ankle is fine."
he accepted your answer, visibly relaxing. "good."
"sorry," you blurted out, anxious from how close he was. from how you could count each and every single one of his eyelashes as they were attached to his eyelid.
"for what?" his voice was barely above a whisper. the breeze flowed through the grass, kissing over your cheeks and sending hair fluttering across your forehead. he brushed the strand back, memorizing the texture under his thumb. he knew why you were apologizing, and it was unnecessary. though, he recognized your words are more instinct than a genuine apology.
your brain blanked, subconsciously pulling him closer by the collar. closer. closer. it wasn't close enough.
jason followed willingly. it would agonize him to deny you right now, to deny himself.
his head dipped down, the tip of his nose brushed against yours. his shaky breath fanned across your lips.
"angel…" he whispered, eyes squeezing tightly. it was as if the darkness behind his lids could stop him, stop his desire for you. stop the fire that was spreading up his neck — one that could only be extinguished with the press of your lips.
he wanted it so badly, wanted you. he knew you would taste good under his tongue, that you would mold perfectly with him. his fingers dug into the ground, denting the dirt with the force of his restraint.
and when your hands slid up from his collar and onto his neck, jason knew he was done for. he was gone. completely at your mercy just by the touch of your fingertips. his neck burned at the spots where your skin met his. he was ready to carve his heart out of his chest and hand it to you with his own hands. his chest plating armour, his protection, his walls that had shielded the parts of himself that he refused to show the world melted instantly with a flash of your smile.
"jay…" your voice was barely above the wind in his ears, but it cut through nonetheless, grounded him back to the moment where your chin was tilting up towards his mouth.
oh god, no
he cleared his throat and slid onto his back beside you. the clouds, bright and blinding against the warm blue, were the most interesting thing jason could look at right now. though his eyes were desperate to settle back onto you.
he wouldn't give in. not yet at least. maybe not ever. you would never be his.
a spiked ball made it's way down your throat, forcing, shoving, tearing down any words that were about to leave your mouth. the pressure between the two of you was bordering on unbearable.
you were so close to kissing him. so close. his distance was necessary. you never should have gotten that close to jason — close enough that you had felt the cool air from his nose brush your cheeks. though, feeling him pull away stabbed your heart deeper than you cared to admit.
"hey, jason?"
he hummed in confirmation
"what were you doing under my car for so long?"
"what do you mean?"
"well, it was the valve that was leaking right? you said that's under the hood. why were you under my car for as long as you were? you were also inside, like under the steering wheel. what was that?"
jason remained silent. he didn't have a good enough excuse that didn't make him sound like a fucking idiot. after finding the initial cause of your car problems, he found another, and then another. and then it turned into him fixing whatever he could with the equipment that he had on hand — anything to keep you in the shop a little longer. just a little longer.
"you know, just stopping some fluid leaks, making sure nothing was rusting. the oil pan gasket is down there, and your transmission," he kept his eyes trained on the sky, hand resting under his head. the same hand that was under yours. the same one that was just gliding through your hair and oh how he wanted to grab onto the strands and— "oh, and your exhaust. that needed to be touched up. i actually put some paste on there so it should be good for now, but you'll need to come in again soon for me to actually fix it—"
"jason,"
"yeah," his own rambling had caught him off guard, but the way his heart was practically beating out of his chest was getting increasingly harder to ignore. his heart was still beating wildly out of his chest from almost kissing you.
"what the hell does any of that even mean?"
"basically, you had more work that needed to be done than just the valve,"
"what?" you sat up, your lips jutting out in a exasperated pout. "why didn't you tell me? you have to let me pay you."
"like i said earlier, i owed tim," he responded, propping himself on his elbow to face you. the sun floated just above your head, bathing you in its ethereal glow. the rays caught on your hair, glittering the wild strands that were mussed from the grass.
"yeah but not for all of that,"
"well. if you wanna repay me so bad, then you can,"
you nodded in relief. "okay. how much do i owe you then?"
"i want you—"
the shrill of your phone ringing in your back pocket cut jason off abruptly. in a way, he may have been relieved that he never got to finish his sentence. you. i want you. he wouldn't have been able to take them back, no matter how much he may have meant it.
too much. way too soon.
"hey," you pressed your phone to your ear. your fingers absentmindedly picked at the strands of grass beneath your feet.
"what time are you coming over?" tim's voice rang through the speaker. loud. jason cringed at the sound.
"huh?" you shifted, sitting up a little straighter. right. tim and you had plans tonight. dinner tonight at the manor, upon bruce's insistence. on days that you and tim had planned to hang out, you usually ended up in the manor. it was more comfortable for you guys rather than your shitty apartment.
"b's asking, alfred's already started on dinner," tim says, you cam practically see him shaking his head. "so, what time should i tell him? also, why is your location off. i tried to check if you were at home and it says 'location not found'"
"oh uh, i don't know. i'm on a walk right now, i'll be there in 'bout an hour?" you were distracted. jason was just laying there still, beside you, pretending not to listen but you know he was. the twitch of his nose when tim had mentioned bruce had given him away.
"''kay, perfect, see you, and fix your location," tim waited for your own farewell before hanging up the phone. you let your phone drop into your lap, falling back into the electrically charged quiet that seemed to continuously engulf yourself and jason.
"tim?" jason mumbled.
you nodded, a thick glob of saliva catching in our throat. "dinner at the manor tonight."
right. jason knew that. dinner at the manor tonight, as bruce had said in the family group chat.
he knew he had to drive you back, to let you go. you car was fixed now. it was over. your car was fixed, and you were gonna go back to your life now. the dream bubble, the rose coloured world that jason had been fantasizing with you was now grey.
but he wouldn't complain. he would let you go. and maybe, he would get to see you again.
﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒
the manor had been bustling upon your arrival. you still felt like you were in a daze from your earlier encounters with jason.
he was… different. not what you had expected.
your first impression of him might have been skewered by tim, and the front that jason put up. the glares, the stone mask that he wore — you saw the softness that lay beneath it all.
you were currently at the dinner table — seated beside tim — though you could still feel the grass tickling your ankles and jason's steady weight on your chest. you had been so close to kissing him, barely a centimetre between you.
"so your car is alright then?" bruce's voice brought you back from your dream.
"hm? oh! yeah, it's all good," your shoulders squared, spine snapping straight. the smile that plastered across your face felt gooey. "jason—"
"—littlewing?" dick's voice rang out in shock, his gaze fixed above your head. a lull settled over the room as the rest of the party's attention followed dick's. you slowly turned your head, your breath catching at the sight.
speak of the devil.
jason. he had stood in the entryway of the dining hall — the same navy blue jeans, leather jacket stretched taut over his strong form.
everyone's gaze were on him, but his were on you.
"jason! what a pleasure," bruce smiled, standing in greeting.
"why are you here?" tim blurted out.
"for dinner?" jason deadpanned.
"yeah, but why?"
"i'm part of the family, aren't i? do i need a reason to show up for family dinner?"
"how did you know this was happening,"
you elbowed tim hard enough that he flinched. his fork clanged against his plate at the force of his knee hitting the table.
"i'm in the groupchat, dumbass," jason's eyes narrowed at tim, a scowl forming across his mouth.
"—yes! you are, no you don't need a reason, and we are so happy you're here," bruce's voice cut in quickly, breaking the squabble. his tone directed at tim. he stood up as well to welcome jason into the room.
"come sit, littlewing, alfred already set up a seat for you," dick's words barely registered in your mind. jason had looked different, smaller, younger. dick's hand patted the space next to him, across from you, the only empty seat. until now, that seat had always remained empty — set up with a plate, cutlery, and a glass — but empty. now you knew why.
he took his spot, sliding comfortably into the seat and letting dick clap his shoulder in friendly greeting. jasons eyes shifted from dick, to bruce, and then to you. darker, pupils dilated, head tilted slightly to the side as he took in your appearance again. outfit less casual, your hair done in a way that he could tell you put effort into — though he thought your hair would have looked nice regardless how you wore it.
jason's gaze was hungry. devouring, though it wasn't because of the food that was being served in front of him, but because of you.
dinner continued without a hitch. the dymanic didn't change when jason arrived, it molded around him — like he had always been there.
the conversion flowed between everyone, changing constantly from someone's interjection. the only thing that didn't change was jason's focus on you. when he spoke, when he wasn't speaking. it wasn't the whole time, but it was enough for you to notice it. to feel it burning into your face from where he sat directly in front of you.
eventually, after the second course of dessert, you excused yourself to the washroom.
a break was needed.
while you had developed close relationships with all of tim's family members, they still managed to overwhelm you very easily.
the washroom was a moment of repreive in the chaos that was confined within the walls of the manor. you could still hear the arguments, the debates, the loud voices that knew how to speak above one another.
you took your time on the way back, slow measured steps that followed the dark lines of the mahogany flooring. you didn't hear the footsteps behind you, didn't sense the presence that lingered too closely behind you for just a second too long before wrapping an arm around you.
a large hand covered your mouth, the other pulling your body into the opened doorway beside you. once your back was against the wall, you realized.
jason.
he was close again. body pressed up against yours intentionally. he was warm in a way that was devastating — a warmth that you so desperately wanted to sink into, but you knew you couldn't.
"what are you—" your voice muffled against his hand, palm sliding against your cheek and cradling your head.
"i should have kissed you earlier," his words cut you off, hanging in the space between your mouths. his gaze was fixed on your lips, centimetres away from yours. "i should have. i need to. been thinking about it since i met you, angel, fuck."
he was practically pleading. his whispered words were shaking between his lips.
please. please, let me kiss you.
"we… jason, we can't," your voice was just as soft, hands exploring up his arms and onto his shoulders. broad and thick under your palms. the desperation was burning the room, a fever beginning to heat up your spine.
"we… yeah," his forehead softly hit yours, eyes shutting tightly. his nostrils flared with restraint. his other hand tightened it's grip on your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer to him.
"they're gonna be looking for us, we need to—"
"fuck. i can't. i'm sorry," jason murmured, his snapping open to gaze at you one last time, there was a hint of apology swimming in his eyes, deep and longing beneath the surface.
summary: landing in an alternate dimension—you're certain this version of damian who finds you should hate you as much as your damian does. but when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before.. you realise he isn't so willing on letting you go.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: alternate dimension damian who finds you which makes the yearning 1000x worse, 'ill choose you in every lifetime' trope, angst-comfort
It's been twenty minutes since you ended up in another dimension. A stupid argument. An accidental trigger. Of course, none of that comes close in comparison to the complete shock of Damian Wayne crushing you with his embrace.
No. Embrace is too soft a term for how tightly squeezed you are—the lack of space making it easy for you to detect how his body is physically shaking.
You're covered in soot, dust particles still emanating from where your form had materialised—from where your first instinct had been to press the emergency contact on your comms. Damian had found you not long after. You still remember how quickly your fury had been extinguished the moment you caught sight of his pale expression, the sheer disbelief in the open gape of his lips.
Damian hates you. That fact is precisely the reason you ended up here, in a whole other dimension. That instinctive reminder is what forces you to push yourself out of his embrace, and his own hands go slack as he stares at you wordlessly.
"Why'd you follow me in—you idiot!" You snap, trying to brush off how taken off-guard you are. "I can't believe we're both stuck here."
He blinks once. "Stuck?"
"You should've pieced this together faster than I did." Gesturing to your surroundings, your arms still ache from having crashed through a construction site. "We're stuck in another dimension all thanks to you."
He blinks again, slower this time. Processing. "Where exactly did you come from?"
"Did the fall injure your head?" Your impatience brims over your exhausted features. "Isn't it enough that you had to start something in the lab? We wouldn't have ended up here if you hadn't been so insistent on triggering the portal."
His features remain stoic, but there's a familiar calculation in his gaze. His lips part after a moment. "Portal."
It's infuriating how long he's taking to catch onto the reality of what's just happened. You give a short nod, your growing panic stuck between your teeth. If Damian's here with you, there's no telling if you'll be able to make a connection back to your dimension.
"I suppose you are right." His brows remain furrowed in consideration. "But there is one thing you're missing."
Leave it to him to counter every point of yours, needing to be right as always. A heavy sigh leaves your lips. "And what is that?"
"I'm not your Damian."
Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.
That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.
"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.
That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.
You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.
"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.
Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.
Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.
You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.
Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.
Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.
"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."
The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.
"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.
"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."
He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."
This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.
"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.
He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.
Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.
"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."
Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.
"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."
Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.
Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—
Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.
Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.
It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.
A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.
Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.
He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.
"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."
You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.
"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"
His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.
"She's dead."
It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.
Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.
When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.
Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.
You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.
It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.
"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.
There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.
"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.
Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.
"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."
You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.
"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."
His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.
"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"
Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.
"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.
Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."
"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."
"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.
"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.
"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"
He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."
You draw a short breath. "Shit."
Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.
You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.
He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.
"There is nothing here." He states.
"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."
His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.
"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.
Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.
You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.
"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."
You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.
The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.
"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.
Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"
"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."
That... sounds very Damian of him.
You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."
Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."
Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.
This time, you take his hand.
Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.
"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.
His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."
Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."
You raise a brow, confused.
He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."
Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.
"What do you want to know?" You shrug.
His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"
Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"
His smile strains a little, and you realise why.
"Ah." You murmur.
"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."
You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."
He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.
"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.
"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."
"So, why are you here?" You push.
A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."
You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.
"What else do you like?" He reiterates.
Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"
"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."
"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."
His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."
"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."
He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"
"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."
He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."
"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."
The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.
He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.
"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."
"I like that."
You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.
"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."
His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."
Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.
"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."
Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.
Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.
It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.
"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."
He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.
He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.
"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."
"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.
You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.
"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."
Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.
"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.
"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"
"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."
"At being fair?" He asks.
"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.
His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."
The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.
He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.
"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.
"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."
Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.
You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.
A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.
"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.
He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.
"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."
"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"
Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.
What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.
"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."
He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.
"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."
"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.
You blink, taken aback by his reaction.
"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."
"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."
His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.
"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."
Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.
"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."
His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."
"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."
"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."
"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."
He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.
"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."
He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"
"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."
He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.
"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."
He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.
"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.
You nod gently.
Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.
When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.
When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.
"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.
As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.
He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.
It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.
"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."
You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."
"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."
This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.
Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.
"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."
That settles it. In two days... you're going home.
"I hate waiting."
"I am aware." Damian murmurs.
"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.
"Alright."
Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.
His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."
You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."
"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.
"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"
"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."
"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.
"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.
"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.
He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.
Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.
"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.
The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.
"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.
Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.
Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.
"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.
"I never got to tell you." He starts.
Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.
"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."
"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."
The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.
He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."
"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."
Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.
"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."
"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."
You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.
Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.
You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.
How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?
Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.
A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.
"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.
He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.
Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.
What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.
"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."
That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.
He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.
"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."
"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."
It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.
In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.
Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.
But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
Like he loses her TWICE????? And even when he (or a version of him?) saves her, at the end of the day he still loses her?!?!?!
i'm inconsolable
AND NOT ONLY DOES HE LOSE HER, she loses HIM. She might still have a version of Damian, but lowk I feel like that version of Damian kind of became her Damian (again). She still has it better than Alt Verse!Damian because she has a version of him to come back to.... but it's not him even if it is him????
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
cw : fem!reader ◞ rough sex◞ choking ◞ creampie, headlock play ◞ begging ◞ dirty talk ◞ oral sex◞ vaginal penetration ◞ p without plot ◞
"Zuko, please," you plead, your voice breathless and needy as you kneel before him on the plush rugs of his private chambers, the flickering torchlight casting shadows over his regal form.
Your hands clutch at the edges of his deep red robes, fingers trembling with anticipation. "I need it—put me in a headlock. Choke me while you fuck me senseless. Make me yours completely."
Zuko's amber eyes darken with raw desire, his scarred face tightening as he looms over you, His long black hair sways slightly as he reaches down, gripping your chin firmly to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.
"You beg so prettily," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "But you know what happens when you ask for my control. I'll squeeze that pretty neck until you're gasping for air, until your pussy clenches around my cock from the lack of it."
Your core throbs at his words, arousal flooding you as you nod eagerly, lips parting in a whimper. "Yes—do it. I want to feel your arm locked around my throat, your strength pinning me down. Fuck me hard while I struggle for breath."
He doesn't make you wait; with a growl, Zuko hauls you up by your arms, spinning you around to face the nearby bed draped in crimson silks. His body presses flush against your back, the hard length of his erection grinding into your ass through the thin fabric of your undergarments.
Rough hands yank your clothes away, tearing the delicate material with impatient tugs until you're bare and exposed, skin prickling in the warm air.
Zuko sheds his own robes swiftly, the layered fabrics pooling at his feet, revealing his toned, scarred torso—muscles honed from battles and rule, cock standing thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum at the tip.
He shoves you forward onto the bed, your hands bracing against the mattress as he climbs behind you, one knee nudging your thighs apart.
"On your back," he commands, voice edged with authority, and you scramble to obey, flipping over to lie supine, legs splaying wide in invitation. Your pussy glistens with wetness, folds swollen and aching for him.
Zuko positions himself between your legs, his weight settling over you like a predator claiming prey. But instead of thrusting in immediately, he leans down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss—tongue invading, teeth nipping your lower lip until you taste the faint metallic tang of blood.
You arch into him, hands roaming his broad shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle. "Zuko... the headlock. Please, I need it now," you gasp against his lips, hips bucking up to rub your slick entrance along his shaft. He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he pulls back, saliva stringing between your mouths.
"Greedy little thing," he says, shifting to straddle your waist briefly, his cock slapping heavily against your belly. Then, with deliberate slowness, he maneuvers his arm—strong and corded from years of wielding fire—around your neck from the side, hooking it into a loose headlock that presses his bicep against your throat.
The position forces your head to turn slightly toward him, cheek smooshed against his forearm, his scar visible up close as he tightens just enough to make your pulse thunder under his skin.
"Like this?" he taunts, squeezing experimentally, cutting off your air for a heartbeat before easing up. You nod frantically, eyes watering with the thrill, pussy clenching emptily. "Beg louder. Tell me how bad you want my cock splitting you open while I choke the breath from you."
"Please, Zuko—fuck me!" you cry out, voice hoarse already, hands grabbing at his thighs to pull him down. "Lock your arm tight around my neck, make me see stars. Pound into my pussy until I can't breathe, until I cum from the pressure alone."
Your words fuel him; with a feral snarl, he aligns his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance before slamming home in one brutal thrust. The stretch burns deliciously, your walls fluttering around his girth as he bottoms out, balls slapping against your ass.
The headlock tightens in rhythm with his first deep plunge, his bicep flexing to restrict your airway just as he pulls back and drives in again.
You gasp raggedly, the lack of oxygen heightening every sensation—the drag of his thick shaft along your inner walls, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each forceful snap of his hips.
"That's it," he grunts, breath hot on your ear, his free hand pinning your hip down to control the angle. "Take it all. Feel how deep I am while you fight for air."
Stars burst behind your eyelids as he squeezes harder on the next thrust, your throat working futilely against the unyielding muscle of his arm. Your body responds instinctively, legs wrapping around his waist to urge him deeper, heels digging into his lower back.
The restricted breaths make your head spin, pleasure coiling sharper in your core, every vein on his cock pulsing against your sensitive spots as he fucks you relentlessly—out to the tip, then burying himself to the hilt over and over.
"Zuko—harder! Choke me more," you manage to rasp during a brief release of pressure, your voice breaking into a moan as he obliges, locking his arm vise-like.
Vision blurring at the edges, you claw at his forearm—not to escape, but to feel the power there, the dominance that has you soaking his cock even more.
He releases just in time for you to suck in a desperate gulp of air, only to clamp down again as he angles his hips to hit that spongy spot inside you, the one that makes your toes curl.
Sweat slicks your bodies, the room echoing with the wet sounds of skin meeting skin, your choked whimpers, and his guttural praises.
"Look at you—pussy gripping me like a vice when I squeeze. You love being at my mercy, don't you? Begging for my arm around your neck while I ruin this tight hole."
His pace quickens, thrusts turning punishing, the headlock shifting slightly to let you turn your face into his bicep, lips brushing the salty skin as you gasp for more.
The build-up is intoxicating, oxygen deprivation amplifying the fire in your veins until you're teetering on the edge. "I'm—gonna cum," you choke out, tears streaming from the intensity, body trembling beneath him.
Zuko loosens his hold fractionally, allowing you a ragged breath before tightening again, his cock swelling inside you as he chases his own release.
"Cum for me—milk my cock while I choke you," he demands, voice strained, hips pistoning faster. The command shatters you; your orgasm crashes through, pussy convulsing wildly around him, walls rippling in waves that pull him deeper.
You scream hoarsely, the sound muffled against his arm, nails raking down his back as ecstasy rips you apart, juices squirting around his base to drench his thighs.
He doesn't stop, fucking you through the spasms, his headlock unrelenting as he grinds deep one final time. With a roar, Zuko buries himself fully, arm flexing to cut your air as hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, painting your insides white.
The sensation of his release, combined with the pressure on your throat, prolongs your high, drawing out aftershocks until you're limp and quivering.
Finally, he eases the hold, both arms now cradling you gently as he collapses half atop you, cock still twitching inside your filled core.
You cough lightly, drawing in deep breaths, but a satisfied smile curves your lips as you nuzzle his neck. "Again," you whisper, voice raw. "Put me in that headlock and fuck me until I pass out."
Zuko's eyes gleam with renewed hunger, his hand stroking your hair as he rolls you both, positioning you on top but keeping one arm ready. "Insatiable," he murmurs, but there's pride in his tone.
He guides your hips to sink back onto his semi-hard length, already stirring back to life. As you start to ride him slowly, he snakes his arm around your neck from behind, pulling you down against his chest in a loose lock. "Ride me while I control your breath. Beg for it tighter."
You do, grinding down with a moan, the fullness reigniting the ache. "Tighter—choke me as I bounce on your cock. Make me earn every thrust."
He complies, bicep pressing into your throat as you lift and drop, the restricted air making each descent feel electric, your clit rubbing against him perfectly. His free hand roams, pinching your nipples, slapping your ass to spur you faster.
The second round builds slower but deeper, your pleas turning to broken sobs of pleasure. "Yes—lock it in, Zuko. I want bruises from your arm tomorrow."
He squeezes in time with your rhythm, releasing just enough to keep you conscious, his cock hardening fully inside your cum-slicked pussy.
You clench around him deliberately, drawing groans from his lips, the power dynamic flipping slightly as you use the headlock to heighten your control over the pace.
But Zuko reclaims dominance swiftly, flipping you onto your side mid-ride, spooning behind you with his arm locked firm around your neck.
His hips snap forward, fucking up into you from this new angle, the headlock pulling your head back against his shoulder so he can bite your earlobe. "This what you begged for? My arm owning your throat while my cock owns your cunt?" Each word punctuates a thrust, deep and claiming, his balls slapping your clit.
"Fuck—yes! Don't let go," you gasp, hand reaching back to grip his thigh, urging him on.
The pressure builds again, faster now, your body hypersensitive from the first orgasm. He fingers your clit in circles, the dual stimulation overwhelming as he chokes you harder, your vision spotting with bliss.
You cum explosively, pussy gushing around him, the headlock making the release feel endless, like drowning in pleasure. Zuko follows with a muffled curse against your hair, pumping another load deep inside, the warmth spreading as he holds you tight through it all.
Exhausted but sated, you both lie tangled, his arm now a loose drape over your neck, a reminder of the intensity. "Perfect," you sigh, turning to kiss his scarred cheek. He hums in agreement, cock softening but still nestled within you, promising more if you beg again.
Summary - Jason plans out a whole proposal only to forget everything when he gets down on one knee.
Jason has always been a planner. Even when he was young he took comfort in making a plan. It makes him feel more confident in himself and in his abilities if he can make a plan and at least a dozen contingencies for said plan.
So when it came to him proposing to you he planned it out for months in advance.
You had begun dropping hints after your third anniversary, staring too long at rings in the windows of a jewelry store, making a secret wedding Pinterest board that he found open on accident on your phone, bringing up the future often.
Jason would be an idiot to not see your hints and come hell or high water he was going to make it happen.
So he started planning out the best date and time to propose to you. He probably looked a little crazy to his siblings as he set up a cork board in one of his many safe houses with ideas and dates.
Dick was the only one that thought his planning was sweet, everyone else thought he was stressing out about your answer. And maybe in a different time he would be but after three years of you staying and reassuring him that you wanted him he was sure that you would say yes.
He had the ring custom made with your anniversary etched on the inside of the band and a garnet in the center alongside two small diamonds. Dick and Roy had helped him pick it out, they argued most of the time but in they end helped, three months before he planned to propose.
There were multiple phone calls from his brother and best friend to hype him up in the two days before he planned to propose. He had outwardly scoffed at them calling him to tell him that you would obviously say yes but inwardly he appreciated the support.
When you walk out of your shared bedroom he almost gets on one knee there. You look radiant and Jason almost forgets his whole plan. He restrains himself because him proposing before dinner wasn’t planned.
First, Jason takes you to the bookshop where you met and has become a semi-frequent date spot.
It’s a small hole in the wall shop that really only people know in the upper east side know about. He knows the owner, an older woman named Meredith whose family had this shop for generations, and she was extremely excited to know that you two were getting engaged. She keeps it a secret for him but does give him a discount on the books you end up buying.
He really enjoys watching you read through the backs of books with a slight pinch between your brows. You eventually end up getting two since you couldn’t decide between them.
After you finish up at the book store he takes you a couple blocks down to an Italian restaurant that he knows is a front for the mafia but makes the best cannolis he has ever had so he lets it slide. You talk about your work, friends and anything else that comes to mind and Jason is happy to watch you talk.
When the check is dropped off by a gruff looking guy who gives Jason a knowing smile you reach for it and Jason lightly smacks your hand away from it.
“Nope.” He states simply.
“Jay-” You go to protest with a frown on your face.
“Nope!” His voice increases in volume as he takes the bill away from your hands.
You give him a huff and an eye roll before giving in. Jason feels particularly accomplished as he walks up to pay the bill.
Once the bill is settled Jason leads you back to your building and up to the roof.
He had some help decorating the roof since he was with you for most of the day. Steph and Cass had taken point on that because Steph had told him that his taste was tragic, Cass had agreed before pulling out Bruce’s credit card that she swiped off of him somehow.
“Jason.” You gasp softly at the lit up rooftop decorated with pillows and blankets for stargazing. “This is beautiful.”
He runs his hand over the back of his neck in embarrassment, “I just came up with the idea, Steph and Cass set everything up.”
You squeeze his hand softly, “You still thought of it and that’s what matters.”
Jason takes a deep breath, reaching for the ring box in his pocket. “I also have something else.”
You get a confused pinch between your brows that evens out into shock as Jason gets down on one knee.
He goes to say the long speech he had planned, the one where he told you how much you mean to him, how you love him the way he is, how you make him want to live again rather then just survive. Jason had pondered what to say for months.
But now as he look up into your shocked face and teary eyes his brain stutters to a stop.
“Please?” Jason breathes out, no other words in his mind.
“Yes.” You sob and throw yourself into his arms. “Yes! Oh my god Jay. Yes.”
Jason holds you with a smile on his face that’s so wide it hurts because you love him when he has a plan and even when he doesn’t.
Blue’s Notes - Late night update inspired by this post! It’s so Jason that I couldn’t not write it.
This is one I’ve wanted to read for a while so I was very excited to finally get to it! I think Mary Shelley does a beautiful job crafting this story of love and loss that completely enthralls you and has you thinking for days after.
The Hero of Ages by Brandon Sanderson: ★ ★ ★ ★
This is the final book in the original Mistborn trilogy and I loved and hated finishing it out. Vin is such a powerful character for me. While this wasn’t my favorite book in the trilogy, it was such a strong conclusion that the series will absolutely stay in one of my all time favorites. (Technically I rated it a 4.5, but that didn’t look as nice)
Assistant to the Villain by Hannah Nicole Maehrer: ★ ★ ★ ★
After finishing Frankenstein and Mistborn I definitely needed a bit of a lighter read, and Assistant to the Villain delivered in every single way. I devoured this book in about 5 hours, and was laughing the entire time. As someone who’s not a heavy romance reader, I went in skeptical, but I was thoroughly enthused by the antics and compelling storyline.
Apprentice to the Villain by Hannah Nicole Maehrer: ★ ★ ★ ★
As before, this book had me laughing all the way through and I couldn’t put it down. I think this was my favorite of the series because of the character growth and the plot impact throughout that both had me at the edge of my seat and falling out of it.
Accomplish to the Villain by Hannah Nicole Maehrer: ★ ★ ★
You’ll notice a trend at this point, but legitimately I read all 3 books in 4 days, so I very much recommend. The only reason I rated this book lower was because the change of pace made it a bit harder to follow, but I’m excited to jump back in in August with book 4!
The Things We Leave Unfinished by Rebecca Yarros: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
If you were to see my copy of this book, you’ll also see my plethora of tear stains in the last 10%. Rebecca Yarros proves time and time again why she stays at the front of contemporary romance, and this book sums it up. I legitimately couldn’t put it down. I read the entire book in one sitting and it was SO worth it. I highly recommend and cannot wait to see the film adaptation!
You spin aimlessly in your desk chair, head shaking as you try your best to fend off your too-extraverted-for-their-own-good friends. Your lit analysis essay had been sitting long forgotten on your desk, the bright screen of your laptop glaring at you as you glare at Pansy and Daph. If they wanted you to leave your and Pansy's tiny, shared dorm room, they would have to drag you out kicking and screaming.
"Nope. Not going," you state definitively to neither girl in particular since neither girl was really paying attention to you at that exact moment.
Both were rifling through your very limited closet space, pushing some clothes to the side and throwing other items haphazardly around the room.
"I know it has to be in here somewhere. I gave it to her for her last birthday, and she wouldn't dare throw out a gift," you hear Pansy mutter until finally, "Aha!"
Pansy brandishes her prize up into the air to reveal the slinky scrap of black fabric that she had indeed gifted you for your last birthday.
"Found it!" she exclaims gleefully, holding the supposed dress out to you—not so much as an offering, but as a direct order.
"Come on, y/n. Pleeease. You have to go! It's Sigma Chi's last rager of the year. And you know their parties are legendary across campus," Daphne begs, grabbing you by your arms and pulling you up from your chair.
"You're going. If for no other reason than to support me in finding out if all the rumors about Draco and his dragon are true," Pansy snickers.
Draco Malfoy was the President of Sigma Chi and he and Pansy had been dancing around each other for ages. If the two of them didn't get together at the party tonight, you weren't sure if you'd be able to sit through another coffee debrief where Pansy speculated about what Draco was hiding in his tailored trousers. Rolling your eyes, you snatch the dress from Pansy's outstretched hand, flipping your friends off before turning around to change.
"Please," Daphne scoffs as you shimmy into the dress. "The only rumors y/n cares about are the ones about Blaise Zabini and who he invites into his bed."
You feel your chest tighten ever so slightly at the mention of his name, but you force yourself to appear unaffected as you turn back around to face your friends.
"Who Blaise takes to bed is none of my business," you say primly as Pansy hands you a tube of mascara.
Blaise Zabini was the Vice President of Sigma Chi. While Draco might have been the face of the Fraternity, Blaise was the one pulling all the strings behind the scenes. He was cold, calculating, arrogant, and just maybe part of the reason you'd been avoiding the party tonight. Because somehow, for reasons beyond your comprehension, his gaze had landed on you. And not just in fleeting glances, but with the kind of stares that caused the hairs on the back of your neck to prickle until your eyes met his from across the room and the corners of his mouth would turn up just enough for you to know you were being watched.
Just the thought of his intense stare was enough for goosebumps to form on your bare arms. Curse Pansy and her skimpy dressing habits.
"Besides," you continue, "I'm pretty sure the only things that the boys at Sigma Chi keep in their pretty little heads, are the rules to beer pong and their little black book." You put a heavy emphasis on the word book as you pop your lips, admiring the thin coat of gloss that you'd applied.
"With the way he looks at you, you're practically in that book already," Pansy snickers, stealing your lip gloss right out of your fingers and applying it herself.
"Hey now. I've known Blaise since we were in diapers," Daphne defends. "He isn't like that. Mostly. He's typically quite picky."
"Yeah. And he picked, y/n. He's practically been eye-fucking her for weeks," Pansy interjects.
You feel heat starting to rise to your cheeks at your friend's vulgar language.
"Wow, I do not want to talk about this anymore. Thank you," you squeak out, rather mortified by the whole conversation.
Because yes, obviously, you'd noticed the way Blaise looked at you. You'd have to be blind not to. And, obviously, you'd noticed the way he flirted within an inch of his life whenever you did make the rare appearance at the Sigma Chi house. And of course, you obviously felt the jolt of electricity that shot through you whenever Blaise went out of his way to make sure his fingertips brushed against yours for any given reason.
Did you want to climb him like a tree? Yes, of course.
But despite what Daphne and Pansy said, and what you knew from your own observation, Blaise was still something of a flight risk to you. He was an enigma and whatever it was about him that made your gut churn about restlessly whenever the two of you were within twenty feet of each other, was not something you needed in your life right now.
"Alright, are we ready?" Daphne asks finally once the three of you had put the finishing touches on your makeup.
"Me? Never," you reply dryly as you try to smooth out your dress.
"Well you better get ready, because you look positively edible," Pansy says, dragging you out the door.
Great. You were practically being served to Blaise Zabini on a silver platter. You'd folded much too easily.
When you arrive, you can already hear music pouring out of the Sigma Chi house as you approach the entrance.
"Names?"
One of the pledges sits inside the door way looking painfully bored as he scrolls through the list of names on his dim laptop.
"Alright, you three are good," he sighs gesturing for you to go on inside.
You can feel the bass pulsating through your veins as you take the usual path to the main room where you're immediately hit by flashing, neon lights and the music's volume suddenly sounds about a thousand times louder. The sensory overload is a bit overwhelming, but a wave of calm flows over you as Daphne hands you a drink and you take your first sip.
"There they are, Sigma Chi's favorite ladies," the familiar drawl of Draco's voice reaches over the crowd as the blonde approaches, his commanding presence parting bodies like water.
"Malfoy. Flattery gets you no where here. You know that," Pansy replies coolly, though you can tell she's eating it up inside.
You watch as Draco smirks down at your friend, his hand finding its way to her lower back as he pulls her to him.
"We're about to start a game. Join us." He looks up at you. "We'll need a fourth. You too."
It's not much of an invitation, but you shrug and follow the two love birds down to the basement where furniture had been pushed up against the walls to make space for the holy grail of frat parties. The beer pong tables.
You feel his presence before you see him—the hairs on the back of your neck prickling just before he appears by your side. He looked good. Mouth wateringly so.
His cologne is strong and his eyes are as hungry as ever as he takes you in, eyes raking over the ridiculous article of clothing that Pansy called a dress. You were beginning to feel a bit self conscious about the way it clung to every bend and curve of your body under Blaise's intense gaze. It was definitely a mistake coming here.
"Didn't know if you'd be here tonight." His voice is like honey in your ear, his breath warm against your cheek.
When had he gotten so close?
"Didn't plan to show. But you know how Daph and Pans can be."
His laugh is low and dangerous and it makes your heart want to beat right out of your chest.
"Come on. Looks like you're with me," he says, hands on your waist as he leads you over to the table where Pansy and Draco are already waiting.
His hands feel like fire, but when he finally lets go, all you want is to feel that delicious burning sensation once more.
But that's not what was important right now. Your focus needed to be lasered in on the game in front of you. Rows of red solo cups, two ping pong balls, and a competitive streak that was begging to be let out.
"I don't like to lose," you warn, looking up at Blaise with a sudden burst of confidence.
You watch as a wicked grin spreads across Blaise's face.
"Me neither."
As soon as the game starts, you lose yourself in the familiar feeling of cheap plastic between your fingertips and the soft splash of a ball being sunk. Despite your best efforts to maintain focus though, you have to wonder if Blaise is acting as a double agent here because he's doing everything in his power to distract you.
"Didn't realize I was playing with a pro," he murmurs into your ear, one hand permanently melded into the small of your back as you play.
"Anyone looks like a pro when you're used to playing against drunk frat boys," you tease back, sinking another cup.
He's so close—every movement results in you brushing up against him—and the warmth of his body radiates off of him, inviting you in. He chuckles again and you hope he doesn't notice the shudder the deep sound sends through you, straight to your core.
You hardly notice your friends in that moment. Daphne had slunk off ages ago, Pansy and Draco were just echoes in the background as your world locks in on Blaise. It was disorientating how much you were drawn to him—how much you wanted his gaze to stay trained on you. Just you. It doesn't even fully sink in when Blaise lands the final shot and Pansy shoots you a good natured eye-roll. You'd won. But all you see are Blaise's dark eyes burning into you, a triumphant smirk on his face. The ping pong ball slips from your finger tips as Blaise leans down to whisper into your ear.
"Let me take you upstairs."
You knew what that meant. Everyone knew what that meant. But in that moment, you wanted it. Bad.
As if in a trance, you let Blaise take your hand, leading you through the crowd and pointedly ignoring the exaggerated wink Pansy sends your way.
The two of you make your way back up to the main floor, and then up the grand staircase where you're met with a dark, quiet hallway. You'd never been to the top floor before. It wasn't like you'd imagined. There's a distinct lack of beer stains on the carpet for one thing. And no street signs hung like trophies on the walls.
Blaise's room is at the end of the long hallway. The last door on the left. And it's exactly how you imagined it would be. Not that you'd ever imagined what his room would be like of course.
Clean would be an understatement. His room was immaculate—everything had a place and was organized down to the last detail. The bed is made perfectly with lush, satin sheets, expertly pressed shirts hang in the closet, and his desk is arranged with surgical precision. You'd never guess that the room belonged to a college frat boy, but it perfectly encapsulates Blaise.
As soon as you cross the threshold, the door clicks shut behind you and you're suddenly aware of just how real the whole situation is. Strangely though, you feel perfectly calm.
It's quiet as Blaise's eyes rake over you once more, seemingly drinking in every detail of his latest conquest. His hands on your waist keep you close and you're sure he can feel the racing beat of your heart. He leans down, lips hovering just centimeters away from your own. Finally.
"Do you want this as badly as I do?"
You barely hear the question as the words ghost across your lips. You tilt your chin up, lips grazing his. He pulls back, gaze staring down at you intently.
"Your eyes are saying yes, but I need that pretty little mouth of yours to tell me the same," he murmurs.
With those words, you're simply putty in his hands.
"Please, Blaise," you hear yourself whine before his lips crash into yours.
It's pure hunger as your arms snake around the boy's neck, pulling him closer and pressing yourself into him. There's no hesitation as your lips move against each other's—just weeks of tension melting away as you let his tongue explore your mouth.
His lips are deliciously soft and taste like cheap liquor—you're sure you could get drunk off his kisses.
His hands move boldly—feeling, groping—no awkward fumbling, just self-assured exploration that leaves your skin burning beneath his finger tips.
You're not exactly sure how you end up perched atop his desk, and you barely register him pushing his things to the side into a cluttered heap. All you can focus on is the gentle pressure of his lips on yours, and the satisfying ache in your core. You feel a shiver run up your spine as one of Blaise's hands slides down your thigh, gripping tightly as he hitches your leg up and around his waist.
You can't help the moan that escapes your lips as Blaise grinds his hips into you, his hard bulge pressing against you. You could swear you hear Blaise growl in response, but it gets swallowed by another heated kiss. He continues to grind into your core, and when you can't take another second of it, your hands find their way desperately to his trousers, tearing away at zippers and elastic until the pesky clothing items are pooled together on the floor.
"Hmm," Blaise hums against your mouth, a smirk clear in his voice. "You aren't very patient are you?" he asks, palming himself in one hand.
"Please," you whimper, trying desperately to find some sort of friction against your soaking core.
"So wet for me. So needy. All you have to do is tell me what you want. And I'll give it to you," he teases, as his lips ghost over your once more.
"I want—need you to fuck me. Please Blaise."
The mortification of begging would probably hit you later, but right now it was the least of your worries.
Apparently that was all Blaise needed to hear though as he pools your dress up around your waist in one swift movement. He doesn't even bother removing the soaked lace beneath, just moving it to the side as he carefully aligns himself.
"Don't even think about stopping now," you groan as Blaise meets your eyes once more.
You'd never seen them burn with such blazing intensity.
He pushes in with one, swift stroke, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you hold on for dear life. You can feel every ridge, every vein inside you as he stretches your walls to their limit.
"You are so, so perfect," Blaise rasps as he slowly begins to move inside you before capturing your lips in another heated kiss.
Your head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as Blaise hits a particularly deep thrust. His lips press against your jawline, your throat, continuing down until they find a hardened nipple through the thin fabric of your dress. You choke on your gasp as Blaise teases the hardened nub with his tongue, all while maintaining a relentless pace inside you. All you can do is lose yourself to the sensation of Blaise pounding into you.
And it was a mind numbing, rhythmic assault, each thrust sending shocks of pleasure up your spine.
You can feel him watching you too. That ever familiar tingle on the back of your neck that let you know his eyes were locked in on you as your mouth opens to let another blissful moan escape.
His angle shifts ever so slightly, and you don't even recognize the sound that comes out of your mouth, but you can feel Blaise's grin against your skin.
"Right there," he preens, thrusting forward and finding his mark again as waves of pleasure wash through you.
He's determined now, hands finding their way to your knees, spreading your legs further and allowing him to push impossibly deeper. You can barely think straight as he pushes you further and further towards the edge, sending your mind spiraling. It was a truly exhilarating feeling.
"So close, come for me," Blaise grunts into your ear, his deep voice melting your insides further.
It doesn't take much more before the waves of euphoria rush over you, your back arching, and toes curling as you clench down on Blaise's cock. The moan that leaves Blaise's mouth is probably the most erotic sound you've ever heard and this time it's your turn to capture his mouth with yours.
You start to see white behind your eyes as Blaise slowly works you down from the edge, soft praise whispered in your ear as his hand find your thighs once more and he lifts. Your legs tighten around his waist as he moves you over to the bed before pulling out. You let out a whimper at the sudden loss.
Your mourning is short lived though because with one, swift movement, Blaise's shirt is up and over his head and godhe was a sight. Then he's on you once more, deft fingers making quick work of the zipper on your dress—then it joins the rest of the discarded clothes somewhere on the floor and you're left in delicate lace that didn't really cover much of anything.
You watch as Blaise leans down to press a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh and heat rekindles in your core.
"Better than I ever imagined. I fucking knew you were perfect," he murmurs against your skin before taking the lace of your panties in his teeth and dragging them slowly down your legs.
You had no idea why you had ever tried to convince yourself that this would be a mistake.
His fingers between your legs draw yet another inhumane sound from between your lips and you watch as Blaise's eyes bore into yours as he licks his fingers clean.
"Still so, so wet for me."
You want to scream, beg him to fill you back up again as he hovers above you, but you'd done enough begging and you needed to wipe that cocky grin off his face.
Hooking your leg around his, you roll him onto his back, effectively swapping positions as you perch prettily on top of him. He gazes up at you with something like pure, unadulterated reverence as you sink yourself back down onto his cock and you both moan out in unison.
His hands find their way to your breasts, kneading the tender flesh, teasing your nipples as you rock your hips back and forth on his cock.
"Fuck. Feels so good," you gasp, relishing the slow, blissful feeling of his cock disappearing into you.
You see Blaise's jaw tighten, his hands falling to your waist now, fingers digging into your skin so hard you're sure that they're imprinted on you permanently. The pace he sets is brutal, hands guiding you up and down as his hips thrust up to meet your own.
The sounds coming out of your mouth are downright sinful as you hear yourself cry out, caught up in the overwhelming sensation of being filled to the brim.
A hand snakes down between your legs, thumb finding your clit—circling once, twice.
"That's it. You can take it," Blaise grunts, thrusting in at a new angle that has you seeing stars.
You feel like your world has shattered as you fall apart on Blaise's cock once more.
"God, you feel so good. Such a perfect little cunt—" Blaise's words come out raspy and you can barely make them out properly through the post orgasmic haze that was clouding your mind.
He's close. You can feel it in the way each thrust becomes wilder than the last. More desperate.
"Please Blaise, fill me up. Come for me."
Your legs tremble as he continues to slam into you, the room spinning as every sensation feels like its magnified.
The feeling of Blaise finally spilling into you, cock pulsing, is pure ecstasy. You hold yourself there—relishing the moment, burning the image of Blaise's climax into your memory.
When he eventually pulls out, you collapse onto his chest, comforted by his soft, rhythmic heartbeat as you lay there satisfied and exhausted, juices trickling down your thighs.
You don't know how long you lay there for, just the two of you and the sounds of shallow breathing. At some point, you roll off Blaise's chest, but he's quick to pull you close, tucking you tenderly beneath his arm as you rest your head on his chest.
Just before your eyes flutter shut, you feel his lips press a soft kiss to your forehead as another arm wraps tightly around you. Safe. Secure.
The room is exactly as you left it when your eyes blink open again—slowly adjusting to the light. You're still tucked comfortably in Blaise's arms and you can feel his steady breath on your neck.
The music is still going downstairs and you can still hear the party in full swing.
You don't want to leave.
But the longer you lay there awake in the warmth of Blaise's arms, the faster the cold, harsh reality of your situation hits you.
This had just been a hookup. It had been a long time coming, sure. Built up over weeks and weeks of pent up sexual tension. But it had only ever been meant to last for a night.
You try to shift quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping frat boy whose vice-like grip was currently holding you hostage. But the more you try to slip away, the tighter his hold on you becomes.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The low timber of his voice sends shivers down your spine and heat begins to crawl up your neck as you realize you'd been caught.
"Back to my dorm. I still have an essay I need to finish," you reply.
The excuse is laughably weak, but you don't know what else to say.
"The essay can wait. Go back to sleep."
His words are deliciously tempting, but you know that if you stay it will only hurt more when you have to leave in the morning. And you weren't anywhere near ready to analyze that particular feeling.
"Blaise, I need to go."
"You don't."
You can feel your frustration mounting as you try again to untangle yourself from Blaise's arms. Forcefully this time. But his grip remains firm.
He shifts the two of you until your noses are practically touching and he can stare intently into your eyes. You're still caged in his arms, but the seriousness in his demeanor makes your body still.
"You. Are not. Going. Anywhere," he says evenly, dark eyes unwavering as he makes his assertion.
You open your mouth to protest, but the words are lost on your tongue as Blaise presses a soft kiss to your lips.
"I have waited far too long to have you here with me. I picked you out weeks ago because you are smart—" a soft kiss lands on the tip of your nose, "and witty—" another kiss, "competitive and beautiful—" a third kiss dusts your nose. "You don't back down, or shy away from my intensity. You are perfect. You are here because I want you to be here, and I want you to want to be here with me."
The words coming out of his mouth don't seem real, but there's a flash of vulnerability in his eyes that makes your heart do a stutter step in your chest as your breath catches in your throat.
"Is this what you want?"
The question hangs in the air between the two of you, and for a moment you feel paralyzed.
This was not the cocky, arrogant Blaise that you were used to. The one that knew he could have anything he wanted with a snap of his fingers and moved with an air of unbridled confidence. This Blaise had uncommon depth and humility that served to draw you in deeper. You liked every version of the boy before you, but seeing—hearing him like this sparked something deep inside you.
Any sense of doubt you might have had disappears from your mind as your head slowly nods 'yes'.
"I want this. I want you. I'll stay."
You can't help the small smile that spreads across your lips as Blaise lets out a sigh of relief before pulling you close once more.
"Go back to sleep. And in the morning I'll take you out and get you a coffee and show the whole campus what's been mine all along."
everyone say thank you to @nottendo for the beta read💜💜
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fucked…
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.
If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count.
If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either.
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them.
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.
You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”
Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
“You seem awfully confident about that.”
“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”
“Need five minutes,” he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”
“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
“Come open my door.”
“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR would’ve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s wrong with Scott?”
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”
Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”
“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”
“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”
You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”
“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”
You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
“What’s your current issue?” you asked.
“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”
Scott snorted.
“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”
“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”
“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”
“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
“Can we leave now?” you asked.
Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”
Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”
“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”
“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”
“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”
You barked out another incredulous laugh.
“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”
“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”
“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.
Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.
“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.
“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”
“You’re right.”
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.
“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.
“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”
Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”
You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”
“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”
“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.
“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.
It just wasn’t the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.
You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.
You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)
Summary: One moment you’re minding your business browsing the aisles in Honeydukes, the next a round of Wildfire Whiz-bangs is exploding throughout the store. Clearly you missed a chapter because how on Earth did this all get pinned on you and Blaise Zabini?
Smoke, sulfur, and burnt chocolates were definitely not on your top ten list of scents you'd expect to find at Honeydukes. In fact, the popular candy shop was rather infamously known for its sickenly sweet, over the top treats that filled the air with notes of exotic spices, fruits, and sugars that rotted teeth just by inhaling the smell. Though to be fair, you also definitely did not expect to be cowering beneath the service counter of the candy shop as a round of Wildfire Whiz-bangs tore through the store with fiery determination either.
You supposed you should be surprised, but, after years spent at Hogwarts, nothing really shocked you anymore. This really was just another Saturday at Hogsmeade. With a sigh, you resign yourself to simply waiting out the chaos of above, hoping that someone with more than a few brain cells to rub together would eventually realize that vanishing spells were clearly making an already bad situation worse.
That's when another body ducks into your hiding spot, shoving you unceremoniously into the corner.
"Hey! Find your own spot. Move," you hiss, shoving back at the person who was very much invading your personal space.
"Shove off. I don't exactly fancy the idea of being burnt to a crisp," the person snaps back, twisting around to face you, a scowl clear across their face.
It takes a moment to place him, but you recognize the boy. Blaise Zabini. Trouble tended to follow him wherever he went. And by trouble you specifically meant Mattheo Riddle. Again, you probably should have been surprised, but Blaise Zabini being at the scene of the crime was about as expected as the centuries old rivalry between the snakes and the lions. And it was just your luck that he had to bring his problems to you. Admitting defeat (you didn't need his blood on your hands), you scoot over a bit giving him more room to take cover.
"So, I'm assuming you know who started this whole mess," you say dryly, trying, and failing, to ignore the way Blaise's leg was pressing up against you.
"No," he replies curtly, face remaining unchanged as he pointedly avoids making eye contact with you.
You raise a disbelieving eyebrow and Blaise must be able to sense your skepticism because there's a short pause before he lets out a low grunt, begrudgingly looking over at you.
"I don't know what happened. I ditched Mattheo and the rest of them when we got to Hogsmeade. Didn't feel like serving another detention for something I didn't do," he says.
You don't know if it's the sheer exhaustion laced in his voice, or the unanticipated sincerity in his eyes, but you believe him.
"Well. At least you acknowledge that Mattheo is a problem," you say with a sigh, trying awkwardly to lighten the mood as the sound of rogue explosives continues from above.
Blaise snorts and you swear you even catch a glimpse of a smile. You might have imagined it though.
"I live with them. I am no stranger to the fact that Mattheo has a nasty habit of making his problems, everyone else's problems." He pauses. "It's really Theo you have to watch out for though. He'll scheme right alongside Matt, but he's never the one that gets caught."
His words hang in the air. You couldn't remember there ever being a time where you'd heard Blaise string that many words together. You'd kind of always thought he was a quiet one. Always watching, analyzing, staying three steps ahead of everyone else. It had never occurred to you that maybe he was the one really worth talking to. The fireworks last for several more long minutes which you and Blaise spend in silence—aside from the occasional intake of breath when a loud crack sounds just a little too close.
When all the noise finally subsides, Blaise is the one to peek his head up above the counter first before extending a hand, wordlessly helping you to your feet. The shop is a complete and utter disaster. Rows and rows of shelves have been blasted over, boxes of product are scattered across the floor—burnt, torn, completely spoiled. Even the lights overhead were flickering, the occasional spark threatening to start a whole new problem.
"Bloody fucking hell." The words escape your mouth without a second thought as you stare at the carnage in shock.
You figured the damage would be bad. But this was brutal.
"There! It must have been them!" The voice you vaguely recognize as belonging to the shopkeeper rings out across the store.
Your head swivels as you look around, trying to spot the alleged troublemakers when you realize that the store is completely empty except for—oh. Oh no. The pieces seem to click for Blaise too, as he begins shaking his head.
"It wasn't us. We went for cover under the counter as soon as the fireworks started going off," he states as Minerva McGonagall appears next to the shopkeeper with her arms crossed and a glare already burning a hole through the two of you.
"Really?" The shop keeper scoffs. "Then how did you two know to hide straight away, hmm? And if you were hiding, how did you know it was fireworks being set off?"
"Well, the hiding part was mostly a result of our above average self-preservation skills, and the knowledge of fireworks bit probably came from the fact that we have functioning ears," you reply dryly, agitated by the fact you were being accused of something you clearly didn't do.
Beside you, you hear Blaise try to suppress a snort and can't help but feel pleased that you were able to amuse the boy once again, but that was far from your greatest concern at the moment. The shopkeeper doesn't look convinced. She turns to McGonagall, fists clenched and her mouth in a thin line.
"These two were here before all the explosions started, and they're still here now. I just know it was them and I demand something be done. They cannot be allowed to get away with something like this, my shop is in ruins!"
You have to feel a bit bad for the old woman, her shop had definitely seen better days. And really you couldn't blame her for being so upset. But it just wasn't fair that you were being blamed when you had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. You stand there just stewing in frustration as McGonagall apologizes profusely for the wreckage, promising that everyone involved would be held accountable.
"What do you expect us to do? Pay for all the damages?" you ask, crossing your arms in defiance.
Looking around, your family definitely could not afford to essentially rebuild the entire store from ground up. And quite frankly they shouldn't have to. Because none of this was your fault. Blaise perks up a bit at the suggestion however.
"Yes! My mother would be happy to pay. We can cover all the costs, no need to even involve y/n," he says, a charming smile gracing his face even though the rest of him remains tense.
But McGonagall shakes her head.
"No, no, no, Mr. Zabini. I will not have you believe that you can just throw your family's money at problems to make them disappear. Absolutely not. You and y/n will complete volunteer hours. Here. Starting this week," McGonagall says sternly.
"But Professor, it really wasn't us," you try to protest.
"Well, unless you have the names of the students who did this, the evidence against you is strong enough—"
"What, her just saying she saw us so she knows we did it is enough? That's bull—"
"That is enough. Unless you would like to serve a detention as well, I highly recommend you stop while you are above water," McGonagall says coldly.
You want to argue more, but Blaise's hand on your wrist stops you in your tracks.
"It's not worth it," he mutters under his breath, giving your wrist a light squeeze.
You bite your tongue, but not before shooting a nasty glare the shopkeeper's way. Apparently finished with the two of you, McGonagall turns to working out logistics with the old witch, leaving you and Blaise to scurry off to await your fates.
Your first afternoon spent at Honeydukes was awful. You didn't want to be there. Blaise didn't want to be there. And the shopkeeper? You had words to describe her that would probably get your sentence increased by at least a few months. You had thought she was a sweet, little old lady before, but now she was just miserable to be around—constantly snapping at you and Blaise and ordering the two of you around, then getting upset when you did exactly what she asked. It was infuriating, and you could tell that Blaise was at his wits’ end too by the end of the day.
When you finally returned to the castle that night, you were exhausted. All you wanted to do was fall face first, down onto your bed and promptly pass out. But you had more work to do. A charms assignment, a full translation for ancient runes, 12 inches due for potions, you were going to be up all night. You knew Blaise would be up too. He pretty much had the same class schedule you did. These hours at Honeydukes would probably wear down on him too. Or maybe not. He'd always seemed a bit super human to you. Always above everything.
You force the mental image of Blaise out of your head, willing yourself to focus on the work in front of you. Worrying about him wasn't going to do anything to help you. In fact, it was kind of what got you into this whole mess in the first place. You shake your head to clear it. Focus. Charms. Right. Your quill is just about to reach your parchment when a sharp knock jolts you forward, splashing ink across the blank page. Damnit.
With a huff, you drag yourself across the dorm room, swinging your door open, ready to tear into whatever poor soul is waiting on the other side. Except—you blink. Blaise Zabini is standing there looking rather disheveled. A far cry from his usual clean-cut, pristine presentation, you almost don't recognize him. Gone is his usual perfectly crisp, white button down and tie, and in its place is a worn down jumper that had definitely seen better days. His trousers are loose and wrinkly and it appeared as though he hadn't even bothered to tie one of his shoes. In short, it looked like he'd been run over by a hoard of wild hippogriffs.
"Are you— are you alright?" you ask, unable to keep your shock from seeping into your voice.
"I'm fine," Blaise replies, deadpan.
You give the boy another once over.
"Are you sure? You look awful."
"Tactful as always," Blaise says dryly, ignoring the barb and pushing his way into your dorm without so much as an invitation.
You want to protest, but honestly you're too tired so instead, you close the door and turn to find Blaise seated on the very chair you had occupied just a mere minute ago. You still don't have the energy to fight it though.
"What do you want Blaise, I have so much to do," you find yourself sighing as you lean back against your door.
Blaise mirrors your movement, leaning back in the chair and raising an eyebrow as if to challenge you.
"If you're just going to sit there, I'm not doing this. Please don't waste my time," you huff, feeling yourself growing more and more agitated.
"I'm never a waste of time," Blaise replies plainly, still refusing to elaborate on why he had shown up at your door so late at night.
"Yes, yes. I know. You're god's gift to the world and you're better than everyone else. I should be groveling in your presence. Can you please tell me why you're here, or leave me to work in peace."
You can't quite read the look that flashes across Blaise's face at your words, maybe hurt? Begrudging respect? You can't tell, but Blaise opens his bag that you hadn't really noticed before and pulls out his own stack of parchment.
"We're going to work together," he says as if the decision had already been made unilaterally.
"Are we?" you ask, arms crossed as you tilt your head at the boy.
You weren't exactly opposed to the idea. Blaise was wicked smart, you knew he was right up there competing for top marks in most subjects. But he was also Blaise Zabini, and while he might be nice to look at, his reputation certainly preceded him. Though he had surprised you a fair bit in the few interactions you'd had with him so far.
"We are. Look, we both have a heavy course load this term and with all the extra hours we'll have to spend outside of Hogwarts, I've done the math and there's just no way we'll be able to get all of our course work done without working together," Blaise says bluntly.
As much as you hate to admit it, you know he's right. Just thinking about all the work you had to do before Blaise had knocked on your door filled you with dread. Looking at Blaise, you can tell he already knows he has you so you let out another sigh, throwing your hands up in defeat.
"Fine. But you're taking the lead on ancient runes. I'm horrible at it."
Blaise was exceptionally difficult to get a read on, you were coming to understand as you spent more and more time with the boy. For the first few weeks of your mandatory community service at Honeydukes, you had been particularly bitter and it seemed like Blaise was on the same page. It simply wasn't fair that you and Blaise were taking the hit for something neither of you had done, and you made sure to make that point perfectly clear. But for Blaise, nothing seemed to affect him. It was like he didn't even care.
As the weeks went on though, you came to find that you didn't really mind the work you were doing—it was actually a bit therapeutic. The reason you were there aside, it wasn't actually so bad and getting out of Hogwarts was a nice perk. And Blaise, well, you were making progress with him you supposed. He wasn't nearly as snarky with you as you'd seen him be with others and you could swear you'd caught him staring before. But he was still…aloof. Hovering, as if he could never quite find the right words.
When the two of you did speak, words between you and Blaise were exclusively related to work: what aisle was stocked with exploding bon bons, which price tags went with the fudge flies, who was going to take the arithmancy notes, and who was going to write up the summary on the 6th—or was it the 7th—Goblin War. So it was a surprise to you when Blaise was the one to bring up a topic outside of your usual subject matter. Of course it was quidditch.
It was something about Malfoy being his usual primadonna self on the pitch and Riddle and Goyle, the team's beaters, making a pact to use him as their moving target for the day. Apparently they bludgered too close to the sun and Malfoy went down. Dramatically. In your personal opinion, the boy probably had it coming, but you didn't voice that particular opinion. Blaise had just been venting and honestly, you were happy to let him do so. It made him so much more…human.
Of course you had to pick his brain for all the details, because please, it was hilarious, but Blaise insisted that he didn't know what Malfoy had said in the locker rooms that day to get Riddle so pissed off, or how Riddle had then successfully roped Goyle into the whole mess.
"Blaise, how could you not think to ask what got the whole thing started? Mattheo got Gregory to turn on Draco, I need to know everything that happened. This is historic," you'd insisted between giggles.
Something about the whole thing must have been infectious, because Blaise was smiling too now, and you'd decided then and there that you liked it very much when Blaise smiled. His whole demeanor softened, seeming to draw you in.
Of course the lousy shop keeper had had to go and ruin it all, snapping at the two of you to work more and chat less.
"Rest be assured, we will be circling back to this," you'd told Blaise before turning on your heel to continue stocking shelves.
And then Blaise actually did. Later that night when Blaise was once again at home in your dorm room, he'd turned to you, quill hovering above parchment, eyes lighting up as if he'd just remembered the most important thing in the world.
"I found out what happened between Malfoy and Goyle," he'd announced proudly, eyes gleaming as your face lit up.
"Tell me everything."
"Apparently Malfoy took the whole 'Goyle can't read' bit a little too far."
"You're joking."
You don't really remember a lot of that night because you and Blaise stayed up so late that you didn't realize that you hadn't gotten any work done until the sky started to turn light again. It was worth it though, because by the time the two of you were ready to head down to the Great Hall that morning, it felt like you'd known Blaise your entire life. It was strange to think that just a few weeks ago you'd known so little about him.
As the weeks stretch on, you develop a bit of a routine. Go to class, stop in the library, report to the Headmaster's office to floo to Honeydukes, grab a late dinner, wait for Blaise's knock on your door. It was nice. And your relationship, if you could even call it that, with Blaise was nice too. He wasn't always as snobbish as people made him out to be and really, his haughty attitude could be rather comedic at times. Not that you'd ever let him know that, his ego was already big enough for the both of you combined.
You feel a soft jab at your arm.
"Are you going to do your side, or are you going to make me do it since I'm clearly the more talented wizard," Blaise quips, a taunting grin on his lips as he glances down at you.
"Oh shove off, would you."
With a roll of your eyes, you quickly cast a levitating charm and watch as the last of the glittery, pink banners that normally decorated the shop floats up to its familiar position on the ceiling.
"I'd say we did rather good," you decide, standing back to admire your work.
You'd spent much of the day redecorating the shop and it was almost looking back to normal if you did say so yourself. And you did.
"Of course it looks good, I did most of it," Blaise teases, his smile only growing.
If you were delusional, you'd think the boy was flirting with you. In his own twisted way. So you roll your eyes again, and shake your head disapprovingly.
"What do you even do when you're not being an absolute headache," you sigh dramatically.
"Look pretty." Blaise's shit-eating grin is unmistakable now.
"Ugh. You deserve this place. We could put you on the shelf, call you eye candy," you scoff before fully thinking through your words.
"So you agree, I'm pretty?" Blaise preens, looking all too smug.
You needed to get this back under control.
"If I actually thought that, I wouldn't let you know. Your head is already too big as is."
With that, you quickly turn your back to the boy, hoping he'd missed the heat that was now creeping up to your cheeks. You really needed to get your head on straight. But it was hard. Now that you were actually thinking about it and watching as Blaise's lean, quidditch muscles flexed as he moved boxes around the shop—he really was the definition of a pretty boy. It was almost mesmerizing watching him.
Seeing Blaise sprawled across your bed had to be some kind of sick joke. It had been meant as just a lighthearted, harmless quip, but since that afternoon at Honeydukes, all you could think about was how freaking attractive the boy that you'd been spending all of your time with for the last several weeks was. Of course you'd always seen it, but now you just couldn't get it out of your damn head. You wanted to bang your head on the wall. Or climb him like a tree. You weren't sure which. But there he was, none the wiser, lounging on your bed like some kind of godly entity. Sick.
You really needed to clear your mind. Slumping back in your chair and silently chastising yourself for being so distracted, you crack open your potions textbook. Surely a deep dive into bezoars would take your mind off things, or at least be so dull you'll have no choice but to focus on not falling asleep.
Laying across your bed, scribbling away at a translation for ancient runes, Blaise was riding high. Your words "eye candy" echo in his mind as he writes. You thought he was attractive. His chest tightens at the thought. See, Blaise was many things. Observant and decisive were two of those things. And what he had observed for the past year was someone who was cheeky and intelligent and fit, and what he decided was that they would be his. You would be his.
Of course in order to make that happen, Blaise would have had to actually do something about it. And he always told himself he would, he just…never did. And his pride wouldn't even allow him to consider why that might be, but now he had a chance. You thought he was attractive. You might even like him. He would take it. For now.
Glancing up, Blaise had to stifle his in take of breath. You really were perfect in his opinion. And he had high standards. But looking at you now, the way your eyes slowly scanned the pages of your book, the soft curve of your lip as your tongue flicked out to wet your fingers as you turned the page, it was almost enough to make Blaise want to combust right then and there.
Instead he clears his throat, pulling your eyes away from your book and towards him, exactly where he preferred them.
"There's a quidditch game tomorrow," he mentions casually in that cold, steady tone that was so practiced it was basically second nature to him.
"Oh, exciting. Who's playing?" you ask, head tilting in a way that told Blaise he had your full, undivided attention. And he reveled in it.
"Slytherin and Hufflepuff."
"Right, well, good luck in case I don't see you in the morning."
There's a moment of pause.
"I thought you might like to come watch," Blaise finally spits out, desperate to hold your attention for even a few moments longer.
"Why, because you're playing?" you ask, a small smile playing on your lips.
"Especially because I'm playing," he responds with a cocky grin.
"I suppose I'll be there then."
Your eyes lock back in on your book and for once, Blaise thinks it might be for the best because his grin is now threatening to take over his entire face.
Blaise was thoroughly convinced that the world was on his side. It was a perfect day for quidditch—warm but cloudy enough that there was no sun beating down, barely a breeze, and stands packed with spectators. And of course there was you, right there in front surrounded by Pansy Parkinson and Lorenzo Berkshire. Oh. That might actually be a problem, but he would have to mitigate that particular issue later.
"Blaisey!"
Blaise is greeted by Mattheo with a thump on the back.
"Don't call me that," he monotones, his familiar scowl finding its way to his mouth.
"Oh don't be like that, I heard you finally got that special someone in the stands. Eh? Exciting day," Mattheo sings, voice intentionally loud enough to draw the attention of the rest of the team.
Blaise was going to murder him later. Painfully.
"Oi, Riddle. Shut your trap and stop trying to sabotage your own team, yeah?" Flint shouts.
He was still pissed about Malfoy getting mauled, but at least ferret boy had been cleared to play today.
"Sorry, sorry," Mattheo relents, holding his hands up in surrender, but that troublemaker grin doesn't fade from his face. "I'll be expecting a thank you at the wedding though," he taunts quietly as he passes by.
The quidditch stands are crowded and you aren't exactly sure where you're meant to be as you're funneled forward through the wooden rows. Somehow you manage to end up right in the front, standing next to a girl with short, sleek hair and a brunette boy that looked like he could be on the cover of a magazine. Pansy Parkinson and Lorenzo Berkshire. You knew the two of them ran in the same circle as Blaise, but you weren't exactly sure how friendly they all were. It seemed you were about to find out though as Lorenzo leans forward on the rail to get a good look at you.
"You here for Zabini?" he asks. "Took him long enough, been wondering how long it would be before you started coming around."
You blink. You'd never talked to Lorenzo Berkshire before in your life and you had no idea what he was on about. Thankfully, Pansy comes to your rescue.
"Ignore him. Bloody idiot, that one," she sighs as if it were a common disclosure she gave out often.
Lorenzo seems completely unfazed by the comment, so maybe it was.
"You know the rest of the team?" Pansy asks, making easy conversation.
You didn't want to seem ungrateful, but you were surprised by how willing these two were to ease you into their little group.
"I know a few of them. A bit hard to tell though from this distance," you reply timidly.
"That's fine. Only thing you really need to know is which one Zabini is anyway. But look down there," Pansy points to the group of boys in emerald green down on the field. "Obviously that one is Blaise, I'm sure you're familiar," she says with a smirk, "The two he's standing with are the other chasers Nott and Pucey. Then the blonde who's not paying attention? That's Malfoy. The two next to him are the beaters, Riddle and Goyle. And that last one who's been monologuing this whole time is the team captain Flint. He's the keeper."
Your eyes follow Pansy's movements as she lists off each of the players, doing your best to soak in the information. Seemed easy enough, especially once Pansy put a name to the faces you hadn't quite recognized. Pansy and Lorenzo bicker back and forth some more as you watch the players on the field get ready to begin. It had been a long time since you'd come down to watch a quidditch game.
Once the game starts though, you realize that there was one thing you hadn't taken into account when accepting Blaise's invitation to the match. And that was his quidditch uniform. Sweet Salazar, you hoped no one noticed you salivating over the way his robes clung to him as he soared through the sky. And every time he flew past you caught a glimpse of that cocky smile of his that was growing to be all too familiar. It was definitely worth coming out.
The match is a quick one, and according to Lorenzo, the matches against Hufflepuff usually are. By the time Malfoy finally catches the snitch, Slytherin had already scored enough points that it wouldn't have even mattered if Diggory had been the one to catch the snitch first. You can't quite bring yourself to hoot and holler like Enzo when the match finally comes to an end, but the way Blaise's eyes find you as soon as the whistle blows tells you that you didn't have to. He knows you were there and he's the only one that matters.
After, you stand with Pansy and Lorenzo and wait for the team to trickle out of the locker room. Draco is one of the first ones out and when he spots Pansy, is quick to scoop her up into a hug. Mattheo and Greg are next, quickly joining Lorenzo off to the side where he's busy chatting up some of the Hufflepuffs. Then, finally you see him—hair still damp, either from sweat or a shower, but practically glowing as he spots you waiting there for him.
There's nothing grand or romantic about the way he saunters up to you, and there's no sweeping hug like when Draco greeted Pansy, but you can't help but feel your heart flutter as Blaise appears before you, perfect as always.
"Did you enjoy the game?" is the first thing Blaise asks, his hand brushing the back of yours as he stands in front of you.
You feel yourself short circuit for a split second at the contact before quickly recovering.
"Yeah. It was fun. You looked good out there," you hear yourself mumble as you try desperately to cling to the feeling of Blaise's skin against yours.
"Did I?" Blaise preens, that shit eating grin appearing once more.
He'd been doing that a lot recently. Smiling. Or at least a lot more than you'd ever seen. Not that you had really noticed before of course.
You reach out and give the boy a light shove on the shoulder.
"That's not what I meant," you reply as heat rises to your face, but even you can tell there's no sincerity behind your words.
"It's alright if it was." Blaise's voice is lower now. Hungry almost as he takes a step closer.
You feel your heart stop while your mind races at a mile a minute, repeating Blaise's words in your mind over and over making sure you heard right. That you weren't imagining it. But before you can respond properly, a voice calls out, pulling Blaise away while words sit at the tip of your tongue. All you can do is watch as Blaise turns away to rejoin the rest of the team, throwing one more parting glance your way before his face returns to its typical stoney expression.
You would think that, with its magical organization system, the Hogwarts library would be much easier to sort through. Yet here you were on what seemed like a wild goose chase, trying to track down the one book that would help you to complete your transfiguration essay. You'd been searching for nearly forty minutes now and it really was frustrating because the more time it took for you to find the blasted book, the more time your brain had to microanalyze every interaction you'd ever had with Blaise Zabini. You were driving yourself mad.
"What do you think the chances are that Zabini completely fumbles, despite everything we've done?"
Wonderful. And now your delusions were causing you to hear voices talking about Blaise out loud. Would you ever escape—wait. You take a step closer to the shelf, holding your breath as you try to hear through the rows of books.
"He better not. You know how hard it was to sneak those fireworks into the school? Told him today that I expected a thank you at their wedding. Course he doesn't know that we're the masterminds behind it all yet. Expect he'd be a little more grateful if he did, yeah?"
That voice you distinctly recognize as belonging to Mattheo Riddle, and, peering through the gaps in the shelves, there he was sat directly across from none other than Lorenzo Berkshire. But fireworks? Whose wedding? What did Blaise have to fumble? Your brain goes into over drive, straining to put the pieces together, and when it all starts to click you let out a breath you didn't realize you had been holding. Huh. You could confront the two right then and there, but instead you decide to take your new found discovery and file it away for later.
As it turns out, 'later' would actually be later that night. It's dark out when Blaise finally knocks on your door. You were expecting it of course, but this time he marches in with his usual confident swagger before you even have the chance to roll off your bed.
"Hey," is all he says as he drops his book bag on the ground before taking a seat next to you on the bed.
The mattress dips beneath him causing you to slide towards him until your legs are pressed against each other. You're not sure if you should curse gravity, or thank it.
"Hi," you squeak out, acutely aware of how close the two of you are sitting.
"Did you ever finish that transfiguration essay? I thought we could swap ideas," Blaise says, bending down to pull out parchment and a quill.
Your mind stutters at how inhumanly calm Blaise is while sitting so close that you could smell every individual note in his expensive cologne.
"Yeah, but, I don't think I want this to end. Once we've stopped going to Honeydukes and have more free time again," you blurt out. No plan, just words cascading out of your mouth.
Blaise doesn't even look up, just continues scribbling his name onto his parchment.
"That's fine. This arrangement has been working well."
You shouldn't feel surprised at this point, but you were always a little bit stunned by how nonchalant Blaise could be at times.
"No. I'm saying I think I like you," you try again, hoping to get your point across.
"Obviously. What's not to like?"
If it weren't for that obnoxious smile that had grown on you so much over the past weeks you'd have thought he was being an arrogant prick.
"You're an absolute headache. You know that?" you pout, giving the boy a smack and jolting his quill sharply across the page.
With a wave of his hand, the parchment and quill are magicked back into his bag as Blaise turns to face you know, eyes burning.
"A good looking one though, hm? That's what you were going to say this morning no?" he asks, as he slowly moves closer.
You shake your head no, but you both know that it's a lie.
"I decided that you would be mine a long time ago. It was just a matter of getting you on the same page, so of course you like me, you've always been mine."
You simply don't have the words to respond. All you can do is remember how to breathe as your eyes fully train in on the way Blaise's mouth moves as he tells you exactly who you belong to. And then that mouth is on yours and you forget how to function all together.
It's soft and sweet, and much more gentle than you ever imagined Blaise capable of being. As the kiss deepens, you feel Blaise pull you closer, hand sweeping against your thigh, guiding it until you're seated on his lap. His lips trail down your jaw, your throat, fingers pulling at the neck of your jumper as he nips at your collar bone.
"Blaise."
His name slips out from between your lips—breathy, airy and Blaise growls. His touch feels like it's burning away at your skin yet you still press yourself against him, desperate for the feeling. His mouth finds yours once more, kissing you until your lips are swollen and you're left gasping for air. When you finally pull apart, Blaise is looking up at you with something that can only be described as pure, unadulterated admiration.
In that moment you wonder how long Blaise had had his eye on you. How long you'd unknowingly pulled his attention. How long you'd occupied his thoughts, driving him mad just as he had been to you these last few weeks. You'd have to find out another time.
You shift your weight in Blaise's lap until you're at eye level, a teasing grin pulling at your lips. One that clearly said 'I know something you don't'.
"Blaise?" you ask, voice sing-song as you look at the boy with wide, innocent eyes.
"Yes, angel face?"
You feel your nose scrunch up.
"Is that a no?" Blaise chuckles, breath warm against your cheek.
"We'll circle back. But I heard the most interesting thing this afternoon in the library. Do you know what it was?"
Blaise shakes his head.
"I'm sure there are lots of interesting tidbits to pick up in the library, sweet cheeks."
You give him an unamused look.
"That's just bad and you know it," you huff, giving the boy a quick peck on the lips. "Now hush, I know who set off those damn fireworks at Honey Dukes."
Blaise raises an eyebrow and you can tell you have his interest piqued.
"It was your beloved teammates. Riddle and Berkshire. They outright admitted to it in the library earlier. Were worried you would fumble after 'all the hard work they did' to get you some alone time with me," you chirp, giving Blaise a playful poke on the shoulder. "Said you should be thanking them."
"Is that right?" Blaise asks, eyes suddenly dark as his expression becomes unreadable.
You feel yourself hesitate at the change in Blaise's demeanor and it seems like Blaise picks up on the shift because his face immediately softens again.
"I'll have to handle those two myself," he mutters. "But first—"
His hands make a trail down from your waist, dragging tantalizingly against your thighs, and hooking behind your knee caps before he yanks you close once more. Your arms wrap around his neck as a laugh escapes you. It's quickly smothered though as lips collide and you find yourself lost in a hazy bliss once more. You decide in that moment that if Blaise isn't going to thank his friends for framing the two of you, then you just might.
…But probably not.
big, big thank you to @puddlesoffrogs and @i-await for the beta reads🫶🏽
Content warning: mdni!, suggestive themes, full term pregnancy, back labor, amniotic fluid, contractions, childbirth (explicitly described-waterbirth), precipitous birth, zuko catches the baby
a.n: A Mother’s Day special. Hi guys Atla has temporarily revived me, how have you guys been? Lol, I’ve been working on this for a while and I was nervous to post it honestly. The ending is a tad rushed I was legit fatigued at that point. Anywho…
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there 💖
w.c: 5k
— —
He’s been more clingy now that you could have the baby any day now. He doesn’t want to leave your side, and that means if he has to go somewhere, you have to go too.
You stir in your seat for the fourth time, trying to get into a more comfortable position. Your belly is heavy and low since the baby dropped. So now your positions are limited—it’s either the left side, or the right side.
Zuko glances over his shoulder at you, for the tenth time, physically bothered and uptight by the fact that you’re not comfortable. He wants nothing to do with the throne he currently sits on. You give him a tired, reassuring smile and shift your hips a little. Zuko sighs quietly, nostrils flaring as he looks directly into the Chamberlain's eyes.
“Chamberlain.” Zuko interrupts the older man, a displeased look on his face. “Do you have anything urgent to address?”
“Oh—well, no, Fire Lord Zuko.” He bows quickly.
“Dismissed.” Zuko affirms, being the first to stand and leave.
He comes straight to you, helping you up out of your own overly padded ‘throne’, one hand under your elbow and the other on your hip.
“Up we go.” Zuko waits for you to find your balance, supporting you, his hand shifting from your hip to your belly. “He’s low.”
“How do you know he’s low? What if she’s low?” You reply, out of breath, feeling the pressure bud between your legs the longer you stand. You were hoping you wouldn’t have to waddle out of here in front of so many people. Zuko smiles, but it fades when he sees your face sour with discomfort.
“Where does it hurt?” He asks, guiding you out of the throne room. “Take your time.”
“My back.” You wince. Actually, your entire body aches. But you do your best not to show it.
“A warm bath, shall we?” Zuko suggests and you nod.
He mutters something like, ‘careful’, as he shifts and supports you down the stairs and into your living quarters.
“The avatar arrives in less than an hour.” Zuko regretfully informs you as he draws you a full bath. “We have a meeting.”
“Zuko…” You moan and lower yourself at a painfully slow rate onto the wooden chair in the bath room. You exhale slowly through pursed lips, a hand cradling underneath your bump. “I…I don’t think—I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Zuko abandons the filling tub and comes over to help slip your robe off you, a remorseful expression tightening his face. The moment your belly is exposed, his hands find it, caressing and feeling, his lips pressing into the crown of your head. He pulls back and lowers himself level to you, gently hooking his arms under yours.
“I know.” He mutters in a defeated way. He’s painfully aware that it’s unreasonable to expect you to accompany him everywhere he goes. Not when you’re so close to having the baby. “Come. It’s ready, darling.”
Zuko carefully tugs you up and you allow his strength to do all the work. You follow his movement, throwing your leg over the tub to get inside. He quickly turns off the pipe. The water is so warm and you can’t help the noise that bubbles up your throat when he lowers the rest of your body in. Immediately all that weight, the pressure, the aches, they’re all relieved from the water.
“Yeah? It’s that good?” Zuko chuckles softly, his eyes flicking down to your swollen breasts floating at the water's surface.
His jaw clenches and his eyes trail further down. Just underneath them lays your belly, as big and as round as ever. He's done this to you. Zuko feels pride bloom in his chest. If you’d allow it, he’d keep you pregnant and full with his heir each year that passes.
Perhaps he will.
“A little hotter, please.” You growl the last word, spreading your legs wide enough for the pressure to release from your pelvis. Oh, that position does something to Zuko. His cheeks tinge pink and he has a hard time looking away as you spread.
“Mhh—” He clears his throat and sits up straight, tugging his sleeves up his forearms. His hands dip into the bath, swirling in circular motions as the water heats up around you. You moan a sigh of relief. “It’s not good for you to have it any hotter than this, love.”
“It’s good. This is good.” You whisper as you lean back, resting your head against the pillow on the side of the basin. Your protruding belly button breaks the water's surface, along with your dark, puckered nipples.
Baths are becoming more frequent. They’re the only thing, aside from Zuko’s hands themselves, that are able to relieve some of these aches and pains.
Zuko reaches for the cloth and begins at your shoulders, wiping you down with the warm water. He wipes the back of your neck, dipping the cloth back into the water when it’s gotten too cold.
“Think he’s coming soon, Zuko.” You mumble mindlessly, focus on that little bit of pressure that never fades. The kind that makes you want to settle into a squat and stay there.
“Yeah? He is?” Zuko responds with a similar tone, but then his expression shifts to something less calm. His eyes check you over, narrowing as they graze over your belly that hangs heavily between your legs. “Darling,” His tone hardens, “…how soon?”
“Don’t know.” You mutter, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of him dragging the cloth across your chest. “Feels like—her—head is right there.”
Zuko’s jaw tightens. How can he leave you now that you’ve said that?
“I’ll reschedule the meeting.”
“No, no.” It takes too much energy to say that, but you think he’s just being silly at this point. “It’s the avatar, Zuko.”
Zuko only laughs. The times that Aang has requested his presence or ‘help’ just for it to be a side quest or some air temple adventure—this is likely no different.
“He’ll survive without me.” Zuko says, shifting behind you now, dragging the cloth down your arms. He feels the water, and reheats it slightly, keeping it at the temperature you like best.
“Go, Zu. I’m going to be fine. I’ll probably be back in here when you’re finished.”
“And who will help you with that?” Zuko asks in all seriousness, as if attendees didn’t garnish this palace like jewels on a crown.
“Anyone.” You mumble, getting comfortable enough to doze off now.
“I don’t want just ‘anyone’ to undress you and put you in this bath, darling.” Zuko speaks under his breath, his tone sharp and controlled. His voice lowers to a hushed whisper, and his soft lips press into the shell of your ear. “That sight…is only for me to see.”
Your body breaks out into a shiver. You didn’t consider it like that.
“Yes, Fire Lord Zuko.” You smile dopily, letting your eyes close all the way. “I expect you will be delivering the baby then.”
There’s a pause, and silence. Zuko tenses behind you, the cloth stopping just on the back of your elbow. Then he answers sternly. “If I must, yes.”
You keep your eyes closed, but give him a smile anyways. “Understood, Fire Lord.”
“You make it sound like a joke.” He exhales harshly, dipping the cloth underwater now, wiping it gently between your breasts. “It isn’t.”
“Mm—I know, but you act as if I’ll vanish if you leave me for an hour.” You say with as little effort you can, you’re tired.
You feel his warm hands make their way over your tight nipples, and you moan softly.
“And if you do?” Zuko asks through a clenched jaw.
“You won’t lose me in an hour, Zuko.” You try to force as much finality into your voice, but your exhaustion settles deep in your bones. If you have to come out of this bath now, you’ll surely burst into tears.
“Logically…but—” Zuko doesn’t finish his sentence. His hand drags further down, and your belly hardens against the cloth. He looks up at you expectantly, just to witness your face tighten with discomfort. “You’re in pain all the time now.”
“It comes,” Your voice strains, and you breathe slowly through your mouth, feeling your body finally relax. “And goes.”
“That doesn’t make me any less…any less—”
“Any less, what?” You peek at him, and see his expression bounce between restraint and panic.
“Any less worried.” Zuko says, irritated with his own inability to find the words to explain his feelings. “It kills me…that I cannot make this better.”
“My Zuko…” You begin, turning your head to look at him properly. He looks tense. Like he has the world and more resting on top of him. “I don’t need you to make it better, I just need you here.”
“I am here.” He says. But being here didn’t feel like enough.
“Exactly.” You let your eyes slip shut, and as the word hangs in the air, he moves down to your thighs with the cloth. “Go meet with the avatar, Zuko.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“And I don’t want to leave this bath.”
Zuko almost chuckles, though it sounds more like a scoff. He wrings out the cloth and hangs it on the edge of the basin. “I will go to the meeting.”
“Mm.” You hum lightly, already half drifting off somewhere else.
“But I’ll be back immediately after.” He states earnestly, his mouth partially open like he’s not quite finished talking. “And if anything changes…anything, y/n. Send for me.”
“I’m in a bath, Zuko.” Your lips curl in your last attempt to reassure him.
“I don’t care.” He insists, showing you exactly how serious he is.
“Right. I will summon the Fire Lord from his meeting with the Avatar if my water gets too cold.” Now your smile is beaming, and you peek up at him again.
He is, too, smiling softly, that sweet smile. “Good. And don’t stay here too long. Actually, it’s better if I stay until you're ready—”
“No, go. I can get out of the bath on my own, Zu. Okay?”
Zuko leans in and presses his forehead against your temple. After a few long moments, he reluctantly pulls away. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Eventually, Zuko leaves after returning many times. Each time he’d get a little farther, he’d turn back. Say his goodbyes again, give you another kiss on the head. Rub your belly and tell his unborn wa that he’ll be back soon.
By the time he walked through the doors of the throne room, Aang and Katara were already seated and waiting for his arrival. As Zuko walks in, all of the attendees and servants stand and bow. He walks past them, shoulders square and head straight, ready to end the meeting before it even starts. As Zuko approaches the long, narrow table, Aang rises to his feet and turns to Katara. Zuko immediately recognizes the movement, the way he hunches forward to provide his body as leverage, the positioning of his arms—the patience.
So when he sees Katara clutching onto Aang for support with one hand, and the other under the swell of her stomach, Zuko intervenes.
“Avatar Aang.” Zuko greets his long-time friend with a firm squeeze of his shoulder.
“Fire Lord Zuko.” Aang addresses him properly as he helps Katara out of her seat. “Please, sit.” Zuko insists, resting his hand on Aang’s wrist to stop him. Katara sits back down with a warm smile, her small bump nestled high under her ribcage. Zuko notes that she doesn’t seem any further than six months.
“Katara. You look well.” Zuko says respectfully. Has that much time really passed since he last saw them?
Katara smiles, but the exhaustion is evident in the slight discoloration under her eyes. “Thank you, Zuko.”
“Zuko.” Aang’s tone turns grave, and Zuko picks up on it right away. This isn’t going to be one of his fun adventures or side quests, he can sense that much in the pit of his already uneasy stomach.
Zuko finally takes his seat, his eyes glancing over Katara’s bump, and then to the doors before landing back on Aang. He’s distracted. And it’s clear as day.
“This must be very important for the both of you to make the journey here. Please, let’s begin.”
But before the first document is presented, Zuko is already elsewhere mentally. His mind runs on you, how you’re probably—finally—struggling to step out of that bath on your own.
What if you slip?
Or how you’re probably clutching your back as you shuffle into bed with your hair wet.
What if you get sick?
All of his intrusive thoughts drive him further away from where he is. It’s Aang’s voice, which seems to fade in and out as he outlines each concern, that forces Zuko out of his thoughts.
Hours pass like days, and Zuko is more tormented than ever. Every point piles on top of him, like one boulder after the next—the weight of the world weighing heavier on his shoulders.
And the cherry on top is you.
—
You’re still in the bath, but the water's gone cold. And despite your promise, you refuse to call the Fire Lord to come reheat it. You know this meeting is of great importance, and your duty as Fire Lady in this moment is to ensure it goes uninterrupted.
But you didn’t expect it to last for hours.
Another wave of fire floods your lower back and you grit your teeth and breathe through it. Your fingers clutch onto the edge of the tub as your knees settle into the floor of the basin. The pressure worsens each time your back flares up.
The pains huddle closer together, less space and breaks between them. You get to the point where you start rocking side to side, contorting your body as best you can into whatever position that provides a bit of relief.
But relief never comes.
You glance over at the window—the sun is setting and the sky is a beautiful blood orange. Interrupting a diplomatic meeting to complain about back pain won’t be your proudest moment. But now that you’re trying to get out of the tub and can’t, it’s something you’re going to have to do.
Because this might not be just back pain.
“Guard!” You whimper out, voice shaky but strong. Metal footsteps hastily clink towards you and stop just outside of the door.
“Fire Lady—”
“Get my husband! Oh—get Zuko, now!”
“Yes, Fire Lady.”
—
Aang finally introduces the final point—the resistance of some of the fire nation colonies, and how that’s been a significant threat lately to the balance of things. Zuko just nods and glances over at the door once again.
“…if we don’t approach this correctly, it could turn into a war that neither of us want…you do understand that?” Aang follows Zuko’s gaze to the door, “Zuko?”
“Yes. I understand and I agree. We will need to approach it strategically.” Zuko begins, growing more tense as that feeling inside him starts ringing like a siren. “I apologize. My mind is in two places at once, today.”
“If I have to be honest, Zuko. You look like you want to bolt out of your chair.” Katara jests carefully.
Zuko looks away from the door, right at Aang and Katara. He didn’t think it was that obvious. He never wanted to come off as uninterested. He swallows quickly, huffing a sigh.
“My wife is due any day.” Zuko admits, fixing his slightly curved posture. “She was very…uncomfortable when I left her.”
Katara’s expression softens, and Aang goes rigid.
“We understand.” Katara says as she looks over at Aang.
Suddenly, the doors burst open, and a young, breathless attendee stumbles in and onto the carpeted floor. He scrambles to his feet and bows as low as he can.
“Fire Lord Zuko, I—I apologize.” The attendee heaves in a grating breath, and Zuko’s body primes to act, to do, to run. “Th-the Fire Lady—,” He gasps loudly and Zuko immediately stands, his chair screeching behind him, his hands gripping the corners of the table.
“Speak!” Zuko commands.
“The Fire Lady requests your presence at once!”
Zuko is already moving around the table, his voice thick with worry, “What happened?”
“The Fire Lady said only to fetch you, Lord Zuko.”
“My apologies.” Zuko huffs as he hastily passes Aang and Katara.
“Go. We’ll stay here.” Aang projects his voice. Katara’s hand instinctively hovers over her spirit water pouch, like she wants to follow and help.
— —
When Zuko bursts through the door to your living quarters he doesn’t see you in the bed with damp hair like he imagined. His heart slams into his ribcage, and he immediately rushes into the bath room.
There he finds you perched on the edge of the tub, curved back heaving from heavy, uneven breaths, belly hanging tight underneath. It looks bad, worse than usual, actually. Your face is hidden in your crossed arms, and your hips wade side to side half submerged in the water.
Zuko shouts your name, closing the distance between you in a few strides, adrenaline high. You raise your head from your arms, revealing a face screwed with pain, and Zuko sinks to a crouch in front of you. His fingers comb away your sweaty hair from your face.
“You’re back in the bath, my love.” Zuko says it like a question as his eyes search yours, slightly confused and mostly concerned. His hand leaves your face, shaking slightly as it dips into the water. His pupils blow when the horrifying realization hits him the second the water registers as cold—
“This is the same bath I left you in.” Zuko’s voice shakes with restraint.
He quickly strips himself of his robes and enters the tub behind you, water sloshing out the sides and onto the floor. Anger bubbles inside him, anger directed towards himself.
“You’ve been in here for hours.” He growls.
“Zuko…” You sob weakly as heat floods your pelvis in the most excruciating way, and the pressure makes your legs spread further.
“Okay, breathe. Breathe.” Zuko coos as he heats the water with his body as fast as he can without hurting you. “Talk to me darling, is it your back?”
You nod your head desperately, and a deep, lengthy groan erupts from your throat. The sound of it makes Zuko grit his teeth. His hands move quickly to your back, pressing firmly against it, his thumbs massaging deep into the tissue.
“You should have sent for me sooner.” He grinds out a tight jaw, careful and deliberate with his every movement. “How long has it been like this?”
You shake your head, unable to speak during. Zuko waits patiently, massaging your back as he continues to heat the water. His eyes scan you like he’s trying to figure out what is about to happen next. These didn’t seem like the usual back pains you’ve been getting lately.
“F-Few hours…haah, my back—oh, there’s pressure,” you cry softly the second it’s over, and Zuko embraces you from behind, pulling you gently into his chest. You allow your head to fall back onto his shoulder as you reestablish your breath. “I—I can’t get out…”
The thought of you here, trapped and cold, makes his stomach twist. His hands instinctively slide over your belly, yearning to connect, fingers pressing softly as he checks the position of the baby. Much lower.
“I’m here. Does the pain come and go?”
Your eyes slam shut, and your breath catches in your throat. The pain is back, and the pressure is at an all time high. You begin groaning again, even louder this time. Zuko supports you in the water, his body hot against your back. But not even that helps you. Zuko’s fingers splay across your stomach as it pulls closer to you—tightening up.
“Oh.” Zuko breathes, looking down into the warped water to see your stomach seized in a way he’s never seen before. “These are contractions.”
And it hasn’t been long between this one and the last one.
How close are you exactly?
“Wha—aah!” You’re cut off by the pressure morphing into something else entirely. You grab his forearm, using everything in you to hoist yourself up. “Zuko…I need the toilet!”
Zuko’s heart leaps into his throat and he tries to swallow it down. He’s only able to say your name before he finds himself holding you up, bringing you both to a standing position.
Once the cold air hits your thighs, gravity comes into play and the pain concentrates in your pelvis now. The tightening crests, leaving you shaking as you slump back into Zuko entirely.
“I’ve got you.” He says through a ragged breath, securing you properly in his hold. “Breathe darling, I have you.”
Your body jolts against him and there’s a popping sensation inside your pelvis. Once cold thighs flood with warmth, and then there’s the distinct sound of water hitting water. Zuko looks down in awe, and so do you.
“My water…My water broke.” You whisper shakily, that feeling intensifying by the second.
“Yes.” Zuko breathes hard, his hand quickly slipping between your thighs. The world stops spinning when his fingertips catch something soft, yet firm. Instinct drives his hand, tugging your leg to the side as he maneuvers and looks, really looks. And what he sees makes his eyes bulge, confirming what he thought he felt.
“Ohh—Zuko! Zuko! It hurts!” A scream erupts from you, and you give in to this feeling of push.
Zuko acts quickly, lowering you back into the bath. You find yourself settling into a deep squat. Meanwhile, Zuko doesn’t have time to think, to call for the palace physician or even Katara—he only has time to act. He kneels behind you, hands instinctively moving into position between your legs.
With a growl, your body bears down and you topple forward, gripping on to the edge of the basin. Zuko steadies you with one hand, keeping the other ready under the water. He watches as your body shakes and strains with effort, your finger tips white around the basin.
“That’s it.” His voice is rough but raw with emotion, his baby’s head emerging a little further. Zuko feels as you stretch, his mouth agape at the sheer power you’re exhibiting. “Our baby’s coming, y/n. You’re so strong.”
The contraction fades, leaving you utterly wrecked and your breath hitching repeatedly. Mere seconds pass before the next wave crashes over you, sucking you back into the blinding pain.
“I can’t do this.” You barely whimper before your body pushes again. You make a noise you didn’t know you were capable of making, something primal and sacred.
“But you are.” Zuko murmurs, overcome with emotion. He feels the baby’s head transcend further, and your thighs begin to shake tremendously. “Darling, you’re doing it.”
“It burns!” You yelp, trying to shift away from the blossoming fire.
“I…I know.” Zuko grimaces, his instinct screaming protect. But this isn’t something he can protect you from. “Pant for me, baby. Small pushes.”
You shake your head as you pant loudly and quickly, tears streaming down your red cheeks.
With a guttural grunt you feel a sudden release, and Zuko gasps loudly behind you. “The head…the head is out, y/n.”
Shock sputters from you in short gasps, and you reach into the water to feel the baby’s head. It’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt in your entire life— soft fuzzy hair, stuck to their skull. You burst into tears, snotty, sobbing sounds ripping from your chest.
Zuko leans in to sprinkle haphazard kisses on your temple and cheek, and then he quickly settles back and readjusts how he supports the baby’s head.
“One more push, darling. Please.” Zuko pants, and immediately you’re shaking your head. You want this baby out more than anything, but the thought of continuing is absolutely terrifying.
It’s too much.
“It’s almost over. And then we’ll have our baby, okay? Breathe.” Zuko quickly and carefully slides his finger around the baby’s neck, automatically checking for the cord. Relief flashes across his face when he finds nothing there—everything is going the way it should.
A low groan rumbles from you, and Zuko is already bracing himself, readying himself to catch. His stomach lurches when your groan ramps up to a bloodcurdling scream, and your body curves from strain.
“That’s…that’s perfect…” Zuko mutters when he feels the head turn and drop further into his hands, and he begins guiding the shoulders free. “Push, push.” Zuko encourages you, and you do, helpless against the force of it.
You push with everything you have left.
In the next second, you feel a rush that's impossible to comprehend and the baby slips right into Zuko’s hands. You gasp hard for air and your body trembles violently from depletion.
“Oh.” Zuko sucks in a broken, sharp breath, mesmerized by how tiny and delicate they feel in his hands.
Zuko moves fast, purely off instinct, one hand firmly supporting and guiding the baby forward, through your shaking thighs, bringing them up against your chest. His other arm curls tightly around your middle, carefully pulling your exhausted body back against him before you can slump too far forward.
“Oh, Zuko.” The words break apart when you look down to see your baby’s scrunched, slightly blue face. Still. Not breathing. Horror blooms inside you and you panic. “Zuko?…Zuko!”
“I know, come on.” Zuko whispers roughly, his hand rubbing the baby’s back vigorously. “Let us hear you, come on.”
After a second that feels like an eternity, a wail pierces the air. Tiny, but strong. So strong. And loud.
You sob as your body sags in relief and exhaustion, and Zuko lets out a breathy laugh before his own tears burst free like a dam.
The baby slowly flushes to a healthy pink, and their bottom lip trembles. Zuko continues to rub her back, soaking in each moment like a sponge. And that’s when he notices.
“There it is. She’s okay. She’s perfect. Strong like her mother.” Zuko huffs, turning his attention down at you against his chest.
“She?” You barely whisper, smiling weakly. “She’s okay. She’s okay.” Each word comes out a little softer, a little more slurred.
He analyzes every line in your expression, every bead of sweat budding from your forehead. You look exhausted. You had just given everything to bring his child into the world, and it was his honor to witness it.
“You just…you did it, y/n.” Zuko watches as your eyes unfocus, and his chest tightens. “Hey. Stay with me.”
Zuko’s distant voice echoes in your head, and you concentrate to look at him. The pain is constant, an aching throb that stings hotter than venom.
“Tired…hurts.” You manage to mutter, glancing down at your baby squirming on your chest.
“I know, baby.” Zuko whispers, desperately comforting himself with the reminder that the best healer in the water tribe is sitting in his palace now. “You’re okay—Guard!” Zuko shouts the last word, looking over at the door of the bath room.
Hurried footsteps approach and stop just outside of the door. “Fire lord Zuko.”
“Get the physician! Bring Katara!” Zuko gives the order and returns his attention to you.
“At once, Fire Lord.”
Zuko sees your eyes flutter, and jostles you to keep you awake. “Stay awake, darling.”
You move against his chest, heavy eyes flicking down at the baby cooing against your chest. “Zuko. You…did it. Like you said.”
Relief pulses through Zuko when it registers, you’re speaking of what he said earlier. That he’d deliver the baby if he needed to. He smiles down at you, adjusting the hold he has around his entire world. “Yes, my Fire Lady. As promised.”
A slow tightening breaks your concentration, and you find yourself seizing up against him. A soft groan rumbles from you, and your eyes squeeze shut.
A contraction?
“What is it?” Zuko asks, panicked.
“The afterbirth.”
Katara appears breathless in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame and the other resting beneath the swell of her stomach. Aang lingers quietly behind her, relief relaxing his face.
“You’re okay, you did so well,” Katara reassures gently, already moving closer. Her eyes flick briefly to the baby and soften. “She’s beautiful. Just a little more, okay? Then you’re all done.”
The physician follows quickly behind, bowing once before moving to assist. Everything overlaps into one big blur around you.
Katara’s calm voice. Zuko’s hand never leaving you. The tiny warmth of your daughter, squirming against your chest. The physician’s quiet reassurance that she is healthy—her congratulations. But everything feels distant.
Distant but safe.
You focus on Zuko’s touch, and the babe that he’s now fully supporting against your bare chest as your arms fall limp either side of you.
“It was a good thing you were here,” Aang says quietly from the doorway.
Zuko barely hears him, because his attention never leaves you. Nor the tiny babygirl tucked safely against you.
“Yes,” Zuko says softly, brushing sweaty strands from your forehead.
I wanted to write something a little softer cause I felt like I was being to much of a whore 😔 I don't really like this one that much but yolo
Bsf!Theo who also likes to work on cars lol
The garage smelled like oil, metal, and summer heat. Theo had been working on his beloved Camaro for hours, the one he’d rescued from a junkyard and was slowly bringing back to life. His shirt was stained with grease, his hands and forearms dark with grime, and sweat glistened on his forehead as he slid out from under the car on the creeper.
You walked in without knocking, like you always did. “What’s up?” you asked, leaning against the hood with a small smile.
Theo looked up at you, his expression softening instantly. “Nothing much. Just spending some quality time with this beauty,” he said, patting the side of the car.
You chuckled and glanced down at him. “Need any help?”
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Bitch, you don’t even know how to change a tire.”
“Hey!” You laughed, sliding down to sit on the floor beside him. “It’s the thought that counts. Besides… you could teach me?”
Theo studied you for a moment, then gave you that crooked smile that always made your heart skip. “Yeah, alright. Come here.”
He helped you onto the creeper next to him and gently slid you both under the car. For the next twenty minutes, he pointed out different parts, explaining what they did in that calm, patient voice he only ever used with you. You listened carefully, biting your lip in concentration, occasionally nodding.
But eventually, your attention drifted from the engine to him. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about cars. The smudge of oil on his cheek. How close your faces were in the tight space under the chassis.
Theo turned his head and caught you staring. Your eyes locked. A soft smile played on your lips, still gently biting the corner of it. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. The air between you shifted.
Everything seemed to slow down as he lifted a dirty hand and carefully cupped your cheek, giving you plenty of time to pull away. When you didn’t, he leaned in and kissed you, the kiss was soft and hesitant, like he was afraid you might disappear. It was gentle. Sweet. Everything you never knew you needed from him.
He used his feet to slowly scoot the creeper out from under the car, never breaking the kiss until you were both sitting up. Then he stood, offering you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you to your feet.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he whispered, voice a little rough. He pulled you close, hands settling gently on your waist, and rested his forehead against yours. “You have no idea.”
You smiled, heart racing, and tilted your head up to kiss him again. This one was deeper, warmer. Theo walked you backward until your hips bumped into his workbench. With one arm, he swept the scattered tools off the surface, they clattered loudly to the floor, but neither of you cared.
He lifted you easily and set you on the bench. Your hands moved to the button of your shorts, but he pulled back slightly, breathing hard.
“Shit… are you sure?” he asked, eyes searching yours with genuine care.
You bit your lip and nodded, then remembered what he liked. “Yes. I’m sure, Theo. I want this. I want you.”
His smirk was soft, affectionate. “Good girl,” he murmured, tilting your chin up for another kiss.
You slid your shorts and panties down together, kicking them off. Theo watched you with dark, adoring eyes as you reached for his belt. He let you undo it, hands resting warmly on your hips. When you pushed his pants and boxers down, his cock sprang free, hard and flushed.
You brought your feet up onto the edge of the bench, opening yourself to him. Theo groaned quietly, running two fingers gently through your soaked folds.
“So fucking pretty,” he breathed, almost to himself.
He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, savoring every inch. Your head fell back with a breathy moan as he filled you.
“Fuck, Theo…” you whimpered, hands gripping his shoulders.
He started moving, deep, steady thrusts that made your toes curl. It wasn’t rushed or rough. It felt like he was pouring months of hidden feelings into every roll of his hips. His forehead pressed against yours again, eyes locked as he moved inside you.
“You feel so good,” he whispered against your lips. “So perfect.”
Your moans grew sweeter, breathier. Your legs started to tremble around him. Theo kept one hand on your waist, the other gently cradling the back of your neck.
“You gonna come, baby?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” you gasped, walls tightening around him. “Don’t stop…”
He didn’t. He kept that same loving rhythm until you came with a shuddering moan, clenching around his cock. Theo followed right after, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a low groan.
For a long moment, you just held each other, breathing hard. He stayed inside you, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, and finally your lips.
When he eventually pulled out, he grabbed some clean paper towels and gently wiped you clean with careful, tender touches. He helped you back into your shorts and panties, then fixed his own clothes.
Theo pulled you into his arms again, hugging you close.
“So…” he said with a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You still wanna learn more about cars?”
You smiled up at him, cheeks warm. “Only if you keep teaching me like this.”
He chuckled and kissed the top of your head. “Deal.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
disclaimer: this is for the people currently experiencing the deeply humiliating phenomenon of falling for zuko all over again. you thought it was over. you thought you were healed. and then adult zuko arrived like a personal attack from the universe, and now here you are and drafting your wedding vows in secret.
boyfriend!zuko, falling in love with you so quietly that by the time you realize what is happening, it is already far too late. there is no polished confession under a moonlit sky. just him remembering everything. the exact way you take your tea, the stories you tell twice when you are excited, the little look on your face when you are pretending not to be cold. one day you simply wake up to the horrible, delicious truth that he has been loving you with his full chest in complete silence.
boyfriend!zuko, standing beside you like he is not being protective, when in fact he is being violently protective in the most elegant way imaginable. just one hand at your waist, one unreadable look, and suddenly the entire room remembers manners. he merely exists next to you with that prince-shaped menace in his bones, and somehow that is more effective than anything louder could ever be.
boyfriend!zuko, pretending his constant care for you is just common sense, as if it is perfectly normal for someone to notice when your hands are cold before you notice when your hands are cold. your cup is already warm. your chair has somehow been moved out of the wind. the sweeter fruit has mysteriously found its way onto your plate. and when you narrow your eyes at him like oh, so you’re soft now? he looks mildly offended and says, “i am observant.” as though that explains why your entire nervous system now wants to marry him.
boyfriend!zuko, flirting like every word costs him dignity, which only makes it infinitely worse for you. he does not shower you with compliments. instead he looks at you once and says something catastrophic like, “you cannot expect me to concentrate when you look like that.” then he goes back to whatever he was doing as if he did not just rearrange your internal organs. the worst part is that he means it.
boyfriend!zuko, discovering that he is—against all odds—a forehead-kiss enthusiast. forehead kisses before you leave. forehead kisses when you are tired. forehead kisses when he thinks you are overthinking something and need help coming back to yourself. and because the universe enjoys cruelty, this only makes his actual kisses more devastating. because how are you supposed to recover from a man who treats tenderness like a sacred art form and then kisses you like restraint is a thread already fraying in his hands?
boyfriend!zuko, getting weirdly, breathtakingly quiet when you play with his hair. this man—this former disaster prince—this composed and broad-shouldered adult version of your first fictional heartbreak, simply goes still when your fingers comb through the strands near his neck. you push his hair back from his face and suddenly he looks like he has forgotten every language except yearning. he closes his eyes. his shoulders drop. his breathing changes. and now you have to live with the unbearable knowledge that this terrifyingly competent man can be reduced to silence by your hand in his hair.
boyfriend!zuko, being the type to write short notes instead of long letters. eat before the meeting. do not stay up too late tonight. come find me when you are done. i miss you. and that last one has you staring at the wall for twenty business days because what do you mean i miss you in that plain, devastating handwriting like he did not just set your soul on fire in six words.
boyfriend!zuko, looking personally betrayed when you wear his clothes. he tries to be composed. he truly does. but then you appear wrapped in one of his robes or wearing his jacket with the sleeves too long, and he just stops—like his brain needs to restart. and when you ask him what is wrong, he says, “you could have warned me.” warned him of what? of the fact that seeing you dressed in something that smells like him would make him look at you like he has several unlawful thoughts and not enough patience to conceal them? yes.
boyfriend!zuko, being deeply romantic in a way that feels handcrafted for your downfall. he remembers the smallest things and turns them into care. he knows which days are hardest for you and makes himself available without making a performance of it. he takes you to quiet places with beautiful views and acts like it just happened naturally, as if he did not plan the entire thing with military precision. loving him feels less like being swept away and more like being steadily, exquisitely claimed.
boyfriend!zuko, making safety feel more intimate than seduction. yes, he is handsome and his voice should be regulated. but the thing that truly finishes you is how safe he feels. how your body unclenches around him. how easily you fall asleep against his shoulder. how carefully he holds your softer, messier truths without ever turning them into weapons. he does not make you earn gentleness by bleeding for it. he simply gives it, like love should have always looked this way.
boyfriend!zuko, absolutely losing whatever remains of his self-control when you get affectionate in public on purpose. your fingers on his collar. a lazy kiss near the corner of his mouth. your hand smoothing the front of his robe while he is trying, unsuccessfully, to maintain a conversation. outwardly he remains composed, because of course he does. inwardly he is one second away from hauling you somewhere private and asking, in that low voice, whether you enjoy testing him. and the answer is yes.
boyfriend!zuko, being the final, devastating form of a childhood crush because now he knows how to love back. before, he was yearning from a distance. now he listens. now he stays. now he cups your face like it is something precious and looks at you as though loving you is not a burden—just the clearest truth he has. and really, that is so unfair of him.
『••✎••』
anyway. i am being incredibly normal about adult boyfriend!zuko. by which i mean i am not.
༉‧₊˚✧ Summary: After having your first child with Zuko, you realized this is what he needed to finally heal.
༉‧₊˚✧ A/N: PURE FLUFF
You remembered Zuko during his first days upon the Fire Throne more clearly than anyone else ever could.
Not the image the people eventually came to adore - the composed Fire Lord with sharp eyes and royal posture, draped in crimson and gold like he had been born for power.
You remembered the boy beneath the crown.
Seventeen years old. Far too young for a throne built from generations of bloodshed and fear.
He carried himself as though he belonged there, spine straight and chin lifted high, but you knew better. You saw the truth hidden underneath every carefully controlled expression.
Zuko was terrified. Not merely of failure, nor of the war his family had left in ruins around him.
He was afraid of himself.
Sometimes, late at night, when the palace corridors fell silent and the servants had long disappeared behind closed doors, you would catch him staring into the flames burning inside the royal braziers with an expression that almost resembled fear.
As though he expected the fire itself to betray him if he lost control for even a second.
And perhaps that fear made sense.
He had been born from a love that was never meant to be gentle, crafted from two souls that should have never been bound together in the first place - a father who carved destruction into everything he touched, and a mother too isolated, too powerless against the monster surrounding her, to fully shield her son from the cruelty of the Fire Nation court.
Ozai had burned his way through Zuko’s life long before the scar ever touched his face, and Ursa, despite loving him with everything she had, could only do so much while drowning in that palace herself.
The result of that broken union stood before the world as Fire Lord: scarred, exhausted, painfully human beneath all the royal armor.
It showed in every part of him, in the stiffness of his shoulders whenever advisors questioned him too harshly, in the exhaustion beneath his eyes after another sleepless night, in the way his hands curled tightly into fists whenever anger rose too quickly in his chest, as though he feared what might happen if he loosened his grip for even a moment.
Pain lived inside Zuko like a second heartbeat.
So did trauma.
So did anxiety.
So did guilt that never truly belonged to him.
Even years later, even after becoming the kind of leader the nations learned to respect, there remained something unbearably heavy about the way he carried himself.
As though the sins of generations rested across his shoulders simply because he happened to be born into the wrong bloodline.
As though he spent every waking moment trying to prove he was not his father.
And perhaps the cruelest part was that Zuko never fully understood how extraordinary that alone made him.
Because despite everything done to him, despite the violence, the exile, the humiliation, the years spent desperately clawing for love from a man incapable of giving it, he still chose kindness. He still chose mercy. He still chose to become better.
Every single day, Zuko fought a war inside himself that nobody else could see, and every single day, he won.
You knew Zuko far too well to ever mistake his silence for coldness.
You had grown beside him through every version of his life - through the fear of becoming the next ruler of a nation stained by war, through stolen moments of happiness that never seemed to last long enough, through heartbreak, grief, healing, and every painful step in between. You had watched him survive the worst parts of himself and somehow still stand back up afterwards.
That was why you noticed the little things nobody else ever paid attention to.
The way he clung to routines as though they were the only stable things in his life.
The way every movement of his seemed carefully calculated, every decision thought through a hundred times before spoken aloud. Zuko hated unpredictability.
He hated losing control. After spending his childhood surrounded by chaos and fear, he had built patterns for himself so meticulously that stepping outside them almost seemed to unsettle him physically.
Because beneath everything - the title, the power, the fire running through his veins - Zuko was terrified of becoming a monster.
The thought alone haunted him more than any enemy ever could. You saw it in the restraint he carried around others, in the guilt that crossed his face whenever anger slipped too sharply into his voice, in the way he would sometimes stare at his own hands after firebending too aggressively, as though he feared they belonged to his father more than to himself.
And yes, Zuko was Ozai’s son.
There was no denying that.
You could see it in the intensity of his gaze, in the frightening strength behind his bending, in the authority he naturally carried without even trying. But the resemblance ended where it mattered most. Where Ozai ruled through fear, Zuko ruled through understanding. Where his father took, Zuko gave. He possessed the same fire, yet chose warmth over destruction every single time.
That was the kind of man he became.
And as a man, Zuko was extraordinary in ways he never fully realized. Capable, intelligent, fiercely protective, the kind of person who carried the weight of entire nations on his shoulders without complaint. Sometimes he became too trapped inside his own thoughts, overanalyzing every mistake until it nearly consumed him, but even then, there was something painfully genuine about him.
Something dependable. Safe. At the end of the day, beneath the scars and royal robes and impossible responsibilities, Zuko was simply a real man.
And more than that, he became a real husband.
He refused to give you anything less than a true marriage.
Not one built out of obligation or political convenience, but one founded on love, trust, and choice.
He waited until the timing was right - until the world around him had finally calmed enough for him to love you properly, without war breathing down his neck or duty constantly tearing him away.
Yes, it took time before he finally allowed himself to court you openly, and there were moments when the waiting frustrated you more than you cared to admit. But looking back, you understood why.
Zuko wanted to offer you stability before asking for your heart completely. He wanted to be certain he could give you the life you deserved instead of dragging you into the chaos he had spent most of his own life trapped inside.
And the wait turned out to be worth it in every possible way.
Because somehow, impossibly, Fire Lord Zuko became the kind of husband young girls dreamed about in romantic stories.
Not because he was perfect, but because every ounce of love he gave was real.
He memorized the smallest things about you without even trying - the teas you liked after difficult days, the exact way you preferred your blankets folded at night, the expressions that meant you were upset even when you insisted you were fine. He kissed your forehead absentmindedly while passing through rooms, held your hand beneath crowded council tables, and looked at you with such quiet devotion that sometimes it still stole the breath from your lungs.
And because Zuko loved so deeply, and because you were hopelessly in love with your husband in return, it was almost inevitable that your love would eventually grow into something even greater.
Maybe the pregnancy had not exactly been planned, but somehow, it still arrived at the perfect time.
Life had finally softened around the two of you - not completely, never completely, but enough for peace to settle into the palace without feeling fragile.
Enough for Zuko to sleep through most nights without waking from old ghosts. Enough for both of you to finally breathe instead of merely survive.
And perhaps that was why it happened so naturally. It did not take long at all after your marriage truly began for love to bloom into something deeper. A few quiet nights tangled together as husband and wife, a few moments where the Fire Lord stopped carrying the world on his shoulders long enough to simply be yours, and suddenly the realization settled between you both like sunlight breaking through clouds.
You were going to have a child.
Before that moment, you and Zuko had spoken about children countless times, usually during the quieter hours of the night when the world outside your chambers no longer demanded pieces of him.
You always smiled whenever the topic came up because, unlike him, you had never feared the idea of parenthood.
Children had always melted your heart so easily. It was simply part of who you were.
Every time you heard a toddler babbling nonsense through the palace gardens or saw tiny hands reaching excitedly toward their parents in crowded streets, your entire expression softened without realizing it.
Zuko noticed it every single time.
He would catch you smiling at children during festivals or stopping to wave at babies carried through the market, and there would always be this faint amusement in his eyes, like he already knew exactly what kind of mother you would become one day.
But him… him, it was more complicated.
There was always warmth in his expression whenever he looked at the children of the people closest to him. You saw it whenever he held Aang and Katara’s youngest in his arms, awkwardly allowing tiny fingers to tug at his sleeves while pretending not to know what he was doing. You saw it in the softness that overtook his face whenever little ones laughed around him, a gentleness so natural it almost seemed to erase the harshness life had carved into him.
For brief moments, he looked peaceful.
And then the fear returned.
You could always spot the exact second it happened.
The subtle tension settling back into his shoulders. The distant look creeping into his eyes as though some painful thought had suddenly dragged him away from the present. It was sharp enough to ache every time you noticed it.
Because Zuko wanted children.
But he was terrified of becoming someone’s father.
It was not difficult to understand why.
His own childhood had left scars far deeper than the one burned across his face. Ozai had turned fatherhood into something cruel in Zuko’s mind - something tied to fear, disappointment, and pain rather than safety or love. You knew there were moments when he genuinely questioned whether darkness simply lived inside his bloodline, waiting to be passed down like some terrible inheritance.
Once, during one of those late-night conversations, he admitted it quietly.
“What if I end up hurting them without meaning to?”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly shattered your heart.
Because that alone proved he never would.
Zuko feared becoming his father so deeply that he monitored every emotion inside himself like it was a weapon waiting to slip from his grasp. He was careful with his anger, careful with his words, careful with the way he carried himself around people he loved. Sometimes too careful. And perhaps he did not realize it then, but monsters never question whether they are monsters.
Ozai never lost sleep wondering if he was causing pain.
Zuko did.
Constantly.
That was the difference between them.
But despite all of Zuko’s fear, despite the hesitation that sometimes clouded his expression whenever the topic of children came up, you still felt it deep in your heart - he would be a good father. No, more than good. He would become the kind of father children felt safe running toward without fear.
The kind that would kneel beside scraped knees and bedtime tears with more patience than he ever believed himself capable of.
You knew it because, beneath all the damage life had inflicted on him, Zuko carried an overwhelming amount of love inside himself. It simply took him longer than others to trust that love enough to let it breathe.
Before your child was born, you had always imagined yourself becoming the mother of a little boy someday.
In your mind, he looked almost identical to you - your smile, your features, your softer expressions - but with Zuko’s stubbornness and quiet intensity woven somewhere into his personality.
You imagined tiny hands gripping your robes through palace halls and messy dark hair sticking up after naps.
That image had lived inside your head for years so naturally that you never thought to question it.
But the moment Zuko became part of your life, that fantasy slowly began slipping away without you even noticing.
Because realistically? Your genes never stood a chance against his.
Not against those sharp golden eyes capable of melting and terrifying people alike. Not against the dark hair that seemed painted from firelit shadows. Not against the sheer force of presence the royal bloodline carried even in childhood.
Somewhere along the way, you simply accepted the inevitable truth: any child of Zuko’s would come into the world already carrying pieces of him too strongly to miss.
And then it finally happened.
After months of waiting, worrying, hoping, and countless sleepless nights, you brought your first child into the world.
A daughter.
The moment the midwives placed her into your arms, it felt as though the entire palace, the entire world, fell silent around you.
She was impossibly tiny, wrapped carefully in soft blankets, her little face scrunched with sleepy confusion at being pulled into such a bright and unfamiliar world.
Thick dark hair already dusted the top of her head, and when she finally blinked her eyes open, your breath caught entirely in your throat.
Amber.
Warm, glowing amber eyes identical to her father’s stared back at you.
You thought your heart might burst right then and there.
She was beautiful.
Not because she carried royal blood, nor because she was destined to become a princess of the Fire Nation someday, but because she already felt like something precious enough to heal broken parts of the world just by existing.
And when you looked toward Zuko, you realized he was staring at her as though he could not believe she was real.
Your husband - the man who once feared himself so deeply, the man who spent years convinced he carried too much darkness inside him - looked utterly defenseless in that moment.
All the strength he wore like armor throughout his life seemed to crumble the second his daughter wrapped her tiny hand around his finger.
You would remember that expression forever.
Wonder.
Fear.
Love so overwhelming it almost looked painful.
Your daughter became the greatest gift either of you had ever received.
Perhaps especially for Zuko.
Because despite all the horrors he had endured, despite the scars his father left carved into his soul, life had still placed something so soft and pure into his hands and trusted him not to break it.
Your little firecracker quickly became the center of both your worlds, filling the once quiet palace chambers with warmth that had been missing for years.
Laughter echoed through hallways once known only for heavy silence and royal tension, tiny babbles replacing the distant sound of political discussions and endless responsibilities.
It was almost unbelievable sometimes, how one impossibly small child could breathe so much life into a place that had spent generations drowning in fear.
And she looked so painfully like her father that it almost made you laugh.
Even at such a young age, before she could properly walk or speak without stumbling over her own words, Zuko’s features were already stamped all over her.
Thick dark hair that stuck messily around her face after naps, sharp amber eyes glowing with curiosity, expressions far too dramatic for someone who barely reached your knees. Her cheeks were so chubby that they nearly swallowed her eyes whenever she smiled, revealing tiny little teeth through drooling giggles that instantly melted everyone around her.
Yet somehow, despite how adorable she was, there was already something strong about her presence - something unmistakably royal, unmistakably Zuko.
Sometimes you would catch servants staring at her with amused expressions because it truly felt like someone had simply shrunk the Fire Lord down into toddler form.
But beneath all the laughter and chaos she brought into your lives, there was something deeper happening too.
Something quieter.
Your daughter healed wounds she did not even know existed.
Wounds her father had carried for so long that he no longer remembered what it felt like to live without them.
Because becoming a father changed Zuko more than anyone realized.
He had not expected it to happen so soon.
Truthfully, he barely felt old enough to process being Fire Lord half the time, let alone someone’s father.
But what truly shook him was not simply parenthood itself.
It was the fact that he had a daughter.
A daughter.
A tiny, fragile little girl carrying his bloodline forward.
The realization alone seemed to haunt him during those first months.
You noticed it constantly in the way he watched her.
Sometimes you would wake in the middle of the night only to find him sitting beside her cradle in complete silence, staring at her with an expression so conflicted it nearly hurt to look at.
She seemed impossibly delicate in his eyes.
Too soft. Too vulnerable for a world he knew could be cruel.
He could barely comprehend how small she truly was.
Her skinny little arms would wiggle wildly in the air while she crawled determinedly across the palace floors, stubbornness radiating from every movement in a way that was very clearly inherited from you.
And Zuko would simply stare at her, almost disbelieving, as though he could not understand how someone so tiny could already possess such fierce determination.
“She’s impossible,” he muttered once while watching her stubbornly attempt to climb over cushions twice her size.
But the fondness in his voice betrayed him completely.
She was so small, her head barely measured the size of his two fists put together. Sometimes when he picked her up, his hands looked absurdly large supporting her little body, making him freeze every single time as though one wrong movement might somehow hurt her.
You knew part of him was constantly terrified of his own strength around her.
And perhaps that fear deepened because she reminded him too much of another little girl he once knew.
Azula.
More than once, you caught his gaze lingering on your daughter with distant thoughts clouding his expression. Later, quietly, he admitted it to you. He remembered Azula at that age too - louder, taller, round-faced and sharp-eyed even as a child.
He remembered the palace swallowing both of them whole long before either truly understood what was happening.
Perhaps that was why he watched your daughter so carefully.
Not because he feared her.
But because he feared the world around her.
Because despite all the joy your daughter brought into his life, Zuko struggled far more with fatherhood than he ever allowed others to see. Becoming Fire Lord had already forced him to grow up too quickly, but becoming someone’s father at such a young age felt entirely different. He had barely learned how to carry the weight of a nation without breaking beneath it, and suddenly he was entrusted with something infinitely more fragile than politics or war.
A daughter.
The reality of it seemed to shake him to his core.
Not because he was disappointed, never that, but because the thought of his bloodline continuing through such a small, delicate little girl awakened fears inside him he did not know how to silence.
A girl.
Someone soft enough to be hurt by the world far too easily.
Someone who trusted him completely from the moment she opened her amber eyes.
There was always hesitation in him during those first months. Hesitation before picking her up from her cradle, as though his hands were too rough for someone so delicate.
Hesitation while helping her stand on shaky legs.
Hesitation even while holding her tiny hand because he feared squeezing too tightly without realizing.
Your daughter was as delicate as a flower in his eyes.
And Zuko, after spending most of his life surrounded by destruction, did not know how to trust himself with something so soft.
“What am I supposed to do with you, my little firecracker?” he sighed one evening while sitting beside the bed, watching her happily tangle herself in expensive silk sheets without a single care in the world.
She barely acknowledged him, too busy babbling nonsense to herself while kicking her tiny feet excitedly against the mattress.
And despite all his fear, despite the anxiety constantly living inside him, you could still see it happening slowly.
Zuko was already hopelessly, completely in love with his daughter.
No matter how much Zuko tried to keep that careful distance at first, your daughter had completely different plans.
Maybe you were the one who carried her for nine months, the one spending most of the day feeding her, bathing her, soothing her back to sleep after nightmares, but in her tiny little mind, none of that mattered nearly as much as her father did.
From the moment she learned how to properly reach for people, she reached for him first.
Tiny hands constantly grabbing at his robes whenever he passed by, little babbles filling the room the second he entered it, amber eyes instantly lighting up with excitement at the mere sight of him.
She was hopelessly attached to Zuko.
And unfortunately for the two of you, she was also painfully possessive about it.
Every attempt he made at peacefully loving his wife somehow ended with a tiny interruption.
The moment he sat beside you, she suddenly needed him.
The second he wrapped his arms around you, she came waddling over with offended little noises, demanding to be picked up immediately.
Half the time, she would physically shove herself between the two of you with all the determination her tiny body could muster, glaring up at you as though you were the intruder stealing her father away.
And Zuko, traitor that he was, always laughed before giving in.
“How could I possibly ignore the princess of the palace?” he would murmur dramatically while scooping her into his arms, despite the way you rolled your eyes at him afterward.
Truthfully, though, he never stood a chance against her.
He belonged entirely to that little girl from the very beginning.
Watching them together side by side was almost unsettling sometimes because of how deeply they resembled one another.
Not only physically, though even that was undeniable - the same amber eyes, the same dark hair, the same expressive face incapable of hiding emotions properly - but in countless smaller ways you never expected.
The similarities revealed themselves slowly over time, catching you off guard in the strangest moments.
The way she slept sprawled across the bed exactly like him, limbs everywhere as though she had personally fought the blankets and lost. The way she furrowed her brows while concentrating on something simple.
Even the way she walked somehow mirrored Zuko despite her tiny unsteady legs still wobbling beneath her with every rushed step. Sometimes she would stomp around the palace with the exact same dramatic determination her father carried during council meetings, and it took everything in you not to burst into laughter whenever you noticed.
You found yourself watching them often.
Quietly.
From afar.
Sometimes from the doorway of your chambers while Zuko sat cross-legged on the floor letting your daughter climb all over him like a tiny firebending menace. Other times from the palace gardens where she ran circles around him while he pretended not to notice her attempts at sneaking away.
And slowly, over time, you realized something beautiful was happening.
Zuko was healing alongside her.
As your daughter grew older - becoming louder, faster, more mischievous with every passing month - something inside him softened completely.
The constant tension living in his shoulders began disappearing little by little. He stopped overthinking every movement around her. Stopped analyzing himself so harshly every second of the day. Around your daughter, Zuko finally allowed himself to exist without fear constantly breathing down his neck.
He learned how to simply be.
To be a father.
A husband.
A man.
Not a Fire Lord burdened by expectations or haunted by his bloodline. Just… Zuko.
And for the first time since you had known him, he looked free.
You truly noticed it around the time your daughter turned one and a half. By then, she had become a whirlwind of energy incapable of sitting still for more than a few seconds.
Tiny feet carried her everywhere at alarming speed while her endless curiosity constantly pushed her toward new disasters waiting to happen.
That afternoon, she had apparently decided the palace gardens were hers to conquer.
You stood nearby trying not to laugh as Zuko followed after her across the stone paths, large hurried strides struggling to keep up with the way she changed directions without warning every few seconds.
One moment she was running toward the koi pond, the next she was distracted by flowers, and then suddenly sprinting toward a servant carrying fruit simply because she found the basket interesting.
And behind her came the Fire Lord himself.
Tall and radiant beneath the sunlight, crimson robes fluttering around his legs while loose dark strands of hair danced through the warm breeze. He looked almost godlike like that - powerful and untouchable beneath the golden afternoon glow.
Yet the expression on his face was anything but intimidating.
The anxious frown that used to follow him everywhere had disappeared completely, replaced instead by a teasing smile that looked so natural on him now it almost hurt your chest to witness it.
“My little firecracker,” he called after her with mock exasperation, laughter already slipping into his voice, “come back here before you destroy something important.”
“My firecracker, get back to your father!”
He always called her that - my little firecracker.
You did not know exactly when the nickname appeared or why it stayed, but somehow it fit her too perfectly to question it.
Perhaps it was the way she burned through every room with unstoppable energy, or maybe it was because she carried so much of him inside such a tiny body.
At the sound of his voice, your daughter looked back over her shoulder with wide amber eyes sparkling mischievously, and instead of obeying him, her tiny legs moved even faster.
The sight alone nearly made you laugh.
She could barely run properly yet, her steps uneven and clumsy, but she acted as though escaping the Fire Lord himself was the greatest challenge ever placed before her.
Zuko let out an exaggerated sigh before immediately giving chase again.
“Oh no you don’t-....”
It happened so quickly you almost missed it. One second your daughter was squealing triumphantly while stumbling across the stone paths, and the next Zuko had effortlessly swept her into his arms with a victorious grin spreading across his face.
“Gotcha!” he laughed, lifting her high enough for her delighted squeals to echo through the gardens. “And where exactly did you think you were going, huh?”
Your daughter answered him with incoherent babbling and breathless giggles, tiny hands immediately grabbing at his face while he pressed his cheek dramatically against hers.
They looked almost identical like that - matching dark hair tangled by the wind, matching amber eyes glowing beneath the sunlight, matching smiles so full of life it hurt your chest.
“You’re in serious trouble now, missy,” Zuko continued with mock severity while she laughed harder at absolutely nothing. “Your mother is waaay too far away to save you this time.”
At the mention of you, your daughter immediately twisted in his arms searching for where you stood nearby, little hands already reaching in your direction despite the fact she had spent the last ten minutes actively running away from him.
Traitor.
And then Zuko looked up too.
The moment his eyes met yours, something inside your chest softened so deeply it almost ached.
Because suddenly the image before you became one you knew you would carry for the rest of your life.
Your husband standing beneath the warm glow of the afternoon sun, robes fluttering gently around him, your daughter held securely against his chest while both of them looked at you with the exact same eyes. The two people you loved most in the entire world staring back at you with identical warmth painted across their faces.
One your heart.
The other your soul.
And somehow, they carried the same beauty so unmistakably that it felt impossible not to see how deeply they belonged to one another.
“Well, well,” you teased softly while walking toward them, unable to stop smiling, “look who finally got caught.”
Zuko narrowed his eyes playfully while adjusting your daughter higher in his arms as though protecting his prize.
“I caught a very dangerous criminal, actually.”
Your daughter squealed proudly at that, clearly taking it as a compliment.
“Perhaps I should step in and save her?” you asked, stopping in front of them.
At your approach, both their faces lit up at the exact same time.
The same smile.
The same eyes.
The same overwhelming love.
And in that moment, watching the two of them standing there together while laughter filled the gardens around you, you realized something simple yet devastatingly beautiful.
That was what home felt like.
----------------------------------------
Hi HELLO? This is arguably. The most heart wrenching fluff (?) that I’ve ever read. Broke my heart and fixed it in one fic. Your writing style is genuinely so incredible and descriptive and your characterization of Zuko as a father is one of my favorites ever.
I think the moment that really got me was your compare and contrast of Zuko and Ozai. So well written. So gorgeous.
Ada Mae @celestial-library - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
ellievsbear
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
tangentwithtanner
