diadem

Madja hushed you. “Your throat is still healing. Are you confused? Do you remember why you are here?” 

Too many questions at once. You pressed your lips together and tried to recall the events that led to this moment. The package from Rhysand. The smoke filling your windowless archive. The realization that it was not from Rhysand—that you were going to die, suffocating on a bitter taste and alone. You’d opened the bond after that. You hadn’t expected anything to come of it. 

And then, Azriel. 

“Azriel,” you choked out, his name tumbling from your lips and halfway intelligible. 

Madja looked grim. She twisted her mouth and tapped her finger on the bench. “Your Shadowsinger was here, through great pain. He only left because he needed to. They are all fixing this.” 

You had flashes in your memory of that pain. Azriel held you in his arms and looked to be in agony. You felt a tinge of embarrassment when you remembered your words to him, asking him why he loved you again, but that feeling burned out. You turned back to Madja and showed your confusion on your face. 

“Pain?” you asked. Your throat was tingling. Madja placed warmed hands on the skin of your neck. “Was he—there too?” 

The healer let out a sigh and continued her work. “I do not know everything,” she began. “But my previous pupil, Vanessa—I know her. I know her motives. She is a very gifted girl. So much talent. She came to us from the outskirts of Pyrithian seeking education. I took her in several years ago. She started humbly, not knowing everything she could do. Things were… good then.” 

You felt your jaw tremble, unsure if it was from lingering adrenaline or the reminder of the woman Azriel chose over you. You bit into your cheek and allowed Madja to guide you off the bench and over to a chair with more support. The older woman poured you tea that smelled awful and hobbled into her own seat. 

“She became resentful too quickly. She wanted an audience with the High Lord—to show her skills—and I denied her. I told her that a position in the court was difficult to obtain. It required years of building trust with the High Lord. She… mentioned you and your position as archivist. There were also words about the High Lady, but they were meeker and only voiced once. I told her that mates transcend so much in the courts. She had a difficult time understanding that—didn’t care that you and High Lady Feyre were skilled as well as loved.” 

Madja eyed the tea and raised her brow. With a slight grimace, you sipped at it, letting the warmth wade in your stomach. It soothed your scratching throat, but it tasted like dirt. 

“She would have been a fool to go after Feyre,” Madja scoffed. “She knew that much, it seems. But she was also a fool to go after you.” She rested an elbow on the arm of her chair and rubbed her head. “I sent her away just last year. I told her to make a name for herself if she was so sure she could—foolish child. She was versed in poisons and had poor control over her powers to heal the mind. She would always do it backwards and send the poor animals she tested on spinning in circles. She was powerful but unwilling to practice. And now…” 

You attempted to tamp down the hope growing in your gut. All signs were leading to the same resolution: that Azriel didn’t really throw you aside. That he was being controlled. That he loved you still. But that was all foolish. You couldn’t be foolish. You remembered how he’d spoken to you like a hot brand against your chest. 

“You think she did this to me, then?” you asked, voice clearer. The dirt tea worked, unfortunately.

“Yes. Versed in poisons, as I said. I think it was from her home village. She discovered her affinity for healing because there was so much poison there. Although healing would be a stretch, I think. She had an affinity for…working on people.” 

You stared down at your cup, swirling the grainy liquid against the rim. Silence covered you, but Madja didn’t expect much from you, it seemed. That was good. There wasn’t much left for you to give. 

“You are fine now, if you were concerned about that,” Madja offered, watching you carefully. “I will speak to the High Lord and Lady about Vanessa. About what she has done to you and your  Shadowsinger. But you are physically well. He got you out in time and I was familiar with the poison she used.” 

You bit into your cheek. 

“I am sorry. I should have monitored her. I am to blame for this.” 

“No, Madja, you couldn’t have known,” you said into your cup. “I—I guess I just don’t know what to do now. Where to go from here.” 

The older healer made a strained sound as she stood from her chair. You turned your gaze up when you heard shuffling, and then she stood eye-level with you, a furrowed brow above her searching expression. She raised a hand to rest on your cheek. 

“You go wherever feels right. However long it takes to get there.” She looked down, and then found your eyes again. “I—I know he would wait. I know from how he was when he was here. When he brought you. Let him explain. Eventually.” 

~~

Madja would not let you go home alone. While she cleared you physically, she hesitated as you rose and went to leave the clinic, eyeing your shaking legs and faraway stare. You still couldn’t tell if it was from the adrenaline. You knew you felt okay, but you felt off—incomplete and shaken. 

Cassian came. 

He apologized for not being there when you were ready to go home. He told you that everyone was ‘dealing’ with the situation at the House and they were just waiting for Madja to send word. 

“What does that mean?” you asked, rolling the larger jacket over your shoulders. Cassian caught your shivering and assumed it was a chill. “Dealing with it? Did you talk to Madja?” 

Cassian curled his lip and held a hand on your back to match your slow pace. “We talked to her. The apothecary is just refusing her part in all of this. She won’t undo what she did to Az. Rhys has been picking through things, but he says it’s murky.” 

You hummed, getting lost in your head.

This all felt so strange. 

You were fine now, answers were coming, things were starting to make sense, but you were in this in-between state. The bond was still a wall between you, and you had only the remnants of memories that showed you Azriel’s pain. The clearest picture was still him, standing with her. Still him, saying that he needed to leave you. That he was choosing someone else. 

You pulled Cassian’s jacket closer and felt your knees lock up. 

Cassian caught your waist and righted you before you could fall. “Knew I should’ve just carried you,” he mumbled under his breath, hooking his arm under your knees and lifting you to his chest. “You okay?” 

Muscle memory had you clinging to his neck. You nodded and swallowed. 

“You have to know that that wasn’t him, right?” he said earnestly. He kept walking. You weren’t really sure where. “He—Gods, y/n, when we figured out what she was doing, he looked wrecked. He hasn’t looked great this entire time, but he looked like he wanted to be out of his skin. He hasn’t left the cellars in the House. Won’t leave until she undoes it.” 

“And what if she does?” you mumbled dully. 

“What?” 

“What if she undoes it and you all realize that he never really needed a spell or a curse or whatever it is in the first place. I mean, she had to get close enough to do it to him, didn’t she?” 

Cassian’s head jutted back as you spoke. He stared out at the path he was walking. “No. No, that isn’t what’s happening. Az loves you. You remember that.” 

“Right,” you agreed, sighing and resting your head on Cassian’s chest. “That’s what everyone was saying before. No one thought I was right. And then… this.” 

He was walking you home, you realized—to yours and Azriel’s home. You wanted to stop him, but there was no point. It wasn’t as if you had another home. And it wasn’t as if he would be there, anyway. 

“We’re gonna figure this out,” Cassian finalized after a few steps in silence. “You both are going to be fine.” 

You hoped he was right. 

That hope remained stagnant as he dropped you off at your house and told you someone would be by soon—Mor, probably, maybe Elain, or someone else soft enough to look after you while your mate continued to fight off a feigned love and you recovered from being poisoned. It all sounded so dramatic. Your life was making more sense, but was drastically over the top. You missed the quiet of the archive and your evenings with Azriel. 

Exhausted, you trudged inside and startled slightly when things were noticeably out of place. You had assumed Azriel stayed… away during these past few weeks, but your home looked lived in. 

The mug you always use was on the drain board. Your abandoned book was resting on the arm of the couch, bookmark still in place but pages splayed open. Your forgotten coat was removed from the closet and hung over a chair. When you made it to the bedroom, you found the bed half-made, your side displaced with the pillow in a ball, and the blankets pulled back. 

To an outsider, it looked as if you were the one staying at the house, but you hadn’t set foot inside since Azriel’s dismissal.

Your head was starting to hurt. 

You gave your legs a break and slumped onto the bed, not caring about the odd angle of your head as it landed on your misshapen pillow. The ceiling looked the same, at least—one constant in the huge mess of your life. 

The room smelled like him. 

It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was there. You could make out the faint cedar that remained from his soap. Maybe lying in the bed wasn’t the best idea. You didn’t need the reminder right now, not when everything was so fresh but so… dull. Like the good memories were faded and the new ones—the bad ones—were a vivid array at the forefront of your mind. 

Loving Azriel had always felt so easy. 

This did not feel easy. 

This was not part of the love, you were sure. 

Now sitting up in the bed, feet dangling over the edge, you held your head in your hands. The position only lasted a few seconds. The floorboard creaked, and you sensed him before you heard him. 

“I—I didn’t know you would be here.” 

The sound of Azriel’s voice had you snapping your head up. Your breath caught in your lungs at the sight of him—his red-rimmed eyes, the mussed hair, the tired nature of tight-pressed features. He looked strained, and that only amplified when he met your eye, his arms twitching at his sides. 

“You…” he stuttered out when the silence persisted. You were staring at him as if looking in a mirror. “Are you okay? Cassian said—but I thought you were at Mor’s.” 

“I’m fine,” you whispered. 

He nodded in a disjointed way, jaw shaking as he went. You noticed how he clutched the door handle and the way the metal seemed to warp. He didn’t move to leave, but he didn’t say anything else. He just stared at you, almost unblinking, eyes reflecting a shine. 

“Are you okay?” you asked, clutching the bedsheets by your thighs. 

He shook his head, but said, “Yes. Yes, I—” 

A stop. He looked down and took in a quivering breath. 

“No. I still—she still hasn’t undone it, and it hurts to look at you. It hurts to even be in this house, but being in here is the closest I’ve been to you since I-I left you, and I’ve managed that pain.” 

“Should I go—” 

“No!” Azriel shot out, hand shaking as he raised it between you. “No, Gods, please don’t leave. I only meant to be honest with you. I… please don’t leave.” 

You had startled back an inch when he shouted, but it only lasted a moment. He would leave if you told him to, but you didn’t want to tell him that.

“What do you mean—when you say it hurts to look at me?” 

Azriel’s hands flexed. He searched every inch of your face before wetting his lips. “It’s like my thoughts get rerouted anywhere else but you. If I force them there, think about you, it burns me. If I touch you, my hands burn. When… she’s around, that makes it easier for her to get me to say what she wants. I’ve tried to fight against it when she isn’t there. It works, even if it hurts.” 

“Why come back to the house then? Why… try to think about me?” 

“Because I love you,” he said as if he couldn’t fathom anything else. He said as if he’d been insulted. “I—even when I wasn’t able to think it, I knew I loved you. You—you know that, too, don’t you?” 

That was where the doubt started to creep in. 

You’d gone a considerable period of time believing that he didn’t love you anymore. You’d had to sit and listen to him tell you that he was moving on, that he’d outgrown the love you’d built for decades. This new information—him hurting, not being allowed to love you—was all unfamiliar. Hard to grasp. 

You looked off to the side and felt the lump in your throat grow. 

You heard a sudden intake of air, and Azriel stammered as if struck. Before you could look back, he was kneeling before you, hands spasming as he held yours. He flinched as he touched you, but when you started to pull away, protesting the pain, he only tightened his grip and clenched his jaw. 

“Don’t—Don’t pull away. I don’t care if it hurts.” 

“Azriel, you shouldn’t—” 

“Nothing can hurt me more than you believing I don’t love you,” he breathlessly replied. “I need you to believe that I never stopped loving you. That I will love you until the day I die, and had—had that woman succeeded in killing you, I would have fought to get back to you. Wherever you had gone.” 

His knuckles were turning as unseemly white, but he wouldn’t let go. He only turned one hand to cup your face when the tears started to run down your cheeks. “I am so sorry, my love. I had to listen to myself say those things to you. I felt you—” he choked, finding his voice behind a flinch “—dying inside of me, knowing how you felt. Knowing that you were going to die feeling alone and I—” 

Your own breath was coming out in short gasps. The tears were flowing freely, even as you tried to stop them, and it seemed impossible for a person to have so many tears. You’d cried enough these past weeks to last forever. 

“How did she get to you?” you cried, desperate for any connection. “Were you—was there ever a moment where you thought she could be—” 

“No. No. I know what you’re thinking, and no.” Azriel looked up at you, imploring. “The shop was by the archive. She asked me to go in and help her carry a delivery. I had no intention of speaking to her beyond that. I-I knew you had been in there before. I was thinking of you when it happened. When she…” 

A sense of relief had you stuttering out a breath. You snapped your hands away from Azriel and backed up on the bed. The stark expression of hurt clashed with the clear release of pain on Azriel’s face. You wiped at your tears and knelt on the mattress. 

“I believe you. You don’t need to put yourself through that anymore,” you sniffed. “You should go. Until it can be fixed. You don’t need to—to hurt, Azriel.”

Your mate was shaking his head, rounding the other side of the bed. His face was only an inch from yours as he hovered over you. You noticed the shadows then—how they had pooled under your form and swiped up along your body. 

Azriel’s eyes bounced between yours. “I have hurt so much worse.”

His kiss was searing, and he grunted against your mouth in a fractured sound, but he did not hesitate. He kissed you with enough force to send you back, his hand coming around to catch your head before he could lose you. It hurt, you knew it hurt, but he kissed you with such fervor that you would have no clear way to tell. 

It wasn’t until another sound escaped the back of his throat, strained and small, that you pulled back. You’d lost yourself in him, and the world felt slanted when you returned. He chased you forward, but you pressed back. 

“Azriel, don’t—Stop doing this to yourself,” you ordered, fingers on your lips. “We can talk about this after. When I’m not hurting you.” 

“It’s not you.” 

He sounded so distraught that you had to press your hands together just to stop yourself from touching him. “I know. I know, but you’ve been through enough here.” 

“Me?” he exclaimed, incredulous with his soft tone. “I am hardly concerned about myself.” 

“We both have. We need to… take it slowly. Figure out how to help you first. I think—I think I want to talk to Vanessa—” 

“You are not going anywhere near her,” Azriel shot down, wiping a shaking hand over his face. “I almost lost you to her. She will die before she can look at you again.” 

“And what if she dies and this doesn’t go away? If you can never touch me again? Think about me?” 

“I was touching you just now. I can handle it.” 

“Azriel,” you warned, breathless, feelings still raging. “We will never get past this without fixing it. I want to try to speak with her.” 

His jaw jutted to the side. He looked to the ceiling. “Not alone.” 

“No. I think Rhysand should be there.” 

“And I will—” 

You shook your head. “Just Rhys, Azriel. I won’t be able to think if you’re there. Knowing that I’m hurting you from afar is enough.” 

Azriel let out a breathless, sardonic laugh. He stared past you to the open bedroom door. “I have done nothing but hurt you for weeks. If you truly think I care about myself—”

“It wasn’t really you—” 

“It was,” he firmly interrupted, looking ill as he took a step back and turned to you. “I heard myself say everything. I watched you through my eyes look broken and so sad and I did nothing about it.”

“You couldn’t.” 

“I could’ve. I could’ve… managed the pain better. Figured out what was happening to me. I felt like I was being split in two between her magic and loving you. I should’ve tried harder.” 

You wanted to blame him. The opening was there. Maybe he should’ve tried harder or been smarter—expected the worst and reached out for some kind of help. Maybe your family should have noticed the impossible change in him. Maybe there were a thousand people to blame other than yourself, and he was the main culprit. 

But Azriel was standing there, eyes set in determination and lined with sadness and so much pain—both physical and not—and you couldn’t blame him. His previous words still sliced through you as you remembered them, but they weren’t simple. They were paired by the rasped pieces of your mate that fell through burning cracks as he fought to get to you. 

Just, please, give me time, angel.

I will never stop—loving you.

I would always pick you.

Let me look at her again.

They all circled back to you. It hurt to remember them just as much as everything else. 

“Azriel,” you whispered. But you had nothing to offer. Your mate looked at you with beseeching eyes, and you had to close yours because it hurt too much to look at him. “After we fix it, okay? We’ll talk after.” 

Azriel swallowed. He nodded, but you didn’t see it.

~~

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, Rhys. I am positive.” 

“Madja said you were clear?” 

“Yes, Rhys. I am healthy and fine. And before you ask again, yes, I want to speak with her. Azriel knows—I talked to him, too.” 

Rhysand followed behind you and matched your rushed pace. “We have tried almost everything to get her to undo it. I’m not sure this is a good idea.” 

“Well, I suppose you haven’t really tried everything then, have you?” you quipped back, rounding another turn of stairs down the house. 

“Glad to see your spark is back,” the High Lord grumbled. “I hope this means we don’t have to look for a new archivist?” 

You ignored the incline of hope in his voice, stepping to the final door. “Later.” 

“Right.” 

The metal creaked when you pushed it open, an eerie sound accompanying the dingy air in the cell. You spotted Vanessa almost instantly, but even in a heap on the ground, she found the strength to roll her eyes. She groaned and knocked her head back into the stone. 

“Oh, wonderful. Another person to wax poetic about the moral implications of my actions. Tell me, will you recite Azriel’s undying love for you? Because I got that speech already. A few different iterations. I think I got the gist already.” 

You weren’t expecting the sarcasm. She had seemed so inherently lovely when you’d met her. A show, clearly. This attitude matched Madja’s recount. 

“If you get the gist, I don’t see the purpose,” you bit back. “What is it going to take for you to undo it? They will kill you, you know.”

“You’re the voice of reason, then?” 

“You almost killed me.” 

The smirk on Vanessa’s face fell. You heard Rhys’s small inhale of surprise. 

Vanessa dropped her gaze to the floor, so you continued. “Did you want that? To kill someone?” She refused to answer. “Because I don’t think you did. I think if I had died, it would have changed you. But you didn’t really think about that. You just wanted the end goal. The position. I was in the way, and Azriel was easy to use.” 

You kept your voice kind, but it came out like a whip in the enclosed space. “Did it feel nice? For him to love you?” 

That got her to respond. Vanessa scoffed. “It was never about love. Not that it would have led to that, anyway. He wouldn’t touch me. Spent every second with me in pain because he wouldn’t stop thinking about you. Figures why mates get roles in the court so easily.” 

The reminder of Azriel’s struggle made you press your lips into a line, the desire to scream at this woman overwhelming. Rhysand beat you to it. “Be careful of the words you choose.”

Her previous bitterness was sucked out of the room. Vanessa bowed her head and drew her knees in. 

You eyed the High Lord in your peripheral and stepped towards the shackled woman. “What did you want to be—in the inner circle, I mean.” 

“Healer,” she mumbled to the ground. 

“Have you ever killed anyone?” 

She flashed a furrowed brow. “Of course not. I took an oath for the betterment of our kind.” 

“But you almost broke that oath. To have me killed. To have Azriel.” 

Vanessa clenched her jaw, eyes watering. “I didn’t think it would work.” 

“You didn’t?” 

A tear escaped down her cheek. “I am good. I am good at what I do and I deserve to be recognized for it.” 

“You’ll only be recognized for this. You realize that, don’t you? So much unnecessary pain that you caused. Not a healer.” 

With that, you turned on your heel and left the cell, listening for Rhysand’s footsteps trailing behind you. He locked the door and quickened to catch up to your retreating figure. “Was that the plan going in?” he questioned. “Piss her off? Because I’ve tried that and—are you okay?” 

He grabbed your hand and halted you on the stairs. You shook in his grip. “I—Yes, that was the plan. I guess. I just didn’t expect her to upset me so much.” 

Rhysand winced and squeezed your wrist. “I can’t imagine. If it helps, she looks awful. Much worse than yesterday. I’ve tried looking in her mind, but it’s unclear. The hope is that she breaks soon.” 

“Well, I—” 

You stumbled, catching yourself on the stairs as you left Rhysand’s hold. The air was knocked from your lungs, and your struggle to inhale echoed in the enclosed walls of the staircase. Rhyand kneeled before you and placed a hand on your back. He was speaking, but you couldn’t hear a word from his mouth. 

A barrage of pressure met your chest. It waxed and waned with slight movement, a spark, and a flow of energy. It was the bond. You’d felt this before. This was what home felt like. 

Booming steps beat against the cracked stairs to the cellar. The shadows came before he did, rushing to you, invading your vision, tackling you to the ground if they’d had strength. 

And then Azriel. 

His form took up the expanse of the stairs. He looked wild and frantic upon first glance, but when he spotted you, gently rising and standing before him, he blinked, and you waited for the pain to come. For the wince. For the longing that met conflicted disinterest. 

You hadn’t realized how difficult it had become to look at him. 

But none of that came. 

Azriel looked at you with so much open devastation. With want and longing that wasn’t interrupted. He stared at you and he conveyed every feeling down the bond. His hand raised to touch your cheek and it didn’t falter, didn’t shake. 

“I feel you again,” you breathlessly whispered

Azriel lost his own breath at the sound of your voice, touch reverent on your face. “My incredible girl,” he praised. “I will never deserve you.” 

Elation overwrote all else. You brushed his hand as it rested on your cheek, forgetting, somehow, that that was the first time you’d touched him since this. Since losing him. Since he was someone else's, if only for a little while. Even if it wasn’t real. 

Azriel closed his eyes at the feeling, pressing his forehead down to meet yours. He kept in there for a moment and then pulled you into his chest. He hooked his chin over your head, and you could barely breathe in the space he’d created, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

“It’s done?” Rhysand asked. 

You clutched Azriel’s shirt between your fingers as his chest rumbled to respond. “It’s done.” 

“I’ll go take care of things then.” 

~~

Life didn’t go back to normal. Not completely. 

After the overwhelming relief of feeling the bond and not being the source of your mate’s continuous pain, things settled. You slept in bed that night, but Azriel had slept on the couch. You hadn’t argued, and Azriel hadn’t lingered by the door or hoped for another outcome. 

You weren’t entirely sure how to feel. 

He had kissed you before things were fixed—when it still put him in agony to show you he loved you. And now, nothing. Two days later, and nothing. 

He moved around the house like he was on thin ice. He made breakfast and stared at you from across the table. You left the house and he asked to come, following at a distance, pinching the material of your coat between his fingers to not lose you.

He wouldn’t touch you. After the reunion on the stairs, he had begun to hesitate. He would just stare. And watch how you moved around the house. And clench his jaw when you stared back. 

On the third day, you couldn’t take it. You felt him through the bond, but he wasn’t there. He was living like a ghost of himself, and you couldn’t help but figure you’d done something wrong. You’d expected him to cling to you as he used to. To love you in private, desperately, as he’d always done. When you brought it up, Azriel coughed on the water he was drinking. 

“What?” he shot out. 

“I, um, asked if you still love me the same. After everything. Or if it’s different now.” 

Azriel turned all focus to you, abandoning his cup on the table. “Of course I love you. I’ve told you endlessly.” 

“But you don’t love me differently? You act differently. It would be okay… if you did.”

It would not be okay. All sense of security would be pulled from you if Azriel revealed that he saw you differently. But you didn’t see any other explanation for his actions, and as Azriel gently sighed and looked resolute, you prepared yourself for the worst. 

“It is different,” he admitted, sucking the air from the room. 

“Okay. Okay, sure,” you stammered, brushing your hands down your pants. “Of course. That makes sense. Maybe we could, um, figure out the best time to talk about this because it’s still the same for me, and I can’t really handle talking about it now. We did this already, and—” 

“Oh, angel, no,” Azriel cooed. He moved from his seat, kneeling before you again, just as he had when he left you. And again when he begged you to understand. But this time, he met you with adoration and not pain. “I don’t know how to be around you right now. It’s difficult. I have an overwhelming feeling that I failed you, and it loops right behind the feeling of the bond going out—of you fading in my chest. I don’t feel like I deserve you, and at the same time, having you out of my sight is… I can’t explain it.” 

“We talked about this,” you said gently, fear evaporating. “You didn’t fail me, Azriel.” 

He shook his head, unwilling to argue. “My love, I wish your words would erase everything, but I will spend the rest of my life regretting walking into that shop. Not being able to touch you, to think about you, was the worst time of my life. Forgive me for not adjusting back easily. It was just as difficult to believe I could touch you whenever I wanted the first time you agreed to love me.” 

He spoke with a slight boyish smile, both of your hands in his. He kissed the knuckles on each hand. 

“I don’t blame you,” you said again, with different words, to make it known. 

“I know,” he huffed a laugh. “You should. Too forgiving, my mate.” 

“Please, kiss me. Enough of this.” 

The light, earnest apology was wiped from his eyes. Azriel rose from his knees, and you went with him, following his lips as he stared down at yours. He held your face, fingers trailing along the length of your neck. 

“I thought maybe I’d never get to do this again,” he shared, throat working, gaze locked on your mouth. 

“Foolish, my mate,” you whispered, breath puffing against Azriel’s skin. 

“It’s late.” He says in a way of greeting. You click your phone off and set it aside, pushing yourself up so you’re sitting. Jo Togame knows what you’re looking for without you having to ask for it, bending over the back of the couch to give you a kiss.

“I know.” You hum, making room on the couch for him to sit beside you. His long legs stretch out in front of him, and the exhaustion is almost a physical weight draped over him. A frown twists your lips as you watch him decompress. 

“How’d you know I was coming over?” He asks, voice low and arms folding over the back of the couch. You tug your knees to your chest, watching him carefully. He’s been beyond stressed lately, what with the total overhaul of how he and Choji ran Shishitoren. You don’t know all the details, but you can’t miss the toll it’s taking on your boyfriend. 

“Because I know you, Jo.” You say as if it’s that simple, because in your mind, it is. You can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, but something about the way he spoke on the phone earlier told you he’d be sneaking in, like he currently is. Maybe it was a particularly heavy sigh, or a silence that lasted too long. Whatever it was, you knew this was the way your night was going to end. 

“You didn’t have to stay up just ‘cause of me.” He tries to deflect. Parts of him are still strained, still that forced-hardened version of himself that he thought he needed to become in order to protect Choji. You don’t want him to linger in that space too long; you just want him. 

“Hm.” You hum once more, not acknowledging his comment. There’s no use arguing with him over it; you were always going to stay up to greet him. “I’ll warm up some leftovers. You’re going to eat them.”

There’s a finality to your voice that has the corner of Jo’s lips twitching skyward. 

“Am I?” There’s almost a taunt there, fighting through the exhaustion he’s battling. You nod, moving forward to lean on your knees so close you’re practically in his lap. 

“Yes.” You kiss his cheek as an excuse to get close. Not that you needed one, especially with the way he practically melts into you. One of his heavy hands settles atop your lap, thumb brushing in soothing lines over your skin. “You’re staying out late. And I get it; you’re trying to help Choji rebuild Shishitoren. But… you can’t do that if you burn yourself out.”

What you don’t say is that you can’t watch him burn himself out, but you know he hears the unsaid part. 

“I’m sorry.” He’s quiet, genuine. Whatever big fight that happened between Shishitoren and Furin a few weeks earlier had righted something fundamental in him that had been going haywire. You don’t know who to thank, but you’re so glad your love is coming back to the version of him you remember. “And thank you. I don’t deserve you.” 

“Yes, you do.” You kiss him sweetly, palm pressed against his cheek to hold him still. It’s slow and packed with emotions, so undeniably Jo Togame, you feel your affection for him burning down to the tips of your toes. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips. “You’ve just forgotten that you do.”

The hand in your lap turns into an arm tightened around your waist. He commits to your previous move, tugging in one smooth motion so that you’re seated fully in his lap. Without any prompting, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, and your heart nearly cracks in two when you feel his shaky breath brush across your exposed skin. 

And because there was no way Cassian and Azriel would ever let anything happen to you.

Besides, Rhysand knew when to use you.

Although Azriel was his spymaster, you were pretty good at staying swift-footed too. And you were frankly, very terrifying when you wanted to be.

You tread with power through the war camps, all of them looking at you as you went. All of their gazes wrecked with a predatory gaze. They either wanted to have their way with you, or kill you. Or both.

Rhys had said you could handle it, it was only supposed to be a check in. Cassian hadn't liked it, neither had Mor but it was Azriel who had almost- and for the first time- disobeyed his high lord to accompany you. But no, your brother wanted you to do this alone, so alone you would.

Just to show him you could.

'I can come with you,' Azriel had said, standing in your room as you tied your boots up. 'I won't even have to be seen.' At that, his shadows wrapped up your calf.

You smiled at them, as if they were his own pet. 'I'll manage just fine. Besides, i'm sure that's what Rhys wants, me needing a man.'

It had done nothing to calm your friend. The worry was still stuck between his brows, marring his handsome features. You'd held his cheeks, your wings hiding the two of you. His large ones (enough to swallow the both of you) over-lapped yours.

It was the last time you'd feel your wings.

The war camp wasn't as easy as you'd hoped. It was terror and horror in a place. You'd been to the court of nightmares, you'd gone to the slaughter of the spring court after they killed your family. But this, this was hell of another kind.

You had no idea how many days you'd been locked up, wrists bound in chains and hanging from the cell roof above you. Blood rolled down your arms from the force you'd tried to use to get them out. Your eye was swollen shut and your body trembled in pain.

All because they wanted to know your brothers secrets, and you wouldn't budge.

Your check was only supposed to be a day, but you were sure it had been longer. Days of endless pain and torture. Your uniform hung in rags of stripped material, your hair matted with blood and hiding your face.

You'd used the last of your energy to keep your walls up. You weren't anyone's mate, you didn't have anyone on the other end trying to feel what you felt. But should Rhys come looking (though you doubted it) you didn't want him to feel it. You didn't want anyone in your mind.

The gates opened with a sickening clash.

One of the Illyrian's knelt in front of you, his wings hiding those coming in behind you. 'Listen sweetheart. I don't want to make this any harder than it's about to get. All you have to do is tell us your brother's hide outs.'

You grit your teeth, staring down at the ground.

'So loyal, to a man who doesn't care if you live or die.'

Suddenly, your wings twitched as hands grasped them. Brute hands, the sort you wouldn't want touching any part of you.

Fear spiked in you, horror twisting your gut. 'What are you doing?'

'I told you I didn't want to get things messier, darling.'

You whipped your head from side to side, trying and failing to get a look at the assailants behind you. Your wings were being held apart, no matter how hard you tried to bat them away. You knew the sort of people they were, and what they did to girls like you.

That's when the begging started. 'No, no please. Anything. I'll do anything! Beat me, kill me, rape me, not my wings, please!'

'Anything?' the bastard asked, tongue poking out from his lips. 'Then tell me where your lord's hideouts are?'

You should betray him, you thought. He would never lose his wings for you. Perhaps it was stubbornness that kept you from, or maybe you were clinging to the last bit of love you want from him.

The bastard scoffed, 'anything, she says. Your brother has his own bitch wrapped around his finger.'

That's when they started hacking at your wings.

Your screams tore through your throat, blood spitting and dripping down your chin. Tears soon joined when they hacked away at the bone, the membrane, the flesh of it all. The three of them worked through your screams and your tears and your pain, tearing and cutting at it like it was nothing more than paper.

Not your whole life.

Let them hear you. You hoped your brother heard you, you hoped all and every court heard the pain.

Eventually, even you couldn't keep screaming. The only sound was the hacking away at your wings and the drops of blood.

'Now look at these beauties. I've got a perfect spot on my wall for these.'

They left you after that. There wasn't much more damage they could do. It already felt like they'd destroyed your life. You had never really thought about your wings, they were just part of you, as much as your wit or hair was. But they'd took it and now, you felt empty. Never would you fly with Azriel again, or use your wings to smack Cassian over the head.

Rhys, your dear brother, had took that from you.

The days blended in together after that. You were pooled in your own tears and blood, vomiting up anything they forced down your throat. No, they'd made it very clear they didn't want you dead. They just took pride in making it feel like you were.

At some point, you'd stopped reacting to the gate opening. You let them do whatever they wanted with you. Your wrists were still chained, arms still hanging up, your clothes hanging on your thin body in strips of dirt.

'No...' you heard a mumble. 'What have they done to you?'

Suddenly, the chains gave way and you lurched forward, with no strength to catch you. Luckily, you didn't have to, as strong and warm arms pulled you into his chest.

'Hey, wake up, look at me, dammit.'

Azriel.

You'd know the voice in the darkest days, in the pit of your worst nightmare you'd know.

You try to speak but your head's heavy, your lips are stone and your arms can't lift to hold onto him. You're exhausted, you're dying. The only thing you could do use all your strength to try to open your eyes.

'Please, please, look at me. You have to look at me,'

You were trying, you wanted to tell hm, snap at him, but you couldn't.

You felt Azriel shake, or maybe you were. Then, there was wet drops landing on your cheeks- you flinched.

'I'm sorry, i'm sorry. Rhys! Rhys! hurry up, please!' he was screaming. You'd never heard him scream before.

You heard the rush of feet at the cell doors, you knew it was your brother. You knew it from the presence of him, from the shuffling of feet and chocked sob. Your brother didn't cry, least of all for you.

'Her wings, oh mother, her wings,' said Azriel, his voice barley above that of a whisper.

Your wings. You didn't need reminding. They were gone, long and far gone. You were without a part of you, the very part of your soul that loved to be free. Never would you watch the stars up close or fly over everyone. Never race Cassian or make jokes with Az.

No, this would destroy you.

'y/n,' your half-brother called. 'No, y/n. Can you hear me?'

Your lips parted, mumbling. 'Hurts.'

Azriel's grip on you tightened. 'I know, we're gonna get you out of here, just hold on for me.'

You wanted to tell him you would hold on, you'd always need to hold on to him. That, no matter what he asks, you'd do it. To kill, to live, to breathe, to die.

And that's when it clicked. Amongst all the pain and the doubt. In your blood soaked clothes. In the fear you wouldn't make it, there was a tug. Weak and one-sided, but there. You knew you'd be safe with Azriel, knew you would always be with him.

Mate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The pain subsided to a dull ache, there and beating but not excruciating. You were warm and covered in a soft material. Nothing like the cell you'd been kept in. Your fingertips sunk into something soft- a bed. Your bed. It was familiar in its lavender scent to you and the silk wrapped around you gave you some semblance of warmth.

Your wings.

Even coming to consciousness was difficult. You were exhausted but light, without the weight of wings holding you down. You'd never realised how much you needed to feel that weight, to feel pulled down in order to be free.

Gone, all gone.

Your hand twitches around something cold, a shadow holding your hand, creeping up your side.

'You're awake, thank the couldron.'

It wasn't Azriel, master of the shadows. It wasn't your mate. Mate. The word replayed like a terrible song in your mind.

How dare the mother do this to Az. How dare he- nothing but loyal and kind- get stuck with a person made in darkness, who bled shadows, who's heart was so full of hate there wasn't room for love. They'd cursed Az, with you.

But luckily it wasn't him, it was Rhysand.

'It really happened,' you whispered, voice hurting from the screams.

He sighed. 'I'm sorry, i'm so sorry. We-we thought you weren't going to make it, you'd lost so much blood.'

In spite of the pain in your shoulders, you made a shift, turning from him as he ranted on about your condition.

'y/n... sister, please,' he said. He'd never called you sister before. He'd always been content to treat you just like you worked for him.

'Leave me alone.' you couldn't bare to look at him, couldn't bare to face him. The shadows at your hand grew heavier, as if more were piling on. You stretched your fingers away from them, trying to get them off you.

'Are you in any pain?' asked Rhys.

'Get out,' you mumbled.

The end of your bed dipped where Rhys settled, hand splayed on the covers, begging for your hand. 'y/n.'

'Get out!' you snapped, body tense and straining. You felt your wounds open up, blood wetting the bandage around you. But you didn't care. You'd happily bleed if you couldn't fly. A part of you, sick part of you wanted to be left there. It would be better than false sympathy.

Be better than your mate being disgusted.

'Get out!' you yelled again, voice tearing through an aching throat.

'I just want to help you! please, let me help you!' said Rhys, standing from your bed and walking around, trying to face you.

'I don't want your help!' you screamed. You reached for the closest thing you could, a jug of water and chucked it toward him. You aim was terrible, marred with pain and exhaustion. 'Get out!'

Though hesitant, Rhysand slowly started walking back to your door. He did it all looking at you, his hands out to show he wasn't gonna hurt you, but you didn't care. You went for the glasses next and chucked them but they landed against the door which he disappeared through.

Before it slid close you caught sight of Cassian , Mor and Azriel. All crowded, all waiting to see you.

You'd be happy if you never let them see you again.

'Can we see her?' you hear Mor ask.

'Give her time,' said Rhys.

The shadows at your hand grew heavier, darker, tighter.

'Go away!' you yelled at them. To anyone else, you probably looked crazy, screaming to darkness. But the shadows understood. They departed, slithering away and under the crack of your door where you could see the shadows of feet.

Tumbling from bed, you stumbled over and locked the door, leaning on it to and catching your breath. Your nightgown was starting to get sticky with blood all over again. When you closed your eyes, you pictured the cell, the rough hands holding you down, the chain keeping you up.

And the pain, it all washed over you. The hacking at your back, the sting of a slap. It hit you like a tone of bricks as you slid to the floor.

There was a knock, rattling the door.

'y/n,' Cassian. 'Please let us in.'

Us. You felt him on the other side. Your mate, his presence lingering. His shadows under the door, wanting to come in but keeping their distance.

He didn't know. It hadn't snapped for him, you could tell. It was one tug on your end, a chord in your heart. At least he couldn't feel what you did. At least you could shoulder it alone.

'Please.' his voice was almost your un-doing. He sounded so sad, so desperate. It hurt you just to think you were hurting him.

Tears streamed down your face as your curled your fingers into a tight fist. You assumed Mor had left with Rhys, leaving you there with the males.

Cass was always like a brother to you. Granted- a brother you had slept with once or twice- but he was your best friend. You'd always been close to him. But you'd always been good, a happy person.

You couldn't be that for them now, perhaps ever again.

It lasted like that for hours. Cassian and Az begging to come in, you curling into a ball with tears down your cheeks and blood down your back.

Eventually, they gave up. You couldn't hear them anymore and the shadows of their boots had disappeared.

Except Azriel's shadows that still lingered under your door. Maybe he'd ordered them to be there while they left you.

Eventually, you managed to find your footing on shaking legs. Your room was large, one of the largest. It was just as much a mess as it was when you'd left for you mission, clothes thrown over the place, books propped open on the pages you'd left them on. Everything was the same but could never be again.

It took you longer than you'd care to admit to get to your windows and throw the curtains close. Candles light at your request, the house looking after you as it had since you were a child.

You caught sight of yourself in the full length mirror. It seemed smaller, everything in the room felt too large and you too small, as if you were being swallowed by the expanse of it.

Your frame was small in the mirror, your hair disarrayed. Your eyes were red and shutting of their own accord from the tears that had drained you. The starving in the cells had made you look weak, made you feel weak.

And your back. There was no more looming black figures there, no more fluttering. There was just nothing. In spite of the ache as you lifted your arm, you felt around your back, feeling the hitch there, the lump from where they'd been torn from you.

You cry. You sob. You scream.

The scars were long and the nightdress was sticking to you by the blood you'd shed. All you could do, was hold yourself up as your body wracked with tears.

A breeze came from your windows, shadows tugging at the curtains.

You felt him before you saw him. You wanted to tell him to leave you but you couldn't talk without chocking. Without feeling like you couldn't breath.

Azriel had you in your arms before your knees could hit the ground. He fell with you, softening your body on the floor. His arms held you into his chest, his legs caging you into his body. His head rested on yours as he held you. He didn't try to talk, he didn't try to help. It was just him, you and his shadows.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Azriel remembered dozing off with you, his head on yours. His arms holding you into him, as if it was up to him to keep the sadness away and take it for you.

Afterall, you were his best friend. He should have been there for you, and he'd failed terribly by letting you get hurt and your wings stolen from you. He could hate himself every day for it, for letting you down. But it would never amount to what you felt for yourself and that killed him.

He could see it in the way you cried, in the way you were already keeping everyone out. He'd rather die than let you go through all the pain alone.

When his hands had been scarred by his brothers, you'd help heal him, tell him about everything he still was and all the power he still held in his hands. In the worst days, when he didn't let anyone touch him, he let you.

It was always you.

Azriel wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, or how deep. He was sure he was still with you, still in your bed.

His shadows crept up on him, engulfing him slowly and whispering to him. Your name, just your name on repeat. It was enough to lull him back into sleep, to keep him calm.

Gone. Missing. y'n. Roof.

He shot up and ran fastest than he ever had in his life. It was as if he'd never been asleep but had been fighting a battle with the way he raced over.

He burst through the doors, the cold hight air hitting him.

You stood facing the stars, your bloody back to him. It wasn't as much blood as when he'd found you, but it was still enough to put a lump in his throat.

Immediately his shadows fell to you, cascading down your body and wrapping around your waist. There was a breeze in the air, pushing your hair back and exposing more signs of the pain and torture you must have gone through.

'I'm not gonna jump, if that's what you're thinking,' you said. You didn't even have to turn to him. The shadows probably told you enough.

'Why are you up here?' he asked, walking to you slowly and with careful steps. As if every step closer could you push you away from him.

'I'll never feel the win properly again,' you answered.

Azriel gulped down his own pain. You’d never sounded so small. ‘Can you get away from the ledge?’

'I'm not on the ledge.'

'You're too close for my liking.'

'Leave if you don't like it.'

'Don't do this,' he said.

'Do what?' you asked, folding your arms over your chest. You were cold, out in the hight but you wanted to see the stars. Needed to see them.

'Make me leave. Make everyone leave you. I know that's what you're doing. It's what you do every time,' you could feel him dawning closer. His shadows were all around you, almost drowning you.

‘Every time,’ you scoff, stepping down and turning on him. ‘It’s not every day you lose your wings Azriel! But don’t let me stop you from leaving, flap them and go!’ You yelled, unable to stop yourself, no matter how hard you tried. You didn’t want to hurt him, you just wanted to be alone.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

'You jump and I’ll catch you,' he said. He was a step away, he could just reach out and touch, just a gentle caress. 'I swear it, whatever you do, I’ll follow. I’m not letting you get away.’

He watched your back shudder as he reached out, brushing knuckles against your shoulder blade. He heard your sharp inhale follow.

'Don’t think I won’t follow, y/n.'

Finally, you turned around in his shadows. You couldn’t meet his eyes but at least you could face his chest.

His hands were gentle on your shoulder as he rubbed it gently. 'Can I get Madja to clean you up?' He asked.

You nodded as he led you away. You truly did not deserve your mate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Fifty-two years later...

When Amarantha had trapped the high lords of Prythian under the mountain, it hadn't be a conscious choice to follow your half-brother down. How Amarantha had allowed it, you weren't sure, but perhaps she wanted to use you just like her brother, or she thought it would bring more pain for him to see you suffer under there too.

You and Rhysand had barley spoke the last two years.

It had took you almost two months to heal fully enough to leave your room, another few months to face your family again. But even then, everyone knew something had changed in you. You didn't laugh as loud or smile as wide.

Rhysand was careful to ever let you out on a mission. Mor tried to take you out every night. Cassian spent all day every day with you and Azriel- he'd healed you better than any nurse.

Still, you had not told him he was your mate.

Still, you thought he wouldn't want it.

Still, you cared for your brother enough to not want him to go alone.

But being under the mountain, you could avoid your mate. At a painful price.

Until her. Rhys's mate. He hadn't shut up about her since he first met her, much to your dismay as you had to sit around and listen- having absolutely nothing better to do. And it only got worse when she turned up under the mountain. She was declaring her love for Tamlin- again, annoying your brother, and throwing Lucien into danger- which rather angered you. You had nothing against the ginger.

Rhysand had once sent you to find the girl to summon her as part of a bargain he'd made. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to look too forceful. You'd been lucky enough to find the two tangled up in each other against a cold wall, clothes ripped and hips moving together.

'Well, well well,' you'd intterupted.

Tamlin all but growled at you, but feyre was looking over you- evidently confused. She had no idea who you were. You, in your skimpy outfit that Amarantha kept you in (they all dipped low at your back, showing off your scars) and your eyes that were like a night sky.

'Amarantha's looking for her pet and Rhysand is looking for his. Honestly, i'd be a bit more worried if I were you. You know, considering Lucien still has an eye to lose.'

The two parted with your words as you sent Tamlin back to his master, the high lord glaring at you as you went. While Feyre tried to fix herself.

'Rhysand is over there, better not keep him waiting.' That was the first time you met her, having no idea how much trouble she'd be worth. The family that she'd become.

But Rhysand made sure you knew it all. From when the bond snapped in him and he'd stumbled. He ranted and ranted as they climbed out.

If only you were so talkative about Azriel. If only you could talk about him with your brother. But you'd tried not to painfully think about him. Climbing out of the mountain. It was all you could think of.

Maybe he'd have forgotten you? it had been fifty years. He'd probably realised how happy he could be without having to take care of you.

Rhys was allowed out of the mountain, he'd felt the breeze in his hair but you hadn't in fifty long years. You stood there a moment, bathing in the warmth as everyone left, as everyone ran off for their families and courts and the war that was inevitable. Eventually, Rhys offered you his arm. 'Shall we go home?'

He winnowed you there, on the balcony of your home. In a cloud of black smoke, the two of you appeared.

He went first, slipping through the doors slowly- like it could all be taken from them any minute.

You were hesitant, taking a moment to glance at the landscape behind you. It hadn't changed, not at all. The mountains were still there, everyone was still alive. Your home. In the last years it hadn't felt like home, but how could anywhere ever feel so close in your heart.

When you could find your feat again, you managed to slip through the doors. You were suddenly aware of how little clothing you were wearing, just enough to cover your chest and run down your legs. A chill settled down your back, your scars would be on show. What a way to great them all after fifty years.

Mor had her arms around Rhys's shoulders, crying into his shoulder.

Behind them you caught Amren, with something like tears in her eyes. You were just about to tease her before a body barrelled into yours in a blur of red syphons and your feet were lifted from the ground.

'Cassian.'

His arms tightened around you. You shoulder started to dampen with tears, his tears. The last time you'd seen him cry around you was when he'd seen a dog with only three legs. 'I'm keeping you on a leash from now on, stupid idiot.'

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, a smile gracing your lips. 'Is that a promise?'

He held you longer, tighter, not daring to let you go but at least settling you on the ground. He sighed against your head, controlling himself. 'He's missed you, you know,' he said. He was the only one you'd told, about your mate. 'Now that you're back, tell him. He deserves to know.'

Cassian slowly pulled away, holding you at arms length and smiling at you. He kissed your cheeks and then your forehead before parting to Rhysand.

Mor approached you next, slapping you in the arm.

'Ow!'

'Why would you follow him?' she snapped.

You blinked at her before she took you by the arm she'd slapped and embraced you, like a sister would. You dared not looking over her shoulder to find the one who hadn't come to you. Maybe Cass had got it wrong...

Mor pulled away, wiping at her eyes.

Azriel was as beautiful as the day you left him. His hair was the same length, he was the same height. He was just as you left him. It was hard to tell fifty years had passed on him.

And inside of you, tugging in your soul and heart you felt the familiar string of gold throbbing. But you still didn't feel that tug. You'd hoped it would have faded from you after half a year separated. Or at least have snapped for him. But no such relief.

He approached you, slowly. As if he was scared of scaring you away. But you just stood there.

His arms were delicate and soft around you as he brought you into his chest. He still smelled the same, cedar wood and shadows. Shadows that wrapped around you, shielding you from the rest of the room. They caressed you, head to two.

You held onto each other for what could have been another fifty years, but this time, it wasn't so painful.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Although nobody wanted to part after yours and Rhysand's return, you were exhausted. A trip to Rita's could wait another night or two. The only thing you wanted to do was hide in your room.

Strangely, your room looked lived in. As if somebody had moved in since you'd left. A moment of anger replaced grief. Had they brought someone else and given them your room? but then you smelt it, Az.

Lying in bed that night, exhausted, you couldn't find sleep. You closed your eyes and pictured Amarantha. You'd never been afraid of her, you weren't afraid of anything. But you re-played the horrors. Watching servants beat Feyre, watching Amarantha use your brother and on the occasion, even you. How she flaunted. How the most powerful lords were weak.

Under your door, shadows seeped in, rushing across the room to you. You smiled, watching your hand disappear in their darkness.

'Azriel?' you called.

There was shifting on the other side of the door before he slipped in, clicking it shut behind him.

You sat up in bed, shadows moving with you. 'Couldn't sleep?'

He wondered in, looking around your room. 'Sleeping's been... hard.'

You rolled over, opening the blanket and nodding your head. You couldn't think about the bond, not yet. Not while he looked so.... ruined. Beautiful- the most beautiful person in the world, but sad. As he climbed in next to you, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders slumped and his wings too.

His eyes scanned over you. You were in a thin and silk night dress that only brushed your knees, but the way he looked at you, mother you could've been naked. 'Fifty years,' his voice sounded barley controlled. 'Fifty years. You followed your brother down for fifty years? Why would you do that?'

You gulp. 'I would've done it for any of you. Except maybe Amren, she'd probably enjoy the peace for fifty years.'

You go to brush your hair back but Azriel seizes your wrist. He was angry. That's why his voice was rough and his chest rising and falling with barley controlled emotions. Could he feel it? your nerves, your lying?

'You left. You should've stayed, y/n, you know Rhysand didn't want you under there with him,' he said. 'For fifty years I haven't been able to sleep through a night thinking about the pain you must have been going through. After I swore to keep you safe, after I promised to catch you every time!'

'You couldn't have stopped me. You didn't promise, Az.'

His grip grew tighter. 'It went without saying.'

You looked around his eyes, seeing the pain and grief there also. Slowly, you brought your other hand up. He flinched as you took his cheek but eventually settled as your thumb ran over his cheekbone. 'I won't leave again, ok? I promise.'

He gulped, letting go of your wrist and looking down. 'I slept here,' he mumbled, but just loud enough to hear you. 'I couldn't sleep in my room. This was the only place I could rest.'

Your heart stuttered. Your hand dropped from his cheek. This man was your mate. Your mate. Your only love, whether or not the cauldron deemed it.

Azriel took your hesitation. 'I-i'm sorry, you probably didn't want to hear that. I've probably ruined your one place of peace-'

'Stay,' you said, before you could think of what you were asking. 'Sleeping wasn't exactly easy under the mountain either. I just trust I won't have to put a wall of cushions between us.' as if you wanted that. As if you haven't thought about his calloused hands all over you.

Azriel smiled and stayed the night.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The third time he almost lost you, broke him...

Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”

“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”

You nodded along, humming.

She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”

You took a long gulp of your wine.

“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.

“Me?”

“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”

“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.

The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.

When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.

“It's um?” Trinity asked.

“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.

Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.

Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.

You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.

Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”

You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”

“Different how?” asked Dennis.

“Is it still casual?”

You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”

“You want to be more?”

You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"

“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”

With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.

“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”

She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.

“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”

“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.

On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.

She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.

You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G

“You're gonna leave them,” he said.

You and Trinity sat up. “What?”

“No!”

There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“Their medicine?” you asked.

Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”

You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.

“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”

The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.

“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.

“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”

You thought we was giving them too much credit.

Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”

He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”

That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.

Easier in practise when you work with them.

The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.

“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”

“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.

“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”

Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”

“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.

“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”

“Which one was Mark?” you asked.

“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”

Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.

You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”

“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”

“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.

Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.

“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”

Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”

“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”

Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.

“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.

“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.

Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”

“On a Wednesday? Nop.”

“Wanna come over?”

There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.

You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.

Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”

He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”

The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.

“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.

Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.

You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”

He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.

“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”

“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.

Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”

Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.

He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”

“Films,” you confirm.

“And talk.”

“We talk.”

Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”

“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.

You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.

Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”

You answered truthfully. “No.”

That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.

Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.

You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.

Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.

The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.

The next day passed like another dry spell.

It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.

It felt something like punishment.

Or a test.

By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.

“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.

“What? No.”

“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.

Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”

You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”

It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.

“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.

Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”

Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.

“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”

It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.

Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”

“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”

He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”

“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.

He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”

By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.

“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”

“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.

“No other choice.”

You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”

“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”

Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.

“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.

“Blood loss is slowing down.”

“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.

“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.

“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.

Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”

“Trin-” you snap.

“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”

You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.

It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!

But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.

“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.

“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.

“You think you could show me?”

You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.

“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”

You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.

“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”

You nodded with an absent mind.

Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”

You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.

He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”

Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?

With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.

You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.

“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.

You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-

Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.

“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.

If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.

“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.

You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.

“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”

Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.

“Good girl.”

When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.

“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.

Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”

“Where's Huckleberry?”

“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”

You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”

“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”

You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”

“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.

“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”

“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”

She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.

You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.

You'd never do that again.

Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.

Your phone was heavy in your pocket.

Call him.

But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.

You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.

Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.

You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-

That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.

You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.

Robby stood on the other side of the door.

You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”

His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”

You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.

Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.

“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”

“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.

“Oh?”

He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”

“Oh.”

His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”

You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”

“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.

“What-what-what do you mean?”

Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”

“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.

“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”

It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.

“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.

They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”

If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.

“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”

Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”

“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”

He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”

Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?

“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”

Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-

You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”

Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.

“Robby-”

“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”

“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.

He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”

Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?

“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”

His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”

Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”

Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.

His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.

Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”

“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.

You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”

“Good girl.”

You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.

He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.

You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.

“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.

His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”

His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.

“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.

Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.

“I should hope so.”

You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.

You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.

“Michael-”

He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.

Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.

He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.

“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.

Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.

All the while you wet down his scrubs.

“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.

You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.

Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”

His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.

“Mmph-”

“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”

Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.

His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.

His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.

You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”

He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.

“Michael-”

His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”

With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.

“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.

“All mine, huh?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless.

Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”

“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.

You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.

Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”

Slowly, he sank to his knees.

“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.

Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”

The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.

Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.

“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.

He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”

You shook your head.

Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.

His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.

“Want your cock, Robby-”

He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.

You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.

“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”

You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.

The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.

“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.

“Michael.”

He nodded.

“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.

Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-

Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”

When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-

Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.

His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”

Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.

“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.

The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.

Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.

“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.

“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”

Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.

His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”

“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.

Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.

“Oh god,” he uttered.

You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.

The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.

Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.

“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”

In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.

If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.

He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.

You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.

He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.

Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.

If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.

Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-

A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.

Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.

Robby stirred next to you. Last night.

He stayed.

“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.

You hummed, nodding and readying to move-

His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”

You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”

Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”

Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.

You hadn't closed the door.

“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.

“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”

The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.

You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.

Robby beside you didn't even stir.

“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.

He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.

You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come,” Jean growls, and his low, rough tone sends you off-kilter, shoving you headfirst over the precarious edge you’ve been foolishly dangling from.

In retrospect, perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.

–

In the long list of questionable decisions you’ve made today, one of the first catalysts guaranteeing inevitable disaster was your lack of foresight to lock your bedroom door before stripping off your shorts and underwear and preparing to lower yourself down onto the ridiculously large dildo that had been delivered in an even more comically large Amazon box this morning. 

Your best friend of many years and college roommate, Jean Kirstein, came home just as your makeshift “stand”—you’d hastily attached the suction cup at the base of the dildo to the last clean plate in the cabinet for lack of a better surface—went flying across the rug, ripping the few inches you’d manage to ease down onto right out of your lube-slick channel. You’d hit the floor with a thud, growling in frustration. This, understandably, had the unfortunate effect of attracting the concern of said roommate, who swiftly burst into your room as if you were in the middle of being robbed. 

The concern quickly morphed into hysterics as he spotted the giant purple dildo wiggling uselessly a few feet away from where you were lying on your stomach, punching the carpet and yelling at him to get out with as much dignity as you could muster.

“That’s my shirt,” he commented dryly, ignoring your pleas for him to forget everything he had just seen. 

“Well it was in my drawer,” you spat back, trying to push the dildo-plate behind you, although the damage was already done.

Jean leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “I have so many questions.”

“Our business hours are between 8 and 5, so you’ll have to call back tomorrow. Sorry,” you said with a dismissive wave, subtly kicking the plate and dildo beneath the bed. 

The suction cup chose that moment to pop off, and all ten inches came rolling back into view right where a bar of sunlight was stretching across the floor from the window. It would have almost looked artsy. 

If it weren’t a fucking dildo.

“I thought you ordered a lamp,” he observed mildly, motioning to the huge cardboard box you’d yet to take out to the recycling bin. 

“I’m gonna order you a fleshlight if you don’t shut up,” you grumbled, shoving on a pair of sweatpants.

Jean crinkled his nose, running a hand through his hair. “That thing’s so big, the landlord might start charging us for three tenants if he sees it. Is this a cry for help?”

“I’m trying to prepare myself for seducing Eren at the party Saturday night,” you whisper-yelled, as if anyone else was going to overhear you in your otherwise empty apartment. 

“Jaeger?!” he barked out with a disbelieving laugh. 

“Everyone says he’s huge. I don’t want it to be a disaster.”

“He’s not that fucking big!” he exclaimed incredulously. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can you like, go be somewhere tonight? Go get so high with Conny you forget you saw anything? I’m gonna go try in the bathroom instead.”

“You’re kicking me out of my own apartment so you can shove a giant, sparkly purple dildo inside of yourself imagining it’s Jaeger’s dork ass?”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me, Jean.”

He groaned. “The bathroom sounds like an even worse idea. You’ll slip, hit your head on something, blood will go everywhere, and we’ll lose the security deposit.”

“Or my plan will work, I’ll get laid this weekend, and you can stop complaining about how grumpy I’ve been lately,” you reasoned matter-of-factly. 

Jean’s hand came to rest on your shoulder as you attempted to push past him to leave the room, aforementioned dildo jiggling menacingly in your hand. “You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he said a little more softly, raising a brow as he cast another look at the offending object.

“I have lube!” you shot back defensively.

Jean glanced up at the ceiling, muttering something about regret under his breath before exhaling, “Let me help you.”

–

In all the years that you’ve known Jean, you’ve done an excellent job at keeping your little crush on him your best kept secret. A secret kept under the most formidable lock and key, buried deep in the depths of your psyche. Tucked away in the very back of a dusty, old cabinet like an expired can of corn. 

Objectively, you know Jean’s handsome. You’re well aware. 

With his intense, hazel eyes—ones that see everything. 

His tall, solid form. 

His sinfully curved, pink lips (and his habit of idly sliding his tongue along the bottom one). 

His long, dexterous fingers—a dangerous thought. 

That fucking mullet he let grow in, which shouldn’t be nearly as sexy as it is when he rolls right out of bed and leaves his room looking like a pillow-rumpled supermodel. 

He’s hot, okay?

And sure, you’ve drunkenly kissed at a few parties over the years. Jean’s seen your ass more times than you can count. Definitely your boobs that time he ran into the bathroom to puke while you were showering. Sometimes he has a habit of putting his head on your lap when you’re both on the couch, nudging you till you card your hands through his soft brown hair like a damn dog. 

But it’s always been platonic. 

Friendly. 

Two people who are just very, very comfortable with one another. Comfortable in knowing that neither intends to ruin their stable, solid friendship by carelessly sprinkling feelings into the mix. 

Comfortably going so far as to share the sordid details of your sex lives (or lack thereof, lately) while leaning against the kitchen counter eating take out food without batting an eye—though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t try to one up him sometimes when you feel that familiar, unwelcome twinge of jealousy yawning awake inside of you.

But this?

This is asking too much of your restraint to keep your heart walled off and your mouth clamped shut. In your defense, it was already left in pitiful tatters after grinning-and-bearing it throughout the seven-month-long nightmare that was Jean dating fucking Pieck. 

—

The next phase of your slew of terrible ideas today began with Jean sitting at the head of your bed, back against the wall, holding the dildo between his legs. Like your own personal fucking dildo holder. Grinning like this wasn’t the single most awkward thing the two of you have ever done (save for the time you both fell asleep with your head in his lap on the couch and woke up to his accidental boner poking you in the ear—neither of you ever mentioned that again). 

And it would have been totally fine if it worked out like you imagined in your head the moment he pitched it—you sinking down onto the silicone schlong a few times, stuffing in as much as you could while he held it still. Then letting him carry on with his day while you lay there in bed for a little while with it lodged inside of you, getting yourself used to the stretch. Totally fine. 

The reality of the situation was far different, entailing a sticky, slippery mess of lube coating of your hands and a dildo that bent and flopped in every direction as you tried to carefully impale yourself on it while maintaining some sense of dignity. 

You had given up fairly quickly, butting your head against Jean’s collarbone and sighing as you asked if he thought Eren would go slow. 

He was quiet for a moment. 

“…do you trust me?” Jean had asked carefully, like his next suggestion wasn’t going to send you spiraling.

Like “Just sit on my dick, as a friend!” wasn’t the most fucking confusing statement your heart, brain, and vagina had ever heard.

–

Which is how you find yourself in your current predicament, straddling Jean Kirstein’s lap with far more inches of him than you’d realized he’d been keeping tucked away buried to the hilt in the velvety heat between your thighs. Raw, skin-to-fucking-skin, because you’re both in a miserable dry spell with not a single condom to be found between the two of you. And somehow the combination of “known you for half of my life” and “just got tested” and “IUD” sounded better than one of you being tasked with trudging to the pharmacy.

Or, god fucking forbid, going down one floor to ask Conny for one.

Nope. 

You have three days to prepare yourself for whatever may come with Eren, so sitting on your best friend’s intimidatingly large dick sans condom the least of your worries. Even if it feels so incredible you’re literally silently choking on the moan threatening to spill past your lips. 

Even if you fucking swear you heard his breath hitch when the thick head of his cock began to slip past your entrance, stretching you open wide as he breached your damp channel. 

Even if he hardly had to touch himself to get hard for this. 

Even if his gaze darkened when you choked out, “Jean, your dick is huge.”

This was a terrible idea. 

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come.”

“Doing what?!” you ask, exasperated.

He rests his hands on your waist, “Doing this,” and squeezes firmly, “on my dick.”

“This isn’t even sex,” you tell him, ignoring the way the close proximity of his hazel eyes sets a flurry of emotion stuttering in your chest. “It’s like, cockwarming at best. You can’t come from cockwarming if you’re not even turned on.”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Do you even know how tight you are?”

“That’s obviously why I was worried about Ere—”

“It’s like this,” he cuts you off, wrapping a hand around your throat. It’s a loose hold, only meant to prove a snarky point, but a spark of arousal seeps through your body anyway at the mere suggestion. His eyes widen a fraction at the traitorous way your walls clamp down on him even harder in response. “What, you into being choked?”

“I’m into a lot of things, Jeanie,” you tell him haughtily, trying to ignore the heat blistering beneath your skin.

“Like dumb idiots named Eren Jaeger?” he counters, making to grab for the tongue you’re currently sticking out at him. 

If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think Jean sounds like he’s jealous. 

Which he definitely isn’t. 

But you poke the bear anyway. 

“What, are you jealous?”

He shifts slightly, and you bite your lip to stifle the moan as your cunt spasms around the pressure from his cock. 

If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, his brow furrows as the corners of his mouth tilt downward slightly. “I just think you deserve better.”

You tug on his earlobe, letting out a weak laugh in an attempt to dispel the sticky, messy feeling of hope trying desperately to cling to the arousal stirring in your gut. “Says the guy who’s currently fucking me.”

Jean scoffs and deadpans, “I thought this wasn’t sex.”

Who are you kidding? Certainly not the tension coiling ruthlessly in your abdomen. 

You move a little, trying and failing to relieve the sensation of hot wax dripping down your spine. Instead, you let out a tiny, strangled noise when your throbbing clit presses down against his pelvis, the resulting flood of pleasure setting every nerve ending in your body on fire.

The way he growls out your name through gritted teeth is a warning, but his low tone only serves to stoke the flames licking their way up between your thighs. 

You move again, inhaling sharply through your nose.

“Fuck,” he groans quietly, head hitting the wall behind him with a resounding thud. 

You’re not sure if he does it on purpose, but his hands find their way back to your hips, calloused fingertips pressing directly against your skin as he slides them up beneath your shirt. His shirt. 

The next time you rock against him, his grip on you tightens. And then, you feel it—he tugs you forward. 

You lean further into him, without really meaning to, forehead coming to rest against his. “What are we…”

“Just keep going,” he murmurs. 

He shifts again, sinking down lower so his back is pressed against the mattress, and you realize the angle gives you more purchase to grind down against him when he pulls at your waist, thumbs lazily skimming your hip bones. 

“Jean…” you whisper, not really sure what else you intend to say. 

“I want you to feel good,” he says softly, pushing his hips against you, even though he’s snugly bottomed out. 

It feels so fucking good—

—laying atop Jean while he stares back up at you, pupils clearly dilated in arousal—

—watching his eyes fall shut as you run a hand along the stubble on his jaw—

—knowing he’s well aware the slickness between your legs is no longer from the lube, your cunt gushing with arousal at the feeling of being stuffed deep with his thick cock. 

So you tell yourself you’ll figure the rest out later when you start to shamelessly grind down against him. 

“You don’t have to be quiet for me,” Jean teases when you cough to cover up a gasp.

Your answering moan is nearly a whimper, and Jean’s muscles tense beneath you as he continues to guide your hips. He doesn’t try to pull his cock out from where it’s lodged inside of you, doesn’t start thrusting and fucking up into you. He just lets you chase the clitoral stimulation you so desperately need while you’re cockwarming him, groaning along with you at each needy drag. 

“Good girl, that’s it.”

This is far more intimate than you bargained for, the gentle slide of his hands up your back scraping your heart out bit-by-bit. 

“Holy shit, you don’t know how close I am to coming right now,” he moans in a gravelly, unsteady tone. 

All you can do is whimper his name when the rubber band suddenly snaps in response, your body trembling as a wave of white-hot pleasure crashes over you. 

And then Jean’s hands are cupping your face, his lips crashing into yours. He kisses you fiercely as you whine and shudder through your orgasm, moaning into your mouth as you card your fingers through his hair. You can feel his cock throb inside of you, pulsing with need as your tight cunt spasms and contracts, relentlessly squeezing his shaft while you soak him with your release. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s groaning, both of you too drunk on pleasure to move when he suddenly climaxes, cock pumping thick, hot ropes of cum deep in your pussy. 

Chests heaving, Jean slowly sits up, forehead falling against your shoulder as he wraps his arms around your waist. 

After a few minutes of silence, he finally murmurs, “Don’t fuck Jaeger.”

You tilt his head upward, finger resting just below his chin, skimming the stubble that’s there. Too many emotions are swimming in his hazel eyes, more than you can identify—save for one that you recognize with a jolt of clarity. It’s the way you look at him, when he’s not paying attention.

Longing. 

Desire. 

Soft, gentle, unfiltered affection. 

This time, you’re the one to close the distance between your mouths, brushing your lips against his. 

“Who?” you ask, smiling into the kiss. 

Jean chuckles, the sound like warm honey, and he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of your head. Though you remain seated on his softening length, cum begins to seep from your slick heat, pooling on his balls and abdomen. 

He goes to move, but you don’t budge. “You wanna get cleaned up?”

You shake your head, the corner of your mouth tilting upward with a smirk. “I’m comfortable.”

Jean bites his lower lip, huffing, “My cum’s dripping all over, and I’m two seconds from getting hard again if you keep squeezing down on me like that.”

Feigning a look of innocence, you flex the muscles in your tight, soaked channel one more time for good measure. He chokes, and you grin. 

“Good.”

Zuko entered the room with a tray, his footsteps intentionally soft. He had traded the regal stride of a Fire Lord for the hesitant shuffle of a man walking on thin ice. He looked older—not just from the years that had passed since the war, but from the exhaustion etched into the lines around his golden eyes.

"I brought the tea Iroh sent from Ba Sing Se," he murmured, setting the tray down. "It’s a blend meant to settle the spirit."

(Y/N) didn’t turn her head. Her gaze remained fixed on the balcony, where the sunlight of Caldera City mocked her with its vibrancy. "My spirit is settled, Zuko. It’s buried. There’s a difference."

Zuko flinched. He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out for her hand, but stopped himself. He remembered the warrior she had been—the way she used to dance through fire-bending forms, her laughter a sharp, bright contrast to his own brooding nature. Now, she was a ghost haunting her own skin.

"The healers are coming back tomorrow," he said, his voice straining to hold onto a hope that she clearly didn’t share. "Katara is arriving from the South Pole. She thinks that with the poison fully purged, we can start the physical—"

"I can’t feel my feet." Her voice was a flat, jagged thing. "I can’t feel the floor. I can’t even feel the sheets against my skin unless I look down to confirm they’re there. Why are we pretending, Zuko? Why are you keeping me in this cage?"

"It’s not a cage, (Y/N). It’s your home."

"A home is a place you live in," she snapped, finally looking at him. Her eyes were rimmed with red, the fire in them replaced by a cold, dark resentment. "I’m just waiting here. I’m a statue you have to dust off and feed ocassionally."

Zuko stood up abruptly, the tray rattling. "Don't say that. You’re the woman I love. You’re the person who stood by me when the whole world wanted my head. I am not giving up on you just because you’ve decided to give up on yourself."

He stormed out, the heavy doors thudding shut behind him. (Y/N) closed her eyes, a single tear tracking a path down her cheek. She hated him for his hope. It felt like a demand she couldn’t meet.

The arrival of the Gaang should have felt like a reunion, but to (Y/N), it felt like a funeral procession. Sokka’s jokes were forced and died quickly in the heavy air of her chambers. Aang’s gentle smile was tempered by a profound sadness he couldn't quite hide behind his monk’s composure. Toph, usually the loudest of them all, was uncharacteristically quiet, her feet sensing the stillness in (Y/N)’s lower half—a vibration that simply wasn't there.

The days blurred into a cycle of humiliation and pain. There were the stretches that made her muscles scream while her nerves remained silent. There were the moments when she tried to stand, supported by Aang’s airbending and Zuko’s strong arms, only to collapse into a heap of useless limbs and sob quietly into Zuko’s chest.

The worst part was the pity. It was in the way they whispered in the hallways, the way they looked at her like she was a broken vase, sharp pieces sprawled on the floor.

One evening, after a particularly grueling session where she had failed to even twitch a muscle, (Y/N) found herself alone with Zuko in the gardens. He had carried her to a stone bench overlooking the koi pond.

"I wish you would just yell at me," (Y/N) whispered, watching a bright orange fish break the surface. "I wish you’d get angry that I’m not getting better."

Zuko sat beside her, his hand finally finding hers and gripping it tight. "I am angry, (Y/N). I’m furious. I’m angry at the men who did this. I’m angry at the universe for taking so much from someone who gave everything to save it. But I could never be angry at you for being hurt."

"I’m not hurt," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I’m broken."

"The Fire Nation was broken," Zuko said firmly. "I was broken. My face is a map of where I was broken. But we’re still here. You’re still here."

"I’d rather be dead than be a burden," she spat, the words tasting like ash.

Zuko’s grip tightened until it almost hurt. "You are not a burden. You are my heart. If I have to carry you for the next fifty years, I will do it gladly. But don’t you dare tell me your life is worth less because you can't walk."

The thought of never walking again was a physical weight. A suffocating blanket that neither of them could throw off. (Y/N) felt like a spirit, watching her life happen from the sidelines, while Zuko felt like he was watching the person he loved drown in a shallow pool, unable to pull her out.

A week later, Katara cleared the room. Even Zuko was shooed out.

The room was filled with the scent of jasmine and the thick, humid heat of the natural springs. Katara helped (Y/N) sit, and lowered her slowly into a deep stone tub filled with mineral-rich water. She stood behind her outside of the tub, her sleeves rolled up, her movements fluid and calm.

As the warm water rose to (Y/N)’s waist, she felt... nothing. Just the familiar, terrifying void where her lower body should be.

"I know that look," Katara said softly, her hands moving through the water, creating gentle ripples that pulsed against (Y/N)’s skin.

"What look?" (Y/N) asked, her head lolling back against the rim.

"The look of someone who has decided the battle is over before the final blow is struck." Katara’s voice wasn't judgmental; it was weary. "I saw it in the mirror for months after the war. I saw it in my father when my mother was taken. It’s the look of someone who thinks their trauma is the only thing left of them."

(Y/N) laughed, a dry, bitter sound. "You’re the Master Healer, Katara. You’re the hero. You don't get to talk to me about being a victim."

"I was a girl in a village who watched her mother get taken to save her," Katara said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. "I spent years carrying the weight of an entire tribe on my shoulders while the boy I loved was the target of the entire world. I have been broken in ways that don't show up physically. I’ve felt that same helplessness—that same belief that the world would be better off if I just disappeared into the snow."

Katara moved closer, her hands glowing with a soft, blue light as she submerged them near (Y/N)’s hips.

"The poison is gone, (Y/N). The physical blockage is cleared. What’s left is the wall you’ve built to protect yourself from the disappointment of failing. You’re so afraid of trying and failing that you’ve chosen to fail by default."

"It hurts," (Y/N) whispered, her eyes watering. "Every time I try and nothing happens, it kills a little more of me."

"Then let it kill the part of you that’s afraid," Katara urged. She took (Y/N)’s hand under the water, pressing it against her own thigh. "Feel the water. Don't try to move your legs. Just feel the heat. Feel the weight of it. Your body is still yours. It’s not your enemy."

(Y/N) sobbed, her shoulders shaking. "I can’t. Katara, I can’t."

"You can," Katara insisted, her voice a steady anchor in the steam. "I’m not asking you to walk. I’m not asking you to stand. I’m asking you to exist in this moment. Right here. With me."

Katara’s bending became more focused. The water began to swirl in rhythmic patterns around (Y/N)’s feet, stimulating the nerve endings with precise, pressured currents.

"The world is still waiting for you," Katara whispered. "Zuko is sitting outside that door, probably burning a hole in the floorboards with his pacing. He doesn’t want a warrior. He wants you. But you have to want you, too."

(Y/N) looked down through the clear, steaming water. She saw her legs, pale and still. She thought of the poison, the cold, metallic slide of it through her veins. She thought of the anger she had used as a shield to keep Zuko at a distance, because if she pushed him away, she wouldn't have to see her own reflection in his worried eyes.

She breathed in the jasmine. She let the warmth of the spring seep into her pores. She stopped fighting the water and started listening to it.

Just one thing, she thought. Just one small proof that I’m still in here.

She focused every ounce of her will—the same will that had faced down armies and mastered elements—into the tip of her right foot. She didn't think about the miles she couldn't walk. She thought about a single, infinitesimal point of contact between her mind and her flesh.

Move.

Deep beneath the surface, shrouded by the blue glow of Katara’s healing and the swirling eddies of the spring, a big toe twitched. It was a movement of perhaps a fraction of an inch, a tiny ripple in the vast stillness of her paralysis.

(Y/N) gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Katara’s eyes widened. She didn't cheer. She didn't shout. She simply squeezed (Y/N)’s hand, a fierce, knowing smile breaking across her face. "I saw it."

(Y/N) leaned her forehead against Katara’s shoulder, her tears finally falling for a different reason. The feeling of hopelessness hadn't vanished; the road ahead was still long, steep, and paved with a thousand more failures. But the silence had been broken.

Outside the door, Zuko heard the sound of (Y/N) weeping—not the hollow, hopeless sound of the last six months, but a raw, cleansing sound. He leaned his head against the wood, closing his eyes as his own breath hitched in relief. For the first time since the accident, the fire in his heart didn't feel like it was flickering out. It felt like a spark hitting dry kindling.

They weren't whole yet, but they were no longer just waiting to end.

"oh fuck- shut up, will you? i'm t-trying... mmnh... to focus," you manage out. trying to sound stern is basically an impossibility when you've got his cock smushed inside you to the hilt.

his hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, thighs trembling beneath you as you sink down on him and then rock your hips back and forth while completely stuffed. this method doesn't give him as much pleasure as it does for you, but you don't care. this isn't for his pleasure, or your connection. all you care about is how deep he hits when you sink all the way, how your cunt's clenching so tight he can't stop shaking.

"f-fuck-!" he whines again pathetically through the lace in his mouth, drool soaking the crotch of your panties where they're pressed over his mouth and nose. his eyes are wide, glassy, fixed on the place where you meet him. it's humiliating how desperate he looks.

"you like getting used, huh?" you pant, beginning to bounce again so the overstimulation hits once more. you let his big, drooling cock drag and catch with each rough bounce. it makes that slick, wet sound every time you move.

"ah- ye-yeah, like it soooo much," he moans so loud it vibrates through your soaked panties, tries to say something, but you shove your panties harder into his face so you don't hear what shit he has to say. his cock pulses again and you can feel more warmth spill out of you, overflowing from the tip, dripping down to his balls in glooping heaps. "such a -shit- big fucking cock wasted on a nobody like ngh! you. y-you don't deserve it."

your voice cracks halfway through but you don't stop or pretend this is anything but using him like he's just a toy that happens to twitch and moan and cum without your permission. your hands are braced on his chest for balance, his skin hot and slick under your palms from how hard he's sweating, poor thing.

you push the underwear just enough to see his eyes, which are teary and rolled back. his eyes clamp shut when you drop down especially hard, and his whole body jerks like he's seizing. his stomach tightens under your hands but the second you grind down again deep, slow and mean, he lets out a strangled sob into your panties, soaked through with spit and the sharp scent of your cunt.

"mmnh, fuck, look at you," you breathe out, "you're crying, sweetheart. is it too much?" you coo mockingly, dragging your hips up until just his swollen tip is nestled at the edge of your cunt, nearly pulling out. the area where his cockhead enters you is smeared in cum and slick. he scrabbles at your arms, needing to be back inside you. then, without warning, you slam back down, clamping hard on him.

he screams behind the fabric. legs kicking. you begin grinding down hard as punishment until you feel another twitch inside you, his cock thickening, spurting another weak, creamy load. his fifth? sixth? doesn't matter.

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It stayed heavy on your mind. It wasn’t as if you didn’t have the natural urges for intimacy, you were a grown woman after all, but the right opportunity never seemed to preset itself, and that wasn’t a fact you often dwelled on. You didn’t want to give yourself up to a one-night stand, risk a bad first experience, but you also rarely had time to go on dates and uncover a real connection.

So you avoided it all together.

However, it’d be a lie to say you haven’t been under extra stress lately. Not for any particular reason, you’ve just seemed more prone to feeling overwhelmed. You’ve tried mediation, yoga, breathing exercises, more midday walks. Nothing has seemed to work.

One of your friends recommended sex.

And surprisingly, you haven’t been able to stop considering it. The more people you talk to about it, the more people who vouch for the fact that it’s the perfect thing to help you relieve how tense you’ve been.

But you can’t just spontaneously go out and bring someone to bed, at least not yet. You need a way to break the ice, have a nice first experience full of trust and comfort to erase your hesitance. After that, you can be impetuous. Stop fearing something not working out, because it won’t be your first encounter, and it won’t be your last.

So, you need to find someone to lose your virginity to. Someone you trust, who you know respects you and wouldn’t take advantage of your vulnerability for their own gain. 

There’s one person in your life who fits that description, and you’re on your way down to see him right now.

-

Wriothesley smiles at you when you reach his office at the top of the staircase, but it falls a fraction when you don’t return it. You’re nervous, is all. It isn’t everyday that you ask someone, whose relationship with you has been entirely platonic up to this point, if they’d be willing to have sex with you purely so you can gain the confidence to go out and do so with other people.

God. He might never want to talk to you again.

“Hi,” you greet, forcing the word out through the smallest opening in your windpipe. Your throat feels all clogged up, your anxiety visible everywhere from the spike in your heart rate to the way your fingers are nervously fidgeting with your shirt.

Wriothesley frowns when you take a seat across from him, a cup of tea already prepared in front of you. He’s clearly picked up on your state. “Are you feeling alright?”

You manage a nod, cupping your hands around the warm ceramic cup. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just…” You knit your eyebrows together, your mouth hanging open as you reluctantly meet his eyes. His brows are resting low above his blue hues, a crease between them enunciating his concern. “I wanted to talk about something.”

Wriothesley grins at that. “You can talk about whatever you want. Is something troubling you?”

“I—Well, sort of.” You settle on. “Do you remember what I brought up a few weeks ago?”

Wriothesley chuckles, taking a sip from his own tea, the cup already half empty. You showed up a little bit later than usual, but only because you turned around about five times on the way here before ultimately deciding you had to at least try. “I’m going to need you to be a little more specific.”

Right. You’ve talked about a lot of things. Still, you were hoping he’d get the message just so you wouldn’t have to say it.

“We were talking about dating,” you confirm, and Wriothesley offers you a brief nod. “Um, I mentioned a… Lack of experience.”

Wriothesley looks you up and down, his face twisting like he’s surprised to see you bring this up again. You suppose he did dismiss the subject quite swiftly last time. “I see. Yes, I remember.”

“Okay. Perfect.” You drop your hands to your thighs, nervously flattening your palms over the fabric of your skirt. “It’s about that.”

He nods slowly, his confusion radiating off of him in a way that somehow makes you feel warmer. For a man that’s meant to personify ice, you consider him anything but cold. “Alright.”

You clear your throat, and suddenly your train of thought is lost to the currents on the other side of these metal walls. You bite down on your lip, looking anywhere but his eyes. 

Will you have sex with me?

Too blunt. Way too blunt. 

“Um,” you nearly choke. “When we spoke, and I told you that I, um, have never really gone further than kissing with anyone.”

Wriothesley nods along again, like the trajectory of this conversation even has him too freaked out to verbally guide you along your rambling. You’ve been vulnerable with him before, with embarrassing childhood stories or your deepest insecurities. You probably looked similar to how you do now, shying away from his gaze while also over analyzing every muscle in his face, the most microscopic movements, wanting to know what each word makes him think of you.

Then, he would help you along, shooting out encouraging sentences about how your secrets were safe with him and how he thought too highly of the woman you were now to be too judgmental of any mistakes made in the past. It was a grace you offered him, too, when he told you about how he wound up in the fortress in the first place.

However, you always thought what he did back then, despite how the court viewed it, was a perfect reflection of the man he grew into. Selfless. Assertive. Caring. A person willing to put their bodies and their images on the line in favour of another who might need their help, especially those more vulnerable than them.

You falling face-first into a mud puddle in front of all your peers at the ripe age of seven was surely not a reflection of who you are now. At least, you hope he didn’t think so.

“You said something to me,” you continue finally. “You said, ‘really? You?’”

Wriothesley cocks an eyebrow, one hand wrapped around his teacup and his opposite forearm resting against his desk. He leans forward, as invested in what you have to say as ever. “Um, I did say that, yes.”

“What did you mean by that?”

Wriothesley barks out a small laugh, his rested arm coming up to his jaw as his eyes flicker away for a second. Awkwardness from him is an odd sight. Even when he opened up to you about his life, each word was without stuttering or hesitance, and he held your eyes during even the most gruesome details. Now he can barely look at you.

“I just meant, well, look at you.” He gestures to you subtly, and your face shifts. “I was just caught off guard to find that opportunities haven’t arose for you already.”

“I…” You start, thrown off even more by how he started that sentence. Look at you. Look at what? What is anything he says ever supposed to mean? “Opportunities have come around, I had boyfriends when I was in school and stuff, it’s been more of a choice thing.”

He drops his arm to the desk again. “Hm. May I ask why?”

You shrug, pulling your chair a bit closer, some of your tenseness easing away now that you’ve managed to begin the discussion. However, you’ve yet to ask him to sleep with you in a friendly-favour way. “I didn’t want to give that part of myself to someone who would make me regret it, or look back at it with resentment. I want to have a good first experience, and I’ve never met anyone that made me confident it would be good with them.”

You meet his eyes, finally, looking you over in thought. “That’s respectable.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“It’s just admirable that you’ve maintained that respect for yourself, and didn’t lose it to teenage impulsiveness or the similar urges that come with adulthood. I respect that, is all. The restraint, I suppose.”

The compliment, if that’s what you would call it, drills it’s way into your bloodstream, a new, unfamiliar warmth flowing through your veins. 

“And did you?” You ask quietly. 

He chuckles, dropping his head. “Well, I’ve been a free man for quite some time. I’m not in the same boat as you, but there’s nothing significant enough in my list of experiences to dwell on.”

Comforting. You think. Maybe?

He looks up at you again, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to ease out the tension of such a delicate subject. “Is that all you wanted to discuss?”

“Uh, no.” You confirm quickly. You can quite literally see the way his body stiffens once more. “I’ve, uh, been thinking lately.”

“Okay. And?”

“I’ve been stressed out.” You say quickly. “You know how busy I’ve been, I mean, you’ve been busy, too, with paperwork and a rise in inmate incidents and—”

He utters your name to cut you off, your eyes snapping to his.

“May I ask, does this subject still pertain to your virginity?”

You nod weakly. You don’t believe you ever worded it so bluntly yourself, but alright.

Wriothesley looks confused, sipping his tea. “…Alright. Go on.”

You huff. “Again, I’ve been really stressed, and I haven’t been able to figure out how to feel better. I’ve gone on more walks, I got into yoga, I’ve been sleeping more, eating healthier, I even paid a visit to Sigewinne while visiting a few weeks ago, and she prescribed me medication that hasn’t done a thing.”

Wriothesley furrows his eyebrows, a deep frown enveloping his features. “I’m sorry. You never mentioned this to me. I have herbal teas that help me when—”

“Thank you, Wrio, but that’s not…” You grip the edge of the desk, sighing. “I’ve tried everything. The teas, the exercises, name it, I gave it a shot. To no avail. I started talking to a lot of my friends about it, and the only thing any of them have recommended me that I haven’t already tried is, well,” you pause for a moment. “Sex.”

He freezes, eyebrows firmly planted high on his forehead, the pale skin crinkled in surprise.

“Oh.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Which is a little bit of a roadblock for me, as I’ve explained.”

Wriothesley carefully places his teacup down, the ceramic hitting the plate with a soft clink that manages to rattle you. “I see.”

“I can’t just…” You breathe deeply, your voice shaking with the vulnerability of all this. “Go out and find someone to help me alleviate my stress. Like I said, I at least want my first time to matter, to be memorable and comfortable. Then, after that, I can be reckless without it tainting a milestone that’s important to me.” 

You pray that your words make sense to him. That he doesn’t think you’re being silly or unreasonable. 

He watches you closely, taking in your words. “Have you tried…” He makes a face, halfway between a cringe and an embarrassed scowl. “Doing it yourself?”

Your heart skips a beat. “Uh—Um, yeah, I tried. It’s not really the same.”

It’s true. If anything, trying to handle it yourself just stressed you out more, because it suffocated you with the feeling of it not being enough. You need more.

Him. To be specific. You need him.

You haven’t quite found a solid opening into confessing that yet.

Wriothesley wets his bottom lip. “Okay.” He enunciates the word. “I—What—What’s your plan, then?”

You’re my plan.

“I want that option,” you mumble. All your blood, equipped with the extra warmth he orchestrated, floods your face. “To be able to go out and let off some steam when I get like this. But like I said, I need to have a good first experience first.” You study his plain expression, whatever is going on inside his head barely displaying on his masculine features. “Does that make sense?”

You can feel yourself stalling, word-vomiting all over his wooden desk. You feel a different kind of exposed than you have with him in the past. Not less comfortable, but more expectant. More scary, maybe. Like it holds more weight.

Wriothesley huffs, sluggishly leaning back in his seat, his limbs stiff and constantly readjusting like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Um, I mean, alright. Yeah, that makes sense. I know some men that I trust would be good to you, and I’m sure they’d be—”

No. God no. 

“No—Wriothesley, I don’t want a stranger.”

“I know.” He nods. “It wouldn’t be a stranger. Do you remember Nick? He was at that event Furina invited us to last month, you guys seemed to get along—”

“I don’t know Nick, Wriothesley. I don’t trust him. Especially not with this.”

Wriothesley stares you down, the gears turning in his head. You can tell by the narrowness of his eyes and the slight redness in his cheeks that he has an idea of what you might be implying, but doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“So.” Wriothesley clears his throat, sitting up a little, clearly restless. “Do you have a plan?”

“Somewhat.” You murmur.

“And?” He cocks an eyebrow.

You take a deep breath. The worst he can say is no. At least you’ll know you tried. Maybe then you can just go out, find someone random and hope for the best. But you’ll be glad you tried with him.

“I just really want it to be with someone I trust. That’s my biggest condition.” You reiterate, pulling your chair in again, even closer to him when he leans forward in sync with your movement. “I don’t have a lot of men in my life I trust…” 

You stare at the liquid in your tea cup.

“Except for you.”

Wriothesley’s breath hitches, the noise only loud enough that you just barely catch it. You keep your eyes down, unable to draw your gaze to his, but you picture his reaction vividly in your head. Eyes blown wide, lips parted, hands gripping the armrests of his chair. Whether he does those things out of shock, disgust, or something else entirely, is the fear that makes you refuse to face him.

He says your name, but still, you keep your head down.

“What are you saying?” His voice is controlled, but deeper than before. 

“I just…” Just say it. Stop stalling. “Okay.” You sigh. “I understand if this isn’t something you’re comfortable with, if you say no I won’t take it to heart and we can just… Forget this ever happened.”

You finally meet his eyes. Whatever expression he wore before must’ve fizzled out, because his face has shifted to something more neutral, listening intently while watching you closely. 

“I’m asking if you’ll do it. If you’ll sleep with me. Just once! It doesn’t have to mean anything—It won’t mean anything. I just don’t trust anyone else.”

Wriothesley doesn’t speak right away. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before settling again, indicative of the fact he had already caught on and was simply waiting for his suspicions to be confirmed.

He opens and closes his mouth, then pushes his eyebrows together and looks away.

“I really do understand if you don’t want to.” You say to the side of his face, hands lifted in front of you in a surrender gesture. “You don’t have to sugarcoat a rejection. It’s okay, I can handle it. I just figured I’d ask.”

He draws his gaze to yours, eyebrows still pressed low, and he breathes deeply through his nose.

“If I said no, what would be your next move?” He asks, a bit strained. 

“Uhm, I’d probably just resort to, I don’t know, A Nick type or something. Just hope for the best. But—” You shake your hands. “Don’t worry about that. Seriously. It’s not your responsibility, I’ll be fine. I only want you to say yes if you want to.”

He says your name, resting both forearms against the desk in front of him. “Are you… Sure about this?”

You manage a nod, dropping your hands back to your lap and intertwining your fingers. “Yes. I’ve had a lot of time to think it over. I trust you, and I mean, I’ve always wanted an excuse to break that ice for myself. I’ve just never met anyone to do it with.”

He nods slowly. 

“It really doesn’t have to mean anything,” you repeat in a whisper. “Just think of it as a favour for a friend.”

He laughs at that lightheartedly, lifting one hand off the desk to run it over his hair. “You know, I’ve had many favours asked of me in my time, but never something like this.”

His calm demeanour soothes you, his normal self shining through the awkwardness. Even if he ultimately decides to turn you down, at least he doesn’t seem to find the proposition off putting.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” you tell him. “I can give you time to think.” You blink, a million thoughts rushing through your brain. “…I could write up a contract.

“A contra—What? No—No, you don’t need to—Archons. I don’t…” He sighs, looking at you. “If I can do something to help you, I always want to do it. No matter what it is. I just never expected anything… Like this.”

You smile softly. “I never thought I’d be asking it, either.”

He nods along, biting down on his lip. 

“So, to confirm…” He straightens. “Just once. You lose your virginity to me, and then you…” He urges you to finish the sentence for him.

“Won’t have to be so anxious about sex in the future,” you verify. “I can be like my friends, go out and have one night stands without worrying too much about bad or inadequate experiences, because it’ll just become a small tick on my… Sexual timeline with no significance.”

You cringe at yourself.

“Sexual timeline, huh?”

“Shut up.” You grumble, squeezing your own hand in your lap.

He grins, crossing his arms over his wide chest, the backrest of his chair holding his weight as he loosens up a bit. “Okay.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll do it.” He nods. “I’d much rather it be me than a stranger or someone you don’t fully trust. If this whole good-first-experience-to-break-the-ice,” a mouthful, really, “is important to you, then it’s important to me, too.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Alright.” You nod quickly. “Thank you. Uhm…”

“Maybe I should come to your place?” He offers gently. “Above the surface? Sometime this weekend?”

You nod again, your words jumbling together in your throat. This weekend. “My place, yeah, okay. Uh, Saturday night?”

He smiles. “Good for me. I’ll be there.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. He said yes. You didn’t really think he’d say yes. 

“Okay. I’ll, uh…” You stand on legs that feel like jelly, leaving your tea behind. “Go now. I’ll see you then.”

Wriothesley doesn’t encourage you to stay longer like he usually would, but you don’t take it as something negative. He understands if you stay another second, you might melt to a puddle of humiliation on the floor.

He bids you farewell, repeating the circumstances of your plans one more time before sending you off, and part of you feels like he did so just to tease you. The second the elevator out of the fortress hits the surface, the Fontaine air hitting your skin everywhere it’s exposed, it really dawns on you.

You’re going to have sex with Wriothesley.

Holy. Shit.

-

What the fuck did people do before a hook up?

You did the routine stuff, things you were able to easily come to the conclusion needed to be done. You cleaned your apartment. You took a long shower, almost three hours in length with everything you felt should be covered in there. You nearly passed out four times, but managed. 

And then you started freaking out. What will he think if you put in too much effort to be presentable? Will he believe you’re trying to court him? That your tangent about this being meaningless was nothing but a cover-up? That this is all a ploy to get in his pants?

And then, there’s the fear if you don’t put in a lot of effort. Might he believe that you don’t respect him, don’t find him worthy of the most put-together version of yourself? That you don’t care to make this enjoyable for him, too?

Ultimately, you decided you’d rather feel good about yourself, but the fears that he’ll believe this means more to you than it does lingers.

You put on your nicest dress, a length that goes to your mid-thighs and a colour awfully close to that of the tie Wriothesley often wears. You doused yourself in a perfume he complimented once. You decided against candles and rose petals, but you did brew a tea you have on hand that you know he enjoys.

You quickly opted out of alcohol. Being inebriated would take away from the whole point of this experience. 

You spend enough time on your hair to look nice, but not so much so that you’ll be upset if it gets ruined. Jewellery that’s easy on the eye, but also comfortable and easily discardable if you decide to do such.

By far, the hardest thing to pick was what to put under the dress.

You were worried if you opted for your nicest lace set, that you bought on a whim and never let another person see, he’d, again, think you were genuinely trying to seduce him. But, he’s a man, and he has needs, too. It felt only fair to do whatever you could to help this be something he found enjoyment in.

But, what difference would it make if he’s not even attracted to you?

…

You chose the lace set. It’s red and black and leaves almost nothing to imagination. Just looking at yourself in the mirror made you feel a level of scandalous you never really have before.

Now, the time you two agreed on is rapidly approaching. You’re reapplying your lip gloss for the nth time, having wiped it off countless times already by nervously nibbling on your lip. You’re reconsidering every choice you made tonight. You’re thinking he might not even show up. You—

Three knocks at the front door nearly make you yelp, dropping your gloss onto your vanity with a muted bang.

You hastily collect it, dropping it in the drawer and slamming it shut. 

You start to rush to the front door, but slow down a bit as you fear seeming too eager. When you reach the door, you take a deep breath before turning the lock and pulling it open.

Wriothesley stands there, and his eyes widen for a moment when he takes in your appearance. His outfit is nicer than usual, but nothing you haven’t seen him wear before. He holds flowers. Your favourite.

He brought you flowers?

“Hi,” you greet, your voice quiet and shaky.

Wriothesley offers you a kind smile. “Hello. You look nice.”

You take the flowers when he holds them out to you, mumbling a quick thank you before inviting him in and rushing to the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase filled with water from your sink. He follows close behind, taking in your organized apartment, his gaze continuously flickering back to you and your outfit.

“You didn’t have to doll yourself up so nicely for me,” he tells you, and you turn to face him. “Don’t get me wrong, you look amazing, but I didn’t agree to this on the condition that—”

“I know,” you interrupt, flattening your palms over the front of your dress, Wriothesley’s eyes trailing your movement, his throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “I just—I’m new at this, y’know? It felt right to… Look nice.”

“You always look nice,” he insists, which flusters you. “But, if your objective was to amplify that, you’ve been considerably successful.”

You smile nervously, his tender words making your head feel fuzzy. You appreciate the environment he’s trying to create more than you can put into words, especially not right now. You’re not sure you can manage more than two sentences. “Uh—Thank you, Wriothesley. You look lovely, too.”

“Aw, shucks,” he grins, walking over to the counter and leaning his hip against it, his body barely a foot from yours.

“I made tea,” you spit out. “Would you like some?”

He hesitates before nodding. “If you’d like to have tea first, of course we can.”

You nod back. The two of you take a seat across from each other with your respective teacups, blending into nonsensical conversation almost immediately that nearly makes you forget the circumstances of tonight. Your anxious tics fade out of frequency, and your tense muscles relax. You’re reminded how easy it is to be calm with him, and the more he studies each comfortable movement you make, the more you think that was exactly his goal.

Wriothesley drinks the rest of his tea, your eyes watching the way his throat moves as he swallows it down.

It’s impending now, and while realizing such does still make a hint of that nervousness return, it returns with something else. Something unfamiliar. Something eager.

Wriothesley meets your eyes, and you offer him a soft smile in which he returns. He leans his forearms forward against your kitchen table.

He says your name gently. “I want to give you a chance to back out of this. Of course, at any time, you change your mind, and we stop. But I just want to remind you that there’s no pressure on you.”

“I know,” you assure him, folding your hands together in your lap. “I haven’t changed my mind.” You pause, watching him closely. “Have you?”

He shakes his head before you even get both words out. “Of course not. I would just hate for you to think I’m expecting anything from you besides your trust.”

“You have my trust,” you tell him.

He nods. “Then we’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” you repeat, your eyes gliding from his empty cup to yours, also bone-dry. You flush.

“Uh…” You look at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Should we go to my room, maybe?”

“If that’s what you would like,” he responds easily.

You offer him a brief nod before standing on uneasy feet. His passiveness, his willingness to let you have full control, is almost something you’re averse to. He’s the one with more experience, but you don’t exactly know how to ask him to take the reins. You don’t want this night to peak with the dull request of should you put that inside me, maybe?

As you walk down the hallway, overthinking every movement of one foot in front of the other, something else floods your mind. You imagine him in control, him bringing the assertiveness you’ve witnessed in the fortress to this experience. It makes something twist low in your stomach, and if he weren’t no more than a foot behind you, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to fight off a more physical reaction to the thought.

The way he doesn’t even have to raise his voice to demand respect in the underworld, how just the cock of an eyebrow will have even the most unruly prisoners compliant at his feet. You can see yourself being just as obedient, becoming putty in his hands at a single murmured request.

That was the whole point of this. He’s the only one you can trust with that, trust to put him in full control and do with your body what he understands both of you will enjoy.

You start to feel that twist in your stomach blend into that physical reaction, a tingling sensation flushing your skin and making your clothes feel too tight, the apartment feel too hot.

Once you’re standing in the middle of your bedroom, you turn to him. He scans the room, illuminated by only a lamp on the right-hand side. Your bed is made nicely, curtains closed, floor vacuumed, smelling faintly of the fragrance you coated yourself in shortly before his arrival.

The two of you lock eyes. The lighting in this room reminds you of that in the fortress when it gets to be dark outside. The metal stronghold is close enough to the surface that the shifting of day and night lightens or darkens the surrounding ocean, dimming the interior through the glass windows. 

Those times are when you’ve most often had the pleasure of seeing Wriothesley in his element, commanding abidance with ease.

Fuck. You can feel his eyes everywhere.

“How do you want to do this?” Wriothesley asks suddenly, the quiet question followed by your name, said in a way that makes you throb. You didn’t think you could get to this point so quickly with nothing but your imagination and a little bit of eye contact. “Would you prefer to maintain control?”

The fact a man of his calibre would even offer submission to you is exactly why you knew from the get-go you could trust him.

You shake your head. “No,” you confess hoarsely. “I wouldn’t even really know what to do.”

Wriothesley nods, the ease in the action making you think he expected that answer. “So, you’d like me to be the director here?”

You pinch the fabric of your dress on either side of your thighs, half-fidgeting, half trying to contain how trapped and warm he’s making you feel. “If that’s… Alright with you.”

He grins. “Of course. I can handle it. Being in charge is my job.”

He steps closer, and all you can bring yourself to do is stare, your feet bolted to the ground beneath you.

“Can I kiss you, then?”

Holy shit. You had barely even considered this. I mean, you got the whole platonic-sex thing out of the way, but you didn’t discuss kissing. You didn’t prepare yourself for kissing.

You nod without a thought in the world, a purely reflexive response, like your instincts and the need starting to course through your veins are taking control of your body like a puppeteer. 

His calloused hand finds the side of your face, his fingers sliding over your hair. You sink into his touch, dropping your eyes to his lips as he leans closer, your own parting in preparation.

The second his mouth presses against yours, the warmth surges through you at a degree so intense your hands immediately find his shoulders for support. You feel the hard bone hiding beneath the fabric of his shirt, and when you squeeze, it feels like the shape was perfectly crafted to be in your palm. You melt into the kiss, into his figure, pressing yourself to him firmly.

He’s so articulate, and God, it’s paying off in your favour. His lips move against yours with a level of precision only such a disciplined man could possess, and when his hand that isn’t on your face glides to your lower back, even more of your nervousness, if any even existed anymore, fades into sheer excitement.

You hook one arm over the back of his neck, pushing up onto the tips of your toes, kissing him with more fervour. The action greatly contradicts your plead to give him full control, however, he doesn’t fight you on it. Instead, he matches the pace you’ve set to regain dominance, guiding the movement of your feet until the two of you separate just long enough for you to collapse back on your bed.

You try to prop yourself back up on your elbows, but Wriothesley slips his hands under your body to sweep them out from under you, pinning both your wrists above your head in one swift movement. Your next exhale comes out as a whine, and he drinks up the sound by pressing his mouth back on yours.

“This okay?” He mumbles against your lips, a roughness to his voice that greatly differs from the one that appears in his exhaustion or frustration. No, what he’s feeling right now is something you’ve never had the pleasure of knowing before this moment.

You prop your knees up, squeezing around his hips, slotting him perfectly against your body with no escape. Your dress rides up your legs, bunching up around your thighs. You nod once, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I’d appreciate if you’d use your words,” he suggests, his lips grazing along your face until he’s planting kisses across your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, tugging the dark strands by the root. “It’s okay.”

He groans at the pull, but doesn’t deter you, dropping his face further as he starts kissing and sucking at your neck. You tilt your head back, granting him as much access to your skin as possible.

It’s hard to ignore how much more intimate this feels than what you expected. What you expected was sex, which of course, is an extremely intimate act, but you also prepared for sex. You didn’t prepare for the taste of him, faintly resembling a mix of mint and the flavour of the tea you brewed for him, the combination working through your bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. You didn’t prepare for the feeling of his mouth on your neck, taking the first opportunity to mark you, sucking and biting the skin in a way that would surely linger for days to come, a reminder of what the two of you had done. These weren’t the kinds of deeds you thought people performed for one night together. 

Were you going to complain about it?

Like hell you were.

You mumble his name in response to his teeth sinking into the skin above your collarbone, and he grunts in response, his hips shifting between your thighs. Holy shit.

His mouth travels back up to yours, less careful this time, like he’s already come to realize how welcome he is against you. He pulls your lip between his teeth and bites until you gasp, using the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours.

You moan at the feeling, your hand that isn’t knotted up in his hair clutching the fabric on his side for support. You let him take the lead without any battle for dominance, entirely consumed by his kiss, in the way he conducts it. 

You’re suddenly shifted further up the bed, your head elevated as he tucks a pillow beneath it. You pant, watching with stars in your eyes as he sits up between your thighs, kneeling with your legs tossed loosely around his hips. Your mouth waters.

He shrugs off the top layer of his shirt, revealing a plain white tee beneath it. In a silly way, the simplicity of it once again makes this feel more intimate, almost too much so. You aren’t used to seeing him look so casual, so comfortable. This should be reserved for something different. Something real.

Your train of thought derails when he throws the shirt away and reaches for his belt.

The sound of it being unbuckled is like the crack of a whip, sending jolts of electricity all throughout your body. The sightis something else entirely, the way his lips are parted, chest rising and falling, as the most calm and collected man you’ve ever known fumbles with the accessory like he’s lost all sense of coordination.

You reach forward without thinking, and Wriothesley drops his arms to his sides with a groan when you tug the belt out of his pant loops for him. He’s quick to collect it from your hands, tossing it carelessly onto the floor beside your bed. 

His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, your red dress scrunched up around your waist, your lace underwear barely hiding behind the rolls of fabric. You watch Wriothesley’s face as he examines you, eyebrows furrowed in a deep concentration.

“Can I lift this?” He purrs, his voice a melody that entirely disarms you. You’re gone. You’re entirely gone. You’re beneath him, you’re warm, you’re bothered, and you are gone.

You get halfway through a nod before your lips part. “Yes.”

Wriothesley doesn’t miss your consideration of his prior command. “Good girl,” he praises, pushing your dress higher.

Archons. Add that to the list of things you didn’t expect from casual sex.

He curses at the sight of your underwear, and your skin warms. Red and black lace, the colour scheme happening to match that of his regular uniform. He can’t seem to peel his eyes away, a few beats of silence passing as neither of you make a move.

“Are you okay?” You ask quietly.

He blinks, snapping out of it. “I—Yes. Of course I am.” His hands start sliding up and down your thighs again, a soothing gesture that barely serves its purpose. “I just—Fuck.”

You swallow hard, pushing yourself up a bit. Wriothesley doesn’t coax you back down again, he just watches as you hook your hands under the bundled up dress, peeling it off the top of your head. The noise Wriothesley produces borders on a whine, like the action has fully defeated him.

He helps you strip it entirely, adding it to the pile started by his black blazer and belt. He takes in the sight of your matching articles, the lace bra and underwear, gently guiding you back onto your forearms so he can get a full view of you.

You can’t imagine how erotic the vision is. You’re before him, legs wrapped around his hips, thighs separated, entirely at his disposal wearing nothing but two small, revealing pieces of clothing that also happen to mimic colours he associates with himself. You worry it’s too personal, but he doesn’t wear the face of a man urging to complain.

“You are…” He shakes his head, breathless. “Sneaky.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I’m what?”

“I’m just starting to think this whole proposition was a ruse to kill me,” he confirms, his gaze not leaving you once. “You should know it’s working.”

You manage a smile. “Didn’t take you as a man to surrender so easily, Your Grace.”

He chuckles lowly. “I usually wouldn’t.” His hand is on your stomach now, enveloping the space between your bra and underwear. “I’m a lot of things,” he utters your name, “but I’m not foolish enough to fail to pick my battles.”

You bring both your hands to his, one wrapping around his wrist while the other finds a few of his fingers, holding him flush to you. “And what battle are you picking?”

“The one where I die right here,” he says without missing a beat. “At your hands. I’d go a lucky man.”

Was that a casual thing to say?

Regardless of the way the words go over in your head, your body reacts to them by greedily popping up and forcing him to lean back over you. Your mouths slot back together, and the way you’re depriving him of oxygen makes it believable that you truly are trying to kill him.

You slide a palm up the front of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his scarred skin. He doesn’t shy away from you. He’s never hidden from you, in fact, you’ve already seen the permanent markings of his past that are forever engraved in his skin, and it’s because he chose to show you.

Something crosses your mind, the way this encounter isn’t just about your belief in him. He’s putting himself on the line here, too, offering you vulnerability, offering you his trust.

Wriothesley takes your wandering hand as in invitation to tug the fabric over his head, discarding of it. Both your hands are exploring now, planted just above the hem of his pants and gliding upwards until they’re clutching his bare shoulders.

You push, guiding him to lean off you just enough for you to take in the sight of him. The ragged lines cutting through his skin, a canvas of pain he endured before you even knew his name.

His next breath is uneven.

You meet his eyes, his gaze locked on yours, like he’s studying your reaction to the sight of him in this context.

“I think you’re beautiful,” you tell him, voice quiet, like you’re trying to enunciate how those words are only for him, despite how alone you already are. They aren’t even for the echos between the walls, the four words are for nothing but his own ears.

His jaw tightens, his eyes trailing down your body before flashing back to your awaiting stare. “I think you’re…” He swallows. “Perfect.”

Your breath hitches, reaching for his shoulders instinctively. His words, his touch, it all feels too real. Too honest, too against the words you two shared in his office mere days ago.

You should push him away, tell him how your heartfelt promise of this being meaningless is already starting to fade from reality. You don’t even know how to define the difference between meaningless and meaningful sex, you have no comparisons to make, but you wouldn’t pin a single thing he’s said or done to the former. 

You should really tell him.

But you think he might already know.

He says your name, and you look to him with expectant eyes.

His hands travel downward, hooking under the lace that’s currently the only thing separating him from the flood of arousal he’s already created. 

“Can this come off?”

You whine, your heart rate picking up before you nod.

“Words,” he reminds you, his thumb suddenly finding and pressing against your clit through the fabric. You moan, your neck arching, head pressing against the pillow he placed. You can’t spit out a word right away, clutching the sheets as he draws firm, slow circles, pleasurable but insufficient. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”

Gods. Who’s trying to kill who, again?

You buck against his hand, nodding again. “Yes—Yes.”

He doesn’t waste a moment following your verbal approval, situating himself off the bed, your legs untangling from around his waist. He gently tugs you back down to the edge of the mattress, and then he’s delicately pulling the fabric down and off.

You gasp at the feeling of the cold air hitting you. Wriothesley curses, seeing the way you’re dripping helplessly for him despite the fact he’s barely touched you. He forces your thighs open wide, and your eyes screw shut at the feeling of his gaze studying you, spread open for him like this.

“Fuck…” He says lowly. “Can I touch you?”

You shift, gripping the sheets tighter, your eyes opening. Your voice comes out strained and whiny. “Of course you can, Wriothesley.”

“Archons,” he chokes out, and then he’s lowering to his knees before you. Your legs rest on either side of his figure, held open by his shoulders between your thighs. One of his hands inch up the bed, finding yours.

His hand envelopes yours, encouraging you to release your death grip on the sheets. “It’s okay,” he assures you, first are foremost. “Relax for me, baby. I’ve got you.”

You nod, his tender words and action working in his favour. You manage to loosen up your tense muscles, taking long, deep breaths per his command. “I trust you,” you whisper, allowing him to intertwine his fingers with yours.

He grunts, his other arm wrapping around your thigh, forcing it up onto his shoulder. “Good.”

His palm flattens against your lower stomach, his thumb poking out and finding your clit again. You gasp out, back arching at the feeling of his skin against you. He applies the perfect amount of pressure, rubbing slow circles experimentally, like he’s doing his best to understand your body.

“Wriothesley,” you moan.

“Oh, fuck.” He drops his head to your inner thigh, nipping at the skin there. You gasp again. “You’re killing me, saying my name like that.”

You exhale shakily. “Noted,” you manage, forcing words out despite the way the pleasure shooting you makes your wind pipe feel small. “That’s my goal, according to you, right?”

He chuckles, moving his head to lick a stripe up your cunt, collecting your wetness until he’s moving his thumb away to lap at your clit. You cry out at the sensation, squeezing his hand and darting your free one to grip his hair. 

He pulls back, and when you crane your neck to look at him, you see yourself coating his lips, and he looks fucking drunkon you, a competitive glimmer in his gaze. He meets your eyes and grins. “We’ll see if I don’t take you out first.”

Your comeback dies in your throat when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking firmly. You whimper his name, spurring him on as he hungrily works at you, and fuck if this feels like the amount of effort anyone would put in as a favour for a friend. It feels so real it would scare you if you had time to worry.

“Gods,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how good you taste.”

“Wriothesley,” you whine. “Don’t… Say that.”

He laughs lowly. “Why? Am I winning?”

Your chin tilts back, eyes fluttering shut. “For now.”

He hums, pressing the vibration right against you. “We’ll see about that.”

His thumb pokes back out, drawing those same firm circles on your clit as his tongue starts to tease your fluttering hole. Your grip on his hand tightens, and you buck against his face, making him chuckle.

“Eager,” he notes, though the way the word emerges from his throat makes it seem like he’s more amused than mocking. 

All you can manage is a nod.

His tongue dips inside you, just barely, but it makes you moan out anyway. He repeats the action, dipping in and out of you over and over again, before his hand retreats from your clit and his mouth is back. 

“Shit, Wriothesley,” you choke out.

“I know,” he mumbles reassuringly against you, before suddenly doubling his efforts. His tongue strokes your clit, deliberate and hungry. You squirm and moan, sputtering out incoherent pleads as he periodically responds with choked praises. He sucks hard, a flick of his tongue making you writhe. His hand, which he had resting on your stomach, moves until he’s probing your opening with his fingertip.

Your breath hitches, opening your eyes to catch the moment he peers up at you, silently asking for permission.

He lets you off the hook with a nod this time, sluggishly licking your clit as he presses his middle finger inside your cunt. You pull your lip between your teeth at the feeling, good but unfamiliar, foreign but undeniably him. This wasn’t ever the part that worried you, your lack of partners didn’t take away from your natural inclinations to explore your own body, it was always about who would take permanent residence in your list of lived experiences as being your first time.

With each passing second, you are infinitely happier with your choice.

His finger drags against your walls, his ministrations on your clit never faltering. He rolls his tongue over you again and again, suctioning in a way that has you nearly pulling his dark hair out at the root. He simply grunts, and you’re sure a bullet wound wouldn’t be able to hinder him at this point as he finds the perfect point to curve his finger, and suddenly a coil is winding tight deep in your stomach. You gasp his name.

He recognizes your warning, humming as he continues to devour you with reverence. His finger caresses that spot inside of you just right, and it isn’t long until you’re shaking, holding your breath as you barrel so close to the edge.

“Let go,” he murmurs against you, and it sounds the most like a demand out of anything he’s said all night. “Go on, baby.”

His words, the authority behind them, are the last push until you completely shatter for him. You cry out, your body thrashing as he pulls his hand from yours to hold you down at the hip. He works you through every wave, studying the way you moan and twitch for him, and only when you make a whine-like noise of defiance at the overstimulation does he pull back.

He’s panting, both his hands on the tops of your thighs now as he studies the way you slowly float back down to this plane of reality. You’re near limp against the bed, and only when you peer down at him does he ascend back up your body, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Are you okay?” He asks gently, stroking the side of your face.

You lean into his touch. “Mhm…” 

“Don’t believe that counts as a word,” he notes, a hint of humour in his tone. Your eyes flutter open, meeting the frost hues staring down at you. There’s a look in his eyes you can’t place, but it makes you feel like your heart is swelling to three times the size, and you imagine you’re mimicking the expression as you look up at him.

It feels almost natural, holding his gaze in this way. Somehow, it feels even more natural than your friendly lunches spent in each other’s company, or your casual conversations about the weather or your careers that precede deeper ones about things you’ve only ever shared with one another. 

It’s a look you’ve only ever offered him, fuelled by a feeling only he’s ever drawn out of you.

What is this?

Your mouth twitches up in a small smile. “I’m okay.” Your hand threads through his hair. “Should I do something for you?”

His eyebrows knit together. “Hm?”

You swallow hard. “To help you…”

Realization flashes in his eyes, and he laughs lowly before reaching for your free hand, guiding it until he’s pressing your palm to the front of his pants. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Your breath hitches, heart racing as you feel the bulge insistently pressing against the thin fabric. He keeps his hands over yours, and when you start to massage the tent in his pants, he pulls you away.

You whine his name.

He shushes you by pressing his mouth to yours, and the taste of yourself on his lips is so erotic it makes you buck your hips against his. He grunts, hooking one of your legs over his waist before he grinds himself against your bare pussy. He keeps kissing you, maddeningly slow, rocking his hips with precision.

“Oh Gods,” you whimper against him, slinging an arm over his neck, the other grasping his side.

He says your name, pulling back from you and meeting your eyes. “We can stop here,” he offers, pressing a peck to the corner of your mouth. 

You shake your head. “No—I want to keep going.” You blink at him. “Do you want to stop?”

“No—Archons, not at all.” He sounds almost offended. “But more than anything, I want to give you whatever the hell you want.”

You press your hips up, clenching around nothing at the sensation of his hardness rubbing against you. “I want you.”

He curses, dropping his forehead to yours. “Gods—I want you, too.”

One of his hands travel upwards, cupping your breast through the lace. You tilt your head back, listening to his heavy breathing. He sounds like he’s barely keeping himself together, like every bone in his body is screaming with how desperately he wants to be inside of you, but he’s utilizing his restraint to focus on you and your needs above himself.

“Take it off,” you tell him.

He’s quick to take you up on that, helping you lean up so he can reach for your back and unclip the garment. He’s gentle as he pulls the straps down your shoulders, and his eyes study it one more time with appreciation before tossing it aside. 

He swallows when he looks down at you, now fully naked and on total display for him. You expected to feel awkward or exposed, but you don’t. Not now. Not with him.

He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth as he continues to fondle your other breast. You grip his shoulders, letting him do what he pleases. His mouth travels to the curve under your chest, sucking and biting enough to leave more marks in his wake.

He thumbs your nipple, taking the nub between his thumb and pointer finger before squeezing gently. You whimper, bucking your hips again.

“You’re doing so well,” he tells you, voice thick with arousal. “You’re such a good girl, you know that?”

“For you,” you murmur without thinking, mind fogged by your need for him.

“Yeah?” He pushes, dragging his lips over your chest, up until he can put his forehead against yours again. “For me?”

You nod rapidly, your hands reaching for his pants, gripping the hem.

“Just me?”

Fuck. Two words further prove to you that this has become nothing like what it was supposed to be. Nothing about this is serving the purpose it was meant to, because hell if you were going to use this incredible experience as motivation to go out and have other mediocre experiences with mediocre men. Your stomach twists just thinking about it, being anywhere but here, with anyone but him.

You start to push down his pants. “Yes,” you breathe. “Just you.”

He doesn’t stop you, mumbling something under his breath as he instead helps you discard of the clothing until he’s kicking it off his feet. He stands then, readjusting you on the mattress again, slipping that pillow back under your head, and he reaches for another to place beneath your lower back. You trust the way he situates you, laying there obediently, waiting for him.

He grabs his pants for a moment, reaching in the pocket for his wallet, and then in his wallet for a condom.

You watch with anticipation as he hooks his fingers in his boxers before he’s pulling them down, too, freeing his cock. Your thighs push together automatically at the sight of him. He’s big, and the head is flushed and dripping precum down his thick shaft. He doesn’t give you the pleasure of ogling for long, crawling back on the bed and pulling your legs open before kneeling between them. You whine at the sight of him ripping open the rectangular package before he’s rolling the condom onto his length.

Your heart pounds against your chest. He catches the bewildered look on your face, dropping down to plant kisses all over your skin, anywhere he can reach, until he feels you start to relax under his lips.

“You’re still sure?” He murmurs.

“Yes,” you say, your voice betraying you with the slightest shake.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he promises, getting so close that his mouth it right by your ear, and his chest is against yours. “I’ll be gentle, alright?”

You nod, both your arms wrapping around his shoulders. He takes this as an invitation to reach between your bodies, grabbing his cock at the base and sliding the tip from your entrance all the way up to your clit, collecting your arousal. You choke out a whine every time he drags back up, nudging the oversensitive bundle of nerves firmly, and eventually, he presses the head against your opening until he’s just barely pressed inside of you.

You gasp at the slight stretch, your head falling back against the pillow. “Wriothesley.”

“I know,” he says, voice rough. His lips find yours, and even as you struggle to reciprocate at the feeling of him pushing you open, it soothes you. “Such a good girl.”

Your arms tighten around him, holding him flush to you as he rocks his hips, filling you another couple inches. You blubber out his name in the midst of a string of moans and gasps, your walls aching around the intrusion. He pauses momentarily, letting you adjust.

“Look how good you’re doing,” he purrs, mouth hovering just above yours. “Taking me so well, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” You cry, moving one hand to his shoulder so you can dig crescents into his bare skin. He grunts.

“There you go,” he encourages. “Just hold onto me, sweetheart. I have you.”

Does he ever.

All the air in your lungs rushes out when he finally starts to press forward again, filling you slowly, and Wriothesley grunts at the way your walls clench around him as his cock bullies it’s way deeper into you. He studies you, every movement, every breath, only giving you more when he’s sure you can take it, and he makes these judgments without you needing to say a word.

You cry out when he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours. The overload of sensation makes you feel like you’re already falling apart for him, breathing in quick moans and squeezing around him like you’re trying to pull him impossibly deeper.

“Fuck,” he curses, bracing an elbow next to your head, making you feel beautifully caged in by his form, trapping you somewhere you’d happily stay forever. “Look at you. Taking all of me.” He kisses you once. “Good girl.”

The praise sends a pleasurable jolt through your bones, your hips shifting in a way that makes him feel deeper. You tremble, unable to form words, and he doesn’t push you. He just peers down at the way he has you filled to the brim, and then his gaze snaps back to your face, all needy and fucked-out, and he’s not even close to done with you yet.

His trails kisses all over your face, down your neck, between your breasts, and you feel like you’re being worshipped. Wriothesley was never one to be too outspoken about the presence of Gods in the world you two shared, but in this moment, you’re sure that would change if you yourself had such status. He praises every inch of you like an altar with no hesitance, no shame.

“You can move,” you manage to tell him, your words ending in a squeal when he shifts the slightest bit.

He adjusts himself above you, one arm resting beside your head again, while the other reaches for your hand, limp against the bed, and interlocks your fingers. You squeeze when he draws his hips back, until you’re only about halfway full of him, and then he thrusts forward once more.

The sounds he pulls from your throat only motivates him further, and he sets a steady, cautious pace, stuffing you to the brim over, and over again. He groans from above you, the feeling of you around him tearing him apart bit by bit. You can’t do anything but helplessly squirm and moan beneath the weight of him, soaking in the soothing kisses and bites he smothers you with as he fucks you.

“Harder,” you gasp out, back arching into his chest, his skin warm and coated in a layer of sweat. “I can take it.”

“Shit,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he fulfills your request. He pulls his hips back further than before, and then he drives back into you all at once. He coughs out your name, your entire body jerking with the punishing thrust. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, his cock dragging along all the right parts of you as he sets a new pace. 

He begins fucking you with abandon, his hips snapping against yours until your eyes are screwed shut so tight you’re seeing stars. Your nails rake down his back, layering old scars with new scratches, covering bad reminders with what can only be described as the best you’ve ever felt in your life. You angle your hips to let him in deeper, and he slams against a part of you that makes you scream.

“Wriothesley—Wriothesley, oh God.” You cry, clinging to him like he’s your only lifeline.

“There you go, baby,” he growls, his pace never faltering as he presses his mouth by your ear. “Keep screaming for me. Let all of Fontaine know who’s fucking you.”

Like your body physically rejects the idea of not obeying him, every snap of his hips makes you scream for him again. You blabber nonsensically, about how good he makes you feel, about how bad you need him, and the last thing on your mind is how far from casual this is. 

His hand retreats from yours, landing on your hip to hold your writhing body still. He grinds all the way to the hilt, and you’re already longing for the feeling of being this close to him before it’s even over.

Just like all your friends said, you can feel all your stress, all the worries of the last week, last month, last year, whisk away under his touch. The pit that’s been living in your stomach explodes and paints the rest of your body with the warmth between you and Wriothesley, and the terrors that have been plaguing your restless mind reform to the shape of his perfect face. He’s all you can see, all you can feel, all you can afford to let haunt you.

When his thrusts pick back up, he’s moved his hand from your hip so he can rub your clit as he fills you. You shriek, a shudder washing over you.

He kisses you again, leaving you with nothing to do but hold onto him and let him drink up every sound you make. His hand leaves you hurling towards your peak, and he chases after it, deliberately fucking into all the right spots as his hands works tirelessly at your clit.

“Come for me,” he urges against your lips, the strain in his voice giving away just how close he is to tipping over the edge with you. “It’s okay, baby.”

He undoes you with his words, your orgasm crashing over you so powerfully you’re left in an absolute daze, all tense muscles and throaty cries, pulsating around his twitching cock. You can do nothing but greedily take the continuation of his bruising thrusts as he works you through the climax, and by the time you’ve come down enough to remember your own name, Wriothesley groans it as he presses all the way into you before spilling into the condom.

He huffs above you, keeping himself buried deep as you both use the sounds of each other’s breathing to ground yourselves. You’re still holding onto him, and he slowly starts to kiss your cheeks, and then your temple, your forehead, your eyelids, mumbling praise after praise like he’s never known something more magnificent.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly, and you hum. “Did so well. So proud of you.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck. “So fucking happy you asked me for this.”

“Me too,” you whisper back, chest rising and falling under the reassuring pressure of his body on yours.

He slowly pulls out of you, groaning as he leans off like it physically pains him to separate from your embrace. You lay there, feeling weightless with all of your limbs so tuckered out they’re near numb. Your eyes beg to flutter shut, but you can’t bring yourself to exit this moment yet, watching him as he slowly navigates around your room, discarding off the condom before pulling nothing but his boxers back on. 

He offers you a reassuring smile, promising his return, before dipping into your bathroom. He returns with a damp cloth, and he doesn’t let you move an inch to assist him as he cleans you up. 

When he’s finished, he finds a pair of underwear and a large tee shirt in your drawers and redresses you with a tenderness so potent it makes you ache. He lifts you into his arms, sitting against your headboard and placing you in his lap.

You clutch his shoulders as he kisses at your neck, soothing the raw marks he left behind. You relax against him, allowing him to tend to you.

He says your name, bringing your attention back to him. You lean back, half-lidded eyes meeting his.

He cups the side of your face, his gaze flickering all over you, studying you like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

He swallows hard. “You’re happy?” He asks gently.

You smile softly. “With your favour for a friend?”

He chuckles at your sarcastic tone, the skin on his face flushed a light pink. “Among other things.”

You cup each side of his neck, feeling so deprived of the closeness already. You don’t know if it’s because you’re still coming down from what just happened, but your want to be near him feels more real than anything.

“Plan went a little off the rails,” you admit warily.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah? What part?”

“The not-meaning-anything part.” 

He pulls you forward, your foreheads pressing together. His breath trembles, one of his hands sliding up and down your back through your shirt. “You’ve never meant anything but everything to me.” He nuzzles his face in your neck. “Fuck, I swear, if you were serious about seeing other guys after this…”

You giggle, hugging him. “I won’t,” you promise, your face pressed against his hair. “Like I said,” you whisper. “Just you, Wriothesley.”

✿ Author's note: second solo wrio fic wooo!!! my biggest roadblock in writing wrio is not wanting to give him too much sexual experience because it seems ooc but also wanting to make him an exceptional lover because that''s my truth. let's just say he reads a lot!!!! hope u guys enjoyed :)))

suna rintarou

your darling boyfriend adores your tits. never mind in public or private, suna stares when he gets the chance. he says you can’t blame him, at least not when you have a rack like that. 

“mm- f-fuck!”

the sound of slick skin on skin fills the room. your hand leisurely tugs at suna’s weeping dick, thumb swiping over his sensitive head. you smear his precum as his hips buck at the contact. 

“feels so good,” suna whines. “so fucking good. please, please, don’t stop.”

his legs are thrown across your lap in your shared bed. suna buries his face between your tits, groaning into your chest as you tighten your hand and pump his cock. his fingers dig into your soft flesh, thumb and index finger pinching your nipples. 

his hot breath fans over your left breast when he moans with his mouth open. suna latches onto your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue as he thrusts shallowly into your hand. his mind is blank. all he wants is to cum on your fist as he sucks on your tits.

you let out a soft noise when suna’s teeth pull on your sensitive nub. his free hand works your right tit, palming you.

“gonna cum, baby?” you breathe.

suna looks up at you with glossy eyes and his cheeks pink. “please? please, wanna cum for you so bad, you feel so good.”

as if you could ever deny him. 

“ah! fuck! mmph! g’nna cum, please- s’close!”

you focus your touch near his head. suna’s mouth closes over your tit again, muffling his moans as his back arches and his toes curl. then he’s cumming all your hand as you work him through his orgasm. 

suna’s lower back feels like it's melting. his head is hazy, blood pumping through his veins as he comes down from his high. you smooth his hair back from his sweaty forehead.

“c’mon baby. one more?” you coo.

suna gasps when you smear his cum back onto his soft cock, using it as lube. the pleasure edges on the border of being too much when you run the pad of your finger over his sticky slit.

“can’t- please, not-”

“aw, baby. please? for me?”

you squeeze his balls and suna sees stars.

matsukawa issei

“shit!” 

matsukawa has been moaning ever since your soft, pretty hands wrapped themselves around his cock. his mouth is ajar, saliva collecting behind his tongue.

“what’s wrong, ‘sei?” you laugh from behind him. “something bothering you?”

you twist your hand over his sensitive, sticky head and he has to physically stop himself from arching his back into your touch. 

“yes, fuck. your hands feel so good,” he gasps. 

matsukawa doesn’t know which hentai you’re trying to recreate again, but that’s the last thing on his mind right now. all hail ero mangakas, honestly. 

your other hand caresses the plane of his chest, pinching his nipple teasingly as matsukawa swats you away. you giggle and rest your chin on his shoulder from behind.

“what? you don't like your nipples played with?” you tease.

“shut up,” he grumbles in reply. 

you pick up the speed as you work at matsukawa’s cock. it’s thick, with a thick vein running along the bottom side. he hisses when your hand grazes his sensitive head.

matsukawa’s head falls back onto your shoulder. he squeezes his eyes shut, letting out shaky breaths. his abs flex and clench as he melts into your touch. he loves it when you play with him like this. not to say that he can’t be the dominating one in bed, but matsukawa thinks it’s stupidly sexy when you take the lead sometimes, too. blame a man for thinking his hot girlfriend pushing him into bed and giving him a handjob is, well, hot. 

“fuck, i’m pretty close,” he pants.

you feel his cock twitch in your hand. your hand creeps up to cup over matsukawa’s mouth. his eyes blow open as his moans become muffled, breath hot against your palm. you hold his head against yours.

“yeah? are you? doesn’t that feel good, ‘sei’?” you whisper into his ear. “wanna cum for me?”

matsukawa cums harder than he ever has before. he lets out a deep groan, legs tensing and twitching as he cums, cums, and cums. some of it lands on his chest as you continue to stroke him, forcing out the last drops. 

“f-fuck,” he gasps when you remove your hand.

his body melts into yours. you kiss dark curls, praising him, and matsukawa thinks he might just bust another load there and then.

ushijima wakatoshi

ushijima’s the kind of guy who prioritises your pleasure before his. sure, joke around about how nice guys finish last, but it’s true. so when you suggest that you help him get off first, ushijima is reluctant. 

“there you go, toshi. that’s it. just relax for me.”

your breath tickles the shell of his ear and ushijima’s brain melts into nothing. your hand works his hard cock, his tip angry and red from the stimulation. 

some part of him feels awkward about giving up control, but god, does it feel good. you sit on his lap, knees on either side of his hips. ushijima’s hands cradle your ass as his breath comes laboured and heavy.

“does that feel good, toshi?”

ushijima’s always had trouble articulating his thoughts coherently. now’s no different, especially when his lips are swollen from kissing yours, and the only thought bouncing around inside of his sex-drunk head is cumming. 

he moans. it’s a low, drawn-out sound, almost sounding like a whine as ushijima buries his face in the crook of your neck. 

“aw, baby, you’re really cute like this,” you coo. 

his face is hot with embarrassment but his thighs twitch and his abs clench, hips thrusting shallowly in time with your hand. 

“wanna cum,” he groans. “please.”

your skin is soft against his. he’s had his fair experience of masturbating when you weren’t around because of work or family, but ushijima’s never liked doing it. he favours finishing with you, cunt butterflying around him and squeezing out his seed. 

you kiss ushijima’s temple. you speed up your pace, earning a strained groan from him. his hands come up to grope at your chest greedily as he grows closer and closer to finishing. 

“g-gonna, shit- cumming, cumming-” 

ushijima bites down on his lower lip as he spills himself all over your fist, his head tilted back slightly as white flashes across his eyes. all he feels is electric pleasure pulsing through his cock. 

he finally lets out a heavy sigh, muscles relaxing all at once. his ears pop as he drifts back to reality. 

“you came so much,” you laugh lightly, glancing down at the cum all over your hand.

as you lift your fingers to your mouth and lick it all off, there’s a glint in ushijima’s eyes. 

“now it’s your turn,” he breathes. 

he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that you could almost feel through the cushions. "oh? and what, pray tell, makes me a menace tonight, doll?" his voice was always like that, a smooth, deep current that could make a damn grocery list sound like an invitation to sin.

you leaned back, mirroring his relaxed posture, but your insides were anything but. "you know what i'm talking about," you took a slow sip of your drink, letting the words hang in the air. "'twitter's most dangerous sex symbol', huh?" you shook your head, a smile playing on your lips, but your gaze was unwavering. "they're not wrong though. you're a whole damn phenomenon."

he just watched you, a smirk playing on his face. he knew you knew. he'd always known. it was part of your fucked-up, honest-to-a-fault dynamic. you'd tease him, he'd deflect, and the unspoken understanding would just simmer.

"and you've never filmed me," you said, the question finally tumbling out, blunt and unadorned. it wasn't an accusation, not exactly. more like an observation, laced with a curiosity that had been gnawing at you for a while. "you've filmed others. casual partners. you've put them on your feed. but never me. why not?"

the smirk died on his face. the easy, comfortable amusement drained from his eyes, replaced by something darker, something intense and unguarded. his laugh, which had been on the cusp of bubbling up, died in his throat. he set his glass down on the coffee table with a soft thud, the sound amplified in the sudden, heavy quiet.

his eyes, those dark, knowing eyes, swept over you. a slow journey from your hair, down your throat, over the curve of your chest, to your legs, stretched out beside his. it felt like he was seeing you for the very first time, or perhaps, seeing something he'd deliberately kept himself from acknowledging.

"because," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, almost guttural whisper that made your breath catch in your throat. he leaned closer, invading your space, the heat of his body radiating against yours. "because you're the one person i can't stay casual with. you're the one i'd ruin a little too eagerly and end up sounding completely fucking wrecked for on camera." his hand lifted, hovering inches from your cheek, not quite touching, but the intent was clear. "and i can't let the world hear me like that, baby."

the air crackled, thick with unspoken words, with years of shared history and suppressed desire. the whiskey sours had done their job, stripping away the usual filters, leaving you both exposed. his gaze was burning now, a raw, primal hunger that mirrored the sudden clench in your gut.

"if i ever filmed us," he murmured, his thumb finally brushing your cheek, sending shivers down your spine, "it would go way deeper than just some porn shit for the internet. it would be… something else entirely."

your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat. his admission, so raw and unexpected, had set a fire in your veins. you met his gaze, unafraid, a dangerous smile curving your lips. "show me, then," you whispered, your voice surprisingly steady, a challenge disguised as an invitation.

then the dam broke.

his eyes flared, dark and possessive. without another word, he closed the distance, his mouth crashing down on yours. not soft, not gentle. it was hungry, demanding, an explosion of pent-up desire that had been simmering between you for years. his lips were hot and firm, tasting of whiskey. your hands went instantly to his hair, clutching at the soft strands, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until your teeth scraped and your tongues tangled in a desperate dance.

he groaned, a low, animal sound that vibrated through your chest. his hand, the one that had been hovering, slid down your jaw, cupping your chin as he tilted your head, giving him better access, devouring your mouth. the other hand plunged into your hair, pulling gently, tilting your head back even further as he ravaged your lips, your neck, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your throat.

"fuck," he breathed against your skin, his voice rough with need. he tasted the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of your throat, his teeth nipping lightly, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do this, like this."

you whimpered, a soft, helpless sound that only seemed to fuel his hunger. your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. he pulled back for a split second, just enough to tear off his shirt, tossing it carelessly to the floor. the sight of his chest, broad and muscled, made your breath hitch. your hands immediately found purchase, tracing the hard lines of his abs, the taut skin, the faint scars from volleyball.

he was already working on your clothes, his fingers surprisingly deft as he unzipped your jeans, pushing them down your hips with practiced ease. your panties were next, a soft whisper of fabric as they joined your jeans on the floor. you shivered, not from cold, but from the sudden exposure, the anticipation.

his eyes devoured your body, lingering on the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts beneath your shirt. "beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. he stripped you of your top, letting his gaze feast on your nakedness. you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but you didn't look away, holding his gaze, challenging him to look deeper.

he slid his hand between your legs and you gasped, your hips instinctively arching into his touch. he chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers through you. "eager, are we?"

"always," you whispered, your voice hoarse.

he pulled back, just for a moment, and you saw him reach for his phone on the coffee table. your heart skipped a beat. this was it. the line was truly being crossed. he didn't say anything, just positioned the phone carefully on a stack of books, angled perfectly to capture both of you. he didn't press record yet, but the implied threat, the promise, was enough for now.

then his hand was back, warm and firm, on your inner thigh. his fingers trailed higher, teasingly slow, until they found the wet heat between your legs. you moaned, a raw, needy sound. he slipped a finger inside you, then another, his thumb brushing over your clit with excruciating precision.

"haah—fuck," you breathed, your hips bucking against his hand. he was so good at this, knowing exactly where to touch, how to stroke.

while he worked you with his fingers, his other hand went to his own zipper. you watched, mesmerized, as he freed himself. your eyes widened at the sight. he was massive. even though you had (not only) seen it several times before, it was always a surprise. it was thick, veined, and stood proud, throbbing slightly.

"like what you see, doll?" he asked, his voice a low growl, catching your gaze.

you couldn't speak, just nodded, your eyes glued to him. you reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and wrapped your fingers around his shaft. it was hot and hard, filling your palm. you started to stroke him, slowly at first, then picking up the pace, mimicking his rhythm inside you.

he groaned, his head falling back against the sofa. "god, yes. that's it. you feel so fucking good around my fingers." he leaned down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a bruise there. "keep going, baby. show me how much you want it."

you whimpered, lost in the sensations, the dual pleasure of his fingers inside you and your hand around his thick cock. you could feel yourself getting closer, the pressure building, a sweet, agonizing ache spreading through your core.

suddenly, he pulled his hand away from you. you groaned in protest, but he just grinned, a predatory glint in his eyes. he leaned down, pushing your legs wider, and then his mouth was there, hot and wet, engulfing your clit.

you gasped, your back arching off the sofa. his tongue was a revelation, skilled and relentless, swirling and flicking, teasing and sucking, and you couldn't get enough. you clawed at his hair, holding him to you, urging him on.

"oh, issei—fuck," you whimpered, your body trembling uncontrollably. his tongue worked you harder, faster, until your vision blurred and your body convulsed, a wave of pleasure crashing over you. you cried out his name, a desperate, guttural sound, as you came, hard and fast, your muscles clenching around his tongue.

he pulled back, a triumphant smirk on his face, his lips glistening. "already?" he teased, but his eyes were dark with satisfaction. he didn't give you a moment to recover, immediately diving back down, his tongue finding your clit again, even more insistent this time.

you were still buzzing from the first orgasm, your body hypersensitive, and his renewed assault sent you spiraling again. your hips bucked, your fingers digging into the sofa cushions. he was relentless, sucking and licking, driving you to the brink once more.

"fuck! issei, stop, i can't—oh my god!" the words were torn from your throat as your body seized again, a second, even more intense orgasm wracking you. you cried out, a loud, uninhibited shriek, your legs trembling violently. he licked you clean, savoring the taste, before finally pulling away, a satisfied hum rumbling in his chest.

you lay there, panting, your body humming with residual pleasure. he looked down at you, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn't been sated. he reached for his phone, finally pressing the record button. the small red light blinked, a silent witness.

"now," he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, "it's time for the main event."

he shifted, kneeling between your legs, his erection throbbing, slick with pre-cum. he held his cock at your entrance, teasing you, letting you feel the blunt head pressing against your wet folds. you whined, desperate for him to enter.

"say please," he commanded, his eyes locked on yours.

"please, issei, please," you pleaded, your voice raw.

he grinned, a flash of white teeth. "that's my good girl."

then, with a slow, deliberate push, he began to enter you. you gasped, your body stretching around his immense size. he was so big. so impossibly thick you could feel yourself tearing, a sharp sting of pain quickly followed by an overwhelming fullness.

"aghh, fuuuck," you hissed, your eyes watering.

he paused, letting you adjust, his chest heaving. "too much?" he asked, his voice laced with concern, but his eyes were still dark with lust.

"no," you choked out, shaking your head. "don't stop."

he nodded, and then with a guttural groan, he plunged forward, burying himself to the hilt. you cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. your lower stomach bulged visibly with the sheer size of him, a shocking, undeniable evidence of how deep he was inside you.

he looked down, his eyes widening in disbelief, a raw, primal laugh escaping his lips. "fuckin' hell, doll, look at that!" he swore, grabbing your hips, pulling you tighter against him. "look how deep i am inside ya. you're practically swallowing me whole."

he started to move, slow at first, then picking up the pace, his hips grinding against yours. each thrust was deep, powerful, stretching you to your limits. you could feel him hitting your cervix with every bottom-out, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, desperate for more.

he leaned down, his mouth finding your ear. "you feel so good, so tight around me," he whispered, his voice thick with lust. "you're made for this, aren't you?"

your moans were becoming increasingly filthy, pornographic, echoing in the room. his head spun, his eyes glazed over with animalistic pleasure. he was a man possessed, driven by the raw need to claim you.

you started to abuse your own clit with your fingers, circling and pressing, adding another layer of intense sensation. your eyes never left his, a silent challenge, a shared madness. your face was a mask of obscene pleasure, biting your lip, touching yourself, watching him watch you. he let out a low growl, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine. he laughed, a short, sharp bark, utterly undone by your audacity.

then he flipped you over onto your stomach without warning, pulling you up onto your hands and knees. you gasped, scrambling to adjust, feeling the sudden stretch and pull of him still inside you. he pulled out just enough to reposition, then slammed back in from behind, a deep, guttural grunt escaping his lips.

his balls slapped against your clit with every deep, bruising thrust, sending sparks of fire through you. he grabbed a handful of your hair, tugging your head back, exposing your neck.

"you're such a slut," he snarled, his voice rough, but there was an unmistakable note of adoration beneath the degradation. he lifted his free hand and spanked your ass, a sharp smack that made you cry out. "a fucking good one."

he leaned in, chest glueing to your back, his breath hot against your ear. "you like that, don't you? being fucked raw like the dirty whore you are?"

"issei," you whimpered, your body trembling, unable to form words. he let go of your hair, only to wrap his ridiculously big hand around your throat, squeezing. not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to restrict your breath, to make your vision swim at the edges.

"tell me you're mine," he growled, his voice a dark command.

you choked out a strangled, "m'yours, mattsun. always yours."

he released his grip slightly, then assaulted your neck with a series of bites and hickeys, marking you, claiming you. "yeah, my good, dirty girl. so fucking good." he praised and degraded you in the same breath, a confusing, exhilarating mix that pushed you further into the depths of your own depravity.

he pulled back up, grabbing both of your arms, holding your wrists firmly. he pulled you back, forcing you to arch your back even further, to look up at him, your head tilted back at an impossible angle. you were a pliant toy in his hands, completely at his mercy.

you smiled, a wide, unhinged grin, a giggle bubbling up from your chest as your eyes met his. "fuck me harder," you begged, your voice breathless.

he stared at you, his eyes burning with a dark amusement, and then with a growl, he flipped you back onto your back. he hiked your legs up, pressing your thighs to your chest, exposing your swollen, slick pussy to him.

he gave your pussy a sharp, stinging slap, the sound echoing in the room. "you asked for it now, baby," he snarled, and then plunged his cock back in, hard and fast, burying himself to the hilt again.

"ahh! issei!" you screamed, a raw, primal sound, your body arching off the sofa.

he leaned in, grabbing your jaw, his fingers digging into your flesh. "open your mouth," he ordered, his voice laced with venom, eyes burning into yours.

you obeyed instantly, your mouth falling open, panting. he looked at you, a devilish glint in his eyes, and then, with a disgusting, wet sound, he spat.

"now shut the fuck up, whore," he growled, forcing your mouth closed, and then, with a sharp smack, he slapped your cheek.

the sting brought tears to your eyes, but it also ignited something else, a wild, untamed fury that mirrored his own. you glared at him, but you didn't fight, didn't protest. you just took it, letting him dominate you, letting him break you down.

he started to fuck you senseless, his thrusts relentless, pounding into you with a savage rhythm. he held your legs high, exposing you completely, his eyes never leaving your face, watching every shudder, every moan. you were a mess of sweat and tears and pleasure. your body was a vibrating string, stretched to its breaking point.

"cum f'me, doll," he demanded, his voice hoarse, his own breath ragged. "fucking scream my name."

and you did. you screamed his name, a desperate, guttural cry as your orgasm hit, a tidal wave of pleasure that consumed you. your body seized, your muscles clenching around him, and then, with a sudden, gushing release, you squirted, a warm flood soaking the sofa, making a mess of both of you.

he roared, a triumphant sound, his eyes wide with a feral satisfaction. he pulled out, still hard, still throbbing, then grabbed your hair, pulling you up onto your knees on the sofa, your legs still trembling. he guided his thick, dripping cock to your mouth, pushing the head between your lips.

"open wide, doll," he commanded, his voice thick with impending climax.

you obeyed, gagging slightly as he pushed deeper, fucking your throat with the same ruthless efficiency he'd used on your pussy. you choked, tears streaming down your face, but you held his gaze, taking every inch of him. he drove into your throat, again and again, his hips bucking, his face contorted in a mask of pure ecstasy.

he was close, so close. you could feel the tremors running through his body, the tension building. just as you thought you couldn't take any more, he pulled out with a wet pop.

you gasped for air, your throat raw, your eyes watering. he stood over you, his chest heaving, his eyes burning into yours. and then, with a guttural groan, he came, a thick, hot stream of cum erupting from his cock, splattering all over your face, lips, dripping down your chin.

he watched you, his breathing ragged, a dark, primal satisfaction in his eyes. he reached out, caressing your chin with his thumb, wiping the cum from your soft skin. he brushed your lower lip and slid his thumb inside. the small red light on his phone was still blinking, recording every last, depraved second.

he glanced at the camera, then back at you. the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "happy now, doll?"

23 wishes ⋆⟢ one character. one fantasy. every day until i'm 23 <3

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