here to read

Once. Twice. Three times.

You try to ignore it. You really do. But something in your chest tightens, that familiar pull—like a string tied straight from your ribcage to Bucky.

You glance down

Bucky 🖤 miss you.

Your lips twitch despite yourself. It’s innocent enough. Harmless.

You type back quickly beneath the table.

miss you too. behave.

You barely have time to set your phone down before it buzzes again.

You hesitate this time.

Natasha’s still talking. No one’s looking at you.

You check.

can’t.

Another message comes in immediately after.

thinking about you.

Heat blooms low in your stomach.

You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together just slightly, trying to ground yourself. You don’t respond this time. You shouldn’t encourage him.

Your phone buzzes again anyway, this time with an image, that has you doing everything you can not to choke on your drink.

Bucky is sitting on the edge of your shared bed, shirt nowhere in sight, dog tags resting against his bare chest. His hair is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. His thighs are spread just enough, sweatpants slung low on his hips, one large hand wrapped loosely around himself.

Not fully, ust enough to make your mouth go dry.

Just enough to make it very, very clear what he’s doing.

You snap your phone facedown against the table so fast it almost makes a sound.

“Everything okay?” Wanda asks softly, tilting her head.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, voice a little too high. “Just—uh—work thing.”

Natasha narrows her eyes at you, suspicious, but doesn’t push. Thankfully.

Your phone buzzes again.

You ignore it.

It buzzes again.

And again.

You swallow hard, trying to focus on the conversation, but your mind is gone. Completely gone. All you can think about is the image burned into your brain—his hand, the way his muscles flexed, the implication of what he was doing while you sat here pretending to be normal.

You cave.

You flip your phone back over, shielding it slightly with your hand.

wish it was your hand instead.

Your breath stutters.

Another message follows.

or your mouth.

You nearly choke.

“Drink,” Maria says, shoving your glass toward you with a raised brow. “You look like you are dying.”

“I’m fine,” you manage, grabbing the drink and taking a long sip just to give yourself something to do.

Your phone buzzes again.

You shouldn’t look, but you do. This time there's an even worse picture

His head is tipped back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. His hand is higher now, grip tighter, veins standing out along his forearm. His other hand is braced on the mattress beside him, fingers digging into the sheets like he’s holding himself together.

Your thighs press together hard this time.

You can feel the heat pooling between them, can feel how soaked you’re getting just from looking at him.

you like this, doll?

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly, but nothing comes out.

bet you’re squirming right now.

You shift again in your seat, biting your lip.

He knows you too well.

come home soon.

Your heart pounds.

You lock your phone this time, shoving it into your bag like it’s burned you.

“Alright,” you say abruptly, pushing your chair back. “I—uh—I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. I should head out.”

Natasha smirks immediately. “Early morning, huh?”

You don’t dignify that with a response.

You say your goodbyes as quickly as possible, ignoring the knowing looks, ignoring the way your entire body feels like it’s buzzing under your skin.

The drive home is torture.

Every red light feels too long. Every second drags. Your mind replays every message, every image, every word.

By the time you get to your apartment, your patience is gone.

You shove the door open, kicking it shut behind you.

“Bucky—”

He’s in the kitchen, fully dressed and calm as if its any other day.

Leaning against the counter like he’s been there all evening, flipping through something on his phone.

He looks up at you, brows lifting slightly in mild surprise.

“Hey,” he says, voice casual. “You’re back early.”

You stare at him.

Your brain short-circuits.

“What—” you start, then stop, gesturing vaguely at him. “What are you doing?”

He frowns, pushing off the counter. “What do you mean?”

“You—” You take a step toward him, incredulous. “You were just—”

“Just what?” he asks, completely innocent.

Your jaw drops.

“You were sending me—” you lower your voice, glancing around like someone might hear, “—pictures. And texts. And now you’re just—standing here?”

Bucky blinks at you like he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.

“Pictures?” he repeats slowly.

You stare at him.

He’s serious.

Or at least, he looks serious.

Your frustration spikes.

“You know what I’m talking about,” you snap, heat flooding your face. “You’ve been torturing me for the last hour and now you’re acting like—”

Before you can finish, he steps closer.

Close enough that your words falter.

Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Was I?” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Your breath catches.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.

“You seemed fine,” he continues softly. “Out with your friends. Having fun.”

You swallow hard.

“You know I wasn’t fine,” you whisper.

His lips twitch with a hinr of smugness that confirm his intentions.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I figured.”

Your hands ball into fists at your sides.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm.” He leans in slightly, nose brushing yours. “And you’re soaked, aren’t you?”

You inhale sharply while his smirk deepens.

“Been thinking about me this whole time,” he murmurs, voice low and rough now, all pretense gone. “Sitting there, trying to act normal while I had you falling apart.”

Your knees feel weak.

“Bucky—”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he challenges softly.

You can’t.

Because he isn’t.

He knows it.

His hand slides down, fingers brushing your hip, your waist, before settling at your thigh—squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Next time,” he says, voice dark with promise, “you answer me.”

You shiver.

“Or I’ll make it worse.”

And yes, your heart had been doing something stupid-reckless in your chest by the time you heard the key turn in the lock, like some part of you knew that this wouldn’t end in pasta and wine and candlelight, but on your back in the living room, with your legs around his waist and his voice rasping low filth against your neck.

You’d both been busy all week. Late meetings, early mornings, half-finished conversations shouted between doors, and this dinner was supposed to be your chance to slow down, to breathe, to finally have him to yourself without interruption.

You were in love, and that always made you stupid.

Clark walked in like he always did, shoulders broad beneath the soft fall of his suit jacket, tie already loosened with that careless tug he did when he was tired and distracted and had no idea what you were about to do to him, and he hadn’t even made it halfway through saying "Honey, I’m home!" before you were grabbing him by the collar and yanking him down into you, all mouth and need and relief. 

And then his slacks were on the floor.

And then you were on the floor.

And...well.

Dinner had become… irrelevant.

Which brought you here.

Twenty-something minutes later, still flushed and sticky and trembling, you braced yourself against the edge of the bathroom counter with what little strength you had left. Cheeks burning, thighs slick, every inch of you ached in the most humiliatingly damn good way.

All the while, your kind, earnest, dorky husband knelt between your legs like he wasn’t the reason you couldn’t walk straight.

There was a slow, steady trail of his cum running down your thigh like a goddamn leaky faucet, warm and wet and completely unrelenting. You didn’t want to think about how many towels you’d already soaked. You didn’t want to think about how long it had been since he finished and that your body still hadn’t recovered. 

You were trying to reclaim a shred of dignity, to gather yourself up enough to maybe salvage the night, maybe re-apply your lipstick and find your heels and pretend like you hadn’t just taken your husband on the living room rug with a desperation of a repressed Catholic nun. 

At least, Clark tried to look apologetic. Operative word: tried

He tried not to laugh at you, his cum-dazed wife. You could tell. He was doing that thing with his mouth where he chewed on the inside of his cheek, tried to look serious, concerned, remorseful, but yet there was a sparkle in his eye and a dimple threatening to show, and it made you want to kick him in the chest just a little. Or kiss him senseless again.

Hard to say.

This is your fault, you almost said, but you knew it would come out too breathless, too whiny, too fond, and you weren’t really mad anyway.

How could any real anger survive when your body ached in the loveliest way? Limbs still boneless. Your thighs still trembled. Skin still buzzed like static. You were sore and wrecked and deeply, profoundly in love with—

"Clark, baby," you hissed through gritted teeth, fingers tightening around the counter. "It’s not stopping."

"I know, I know," he lamented so softly it almost qualified as a coo. The third warm washcloth of the evening made its apperance, pressed gently between your thighs, knowing it was a losing battle. "I didn’t think—I mean, I did, I just didn’t think it’d be that much—"

You whipped your head down at him, eyes narrowed.

"Babe. Be for real. It’s always that much."

He winced, shoulders curling a little. At least he had the decency to look sheepish.

"Okay. Yes. But you were so—Gosh, you looked so beautiful waiting for me in this new dress, and I missed you all day, and that way you pulled me down! Oh that kiss! Whew, that was A Kiss! And I missed you so much—"

You slapped your palm over his mouth before he could spiral any further.

He kissed your palm once. Then again. Then once more for good measure. "I’m very sorry, my love."

"You’re not sorry."

"I’m a little sorry," he mumbled, and you could feel the smile blooming wide under your hand. "And I did miss you. A lot."

Your throat went a little tight from the way his voice cracked, the honest, desperate way he confessed. You sighed, hand slipping from his mouth to his cheek instead, brushing your thumb just beneath his eye.

"I missed you too, Clark," you admitted quietly. "Obviously. I mean—we wouldn't be here like this if I didn't, right?"

His grin softened, blue eyes twinkling.

You shook your head fondly, tipping it back as you stared up at the ceiling like maybe, if you prayed hard enough, you’d get swapped with a version of you wearing underwear and sipping wine instead of holding in your husband’s third orgasm like it was a contest.

"The reservation was for seven," you sighed, and tapped your phone with the counter. "It is now… seven twenty-eight. I’m still leaking. Any underwear I put on will be soaked. My heels are probably somewhere behind the couch. There is no saving this evening."

He gently nudged your thighs open again, oh so careful.

As if he hadn’t been the one who’d folded you in half earlier, and pounded you almost into your downstairs neighbor's living room.

As if pressing a fresh, warm cloth between your legs would magically fix things this time.

"We could call the restaurant?" he offered, hopeful.

You made a non-committed sound, shrugging.

"Ooorrrr I could carry you there," he suggested, like it was s perfectly reasonable option. "You could sit in my lap the whole time. I’ll keep everything in."

You blinked at him. "Clark. No. That's weird."

"Hey! Other people might really like that!"

"Are you married to 'other people'?"

"No!" He held up his hands. "No! Fine, you’re right. That’s too left field for both of us. Don't want to be known as That Couple," he agreed, though he was fighting a grin now, mouth twitching. "But hear me out—"

You gave him a look. The look. That withering, wife-coded, don’t test me when my legs don’t work look.

He pressed his lips together, throwing a two-finger salute, and nodded like a man receiving a battlefield command. "Understood!"

You breathed in. Exhaled, tried to reset. Looked down again.

Another warm, sticky pulse slid out of you slow and obscene, and you had to bite back the strangled sound it pulled from your throat. You braced your elbows on the sink and breathed into your hands instead.

Clark tilted his head, thumb brushing your knee. "Hey, you okay? Are you hurt?"

"Oh, no, I’m fine," you mumbled into your palms, mortified and aching and too in love to stand upright. "Just—Good God, Clark!"

He rose to his feet slowly, broad and warm and so calm about it all. His hands found your hips, thumbs brushing soft arcs over your waist as he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then lower—to your jaw, your neck, the crook of your neck, pausing to nose along the top of your dress where he tugged it down earlier in a fit of desperation, and then back up again to your temple.

"I promise I’ll get you cleaned up, sweetheart," he murmured, so sincere and impossibly sweet, full of that maddeningly gentle affection he never lost, even when he was the reason you were in this predicament. "Really cleaned up this time. We can still try the restaurant. Make up a story, charm our way to a table. I have some experience doin’ that. Or…"

You looked at him, still dazed. "Or?"

He grinned a little now. "I could make us breakfast."

You blinked. "Breakfast?"

"For dinner," he confirmed, proud and hopeful in equal measure. "Pancakes. The good kind. The fluffy ones Ma would make us. I'll even warm the syrup! Maybe eggs too, if I didn’t ruin your appetite completely."

You snorted, breath catching somewhere in your chest. You weren’t sure you even had an appetite anymore that wasn’t just Clark.

"Wow. Pulling out all the stops."

"What can I say," he murmured, inching closer again, hands gliding down to settle firmly at your hips. "I’m a man of many talents."

"Too many," you sighed, leaning into him. "Too much everything."

Clark dipped his head to kiss your cheek, looking too pleased with himself. "You weren’t complaining half an hour ago."

"I was distracted!" You swatted his chest in a useless attempt to get him off. "You were—God, you were doing that thing with your hips and your hand on my throat—and—and you were saying those hot, filthy things—"

He arched a brow. "You liked that? Really?"

You made a sound that was supposed to be dismissive, but looped around into something that sounded an awful lot like yes.

He grinned, holding you tighter, dimples flashing. "Noted! I gotta write those down for next time...."

Then he dipped his head lower, murmuring near your ear like it was a secret—like he hadn’t already said it with his whole chest twenty minutes ago.

"‘My sweet girl, my incredibly gorgeous wife. Made for me, fits like my favorite glove—’" he quoted, barely above a whisper.

You made a noise that was part gasp, part Clark!—shoving weakly at his shoulder as your whole body flushed.

But he wasn’t done.

"‘Gosh, look at you, so wet for me I could come just watching you.’"

"Stop it!" you choked, already hiding your face in his neck.

"Gonna fill you up so good you'll feel it until Monday.'"

You groaned so loudly it echoed.

He chuckled, nuzzling his nose against your cheek, smug and in love and entirely too proud of himself. "What? You said you liked it!"

Another pulse of him slid out of you. You gasped, startled, then looked down and groaned again.

"Oh, for God’s sake!"

"I'm truly sorry, sweetheart!" he exclaimed, laughing now. "I told you, I tried to pull out. Seriously."

"Well, why didn't you?!"

"You said! And I quote—" He pitched his voice into a poor but charming imitation of yours "—‘You better not dare, Clark Joseph Kent, I want every single drop’ then hooked your thighs around me like a cobra—"

You covered your face with both hands, grimacing. "Oh my God! Don’t ever do that again.""

"But did you or did you not do these things!?"

"I was incoherent! Dick-drunk! You know how I get!"

"Still said it! I was just being a good husband and honoring your wishes!"

A sigh puffed from your lips, the kind that carried affection and surrender in equal measure. He smelled like aftershave and laundry detergent, and sweat and you, and when his arms came around again, gentle and warm and steady, you melted deeper into him.

A warm hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, massaging your scalp.

"So," he began, "Wanna stay home?"

Pressing away from him slightly, you looked up at him, hair sticking to your cheek, heart still racing somewhere beneath your ribs. You then glanced at your phone: 7:42. The reservation was long gone now. You met his gaze again.

"Will you cook in just your boxers?"

He beamed. "Anything your heart desires."

"Then yes!" You were a weak, weak woman.

The kiss he gave you was sweet and lingering. Then he looked down at the still-wet trail forming between your thighs. "Wanna take a bath together?"

"....Are you going to behave?"

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone. His eyes softened. "No promises."

You laughed, shook your head, and smacked a kiss to his lips. "Go start the bath, Mr. Overachiever."

Already halfway to the tub, he was muttering to himself as he turned the faucet on, talking about getting the water just right and finding the good towel that didn’t smell like gym detergent.

Following him required a dignified waddle. The type only someone actively trying not to spill more of their husband’s third orgasm could manage, peeling your dress over your head and letting it fall to the floor as you stepped closer.

"Clark?" you asked, bare now, skin flushed and soft and glowing in the bathroom light.

Steam already curled around him from behind when he glanced up.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Next time…" you met his gaze evenly, "Maybe just finger me before dinner. No matter what I say. Just do that."

He stilled, resting his hand on the slippery lip of the tub so fast he nearly fell in the water. "You want me to—"

"Not now!" you yelped, laughing. "Next time."

"What about after I make dinner. That's technically next time, right?" He squinted, already plotting.

Your dress was appropriately lobbed at his face. "Clark!"

He caught it effortlessly, winked, before tossing it to the side and reaching for you again, arms warm and open. "I love you, sweetheart."

"And I love you, so much," you replied, still breathless, still dazed, still drowning in him. "Now get in the bath."

So no—you didn’t make it to dinner.

But you got a warm bath full of bubbles and candlelight, and a husband who massaged your feet and apologized by giving you incredible toe-curling, spine-melting, mirror-fogging oral on the bathroom counter until you said you forgave him. Again. And again.

You got breakfast for dinner. Pancakes that bounced when you tossed them, syrup warmed just the way you liked it, eggs with the whites were slightly overdone. You sat at the counter in one of his old t-shirts, hair wet, thighs sore, absolutely glowing and still leaking.

You got a man who sat you on his lap, made sure to kiss you between bites, and mumbled with his mouth full, 'still worth it,' like the ruined reservation had always been part of the plan. Like maybe this was better anyway.

Because after a week full of missed moments and passing kisses and not nearly enough time together, this was what you’d really needed.

And really, what else could you expect?

It was Friday.

And you were so deep in love with Clark.

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Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

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Your body still felt off. It was stiff in a way you hadn’t experienced, but also light and airy in a way that felt preternatural. Sounds had begun to filter through the staunch wall of your brain, and they felt sharp, biting. There was an underlying panic that perhaps you had been out for much longer than you first estimated, but something else soothed that panic each time it rose. It made you feel right, despite every wave of confusion, and you leaned into that feeling rather than giving in to the fear. 

Something was buzzing beneath your skin. It flowed in your blood and seemed to zap your veins. Drugs—it was definitely drugs through an IV. Probably pain killers and antibiotics and several other things keeping you alive as your appendix acted against you. There was a chance it had already been taken out, and you preferred that narrative. No time to be anxious about surviving a surgery that already happened. 

Low murmuring suddenly ripped past the mundane sounds of whatever room you were in, and then the panic was back in full force. 

“Explain it again?” 

“The priestesses said it was sudden. Bryaxis was unsettled—and then she was there. Unconscious.” 

The content of the conversation was enough to make your breathing shallow, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that there was nothing medical about the words floating above you, or that you were suddenly concerned you had been taken to a… convent? A church?

No, it was that the words sounded so, so foreign, each consonant and vowel weaving together to form echoes of a language you had never heard before, not even in passing. It was unusual, possibly European, but also not in the slightest. You thought it could have been Latin, but even that didn’t sound correct. The worst part, the terrifying part, was that you understood it. You could tell it was different, and still, everything was so clear in your mind. Like it was relayed through a translation app and inputted directly into your brain. 

You felt yourself shift as the fear tightened your throat, and to your surprise, nothing was dragging against you—no wires or IVs or tubes helping you stay afloat after a major surgery. You took in a deep breath and smelled no antiseptic or starched linen sheets. Instead, the air held an herbal hint, spices and heady plants alarming your senses.

Were you kidnapped? Had your organs been harvested? You began to second-guess the integrity of your roommates, running through their university housing profiles in your head. Two grad students, quiet, no parties, night-owls—nothing about being part of an underground organ-harvesting ring. But, then again, maybe they had been waiting for the perfect moment, for you to be vulnerable enough to cart off without a fight.

Your breaths became even more difficult to capture. 

“She’s waking up,” one of the male voices said.

You choked on the strange scent of the air, and then your eyes opened and adjusted to the dim, humming light in the room. You were in a room that was, as predicted, not in a hospital. Deep, polished wood made up the roof beams, with red rock twining between tiny cracks and fissures. There were pictures on the walls depicting a town with sprawling lights and a rushing river, and mountains with snow-capped peaks and figures outlined upon them. A window was allowing light in from the far side of the room, and you snapped your head up once the rush of consciousness became less novel. 

Two men stood by the door, both imposing in their statures, neither looking like the type to steal someone’s organs. They were well-dressed and put together, calm with their attention fixed on you, and you’d never witnessed any organized crime, but the lavish room you were in, paired with the careful, guarded looks you were receiving, didn’t add up to the assumptions in your head. The comparisons didn’t help you feel calm. 

Your hands hovered over the plush blanket on your lap, fingers shaking. You let out a sudden gasp of air that quivered in your chest and flinched as the two men reacted to the sound. Neither had moved from their positions by the door, though you knew by their expressions that they would if they had to. The shorter one, his eyes more cunning and knowing, tilted his chin up and began to speak. 

“Where did you come from?” he asked, tone clear. “And how did you land in my library?” 

The lack of malice in his curiosity told you he was in control of the situation. The taller man behind him, lean but still taking up so much of the doorway, looked on with equally searching eyes, but he was more guarded, more reserved, his brow twitching as you observed him. You had a hard time discerning which of the two was more dangerous. 

“Um,” you stammered, still frozen in place. Your voice was more melodic than you had expected. “I don’t—exactly know how I got here. I’m from the—I, um, I’m in grad school on the east coast.” 

“The east?” the man in the back echoed. His voice was so low you felt it in your chest. “Of what court?” 

You paused. “New York?” 

The one with the deep blue eyes squinted. “Where is that?”

Confusion overrode panic. “New York? As in, the state?” 

Everyone knew about New York, even if they only conceptualized it in terms of taxi cabs and hot dogs and the Statue of Liberty. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that you had been taken to a remote island, on which no one had a map, or access to the news, or even an internet connection, but these men looked… knowledgeable. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but they didn’t seem the type to be uninformed. 

You glanced out the window to get a better concept of your surroundings, but saw only a clouded blue sky. You were high up, then, granting even more evidence against your remote island theory—if they could build a house several stories high, they would know about New York. 

You worried your bottom lip as the clouds inched their way across the window, the room silent. Through the corner of your vision, you saw the men looking at each other—furrowing and straightening their brows, squinting and grimacing and huffing out breaths. If there were words accompanying their expressions, it would have made more sense, but as it stood, you were beginning to amount a new fear: that you were kidnapped, and your kidnappers were clinically insane. 

The most reasonable avenue would be the escape, but you would need to scope out your surroundings first, and each time you even shifted on the bed, eyes shot to you. Were you not allowed to move? Were you chained to the bed? You took stock of your legs and feet under the blanket, not feeling bound by anything other than the tucked-in sheets. There were no bars on the window, either, and the room itself was rather welcoming. You glanced over at the side table, tinctures and small vials labeled with scrawling text. Your fingers spasmed as you read the words clearly, despite the letters looking foreign. 

This could have been a very, very realistic dream. 

After another moment of the men staring at each other, you decided to take a chance, feeling resolute in both the dream and the insane kidnapper theory. You slid one leg out from under the blanket, but movement by the door stopped you. 

The taller man had turned to you again, expression watchful, feet moving on the plush carpet. You sucked in a breath and stalled your attempt to get to the window. And then you felt yourself scream. Just one scream—an accident, really, your hand coming out to cover your mouth as the men stood at alert. Your breaths were making strange sounds past your fingers, and your shoulders were unintentionally raised. 

Wings. 

The man had wings, and they didn’t look fake. They moved along with him, membranes allowing light to pass through and highlight the veins tracking back to the roots. And the closer you looked at him, the worse it became. There were glowing, blue… gems—no, sconces of light attached to his body, and they seemed to move with him too. They sparked and swirled as he took you in, responding to him in a way that couldn’t be manufactured. 

But what had you jumping from the bed were the shadows emanating from him, wisps of darkness flowing from his shoulders. Some of them seemed to tug at him, others cloaked him in their murky air. You jolted up and got caught on the sheets, tugging your ankle loose until your hands finally met the carpeted ground. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t hear them, too panicked to make sense of this strange language you suddenly understood. You ended up with your palms flat on the ground and your knees supporting you, vaguely aware that you were wrapped in some sort of silk material that you were positive did not come from your closet. 

“Easy,” the winged man warned, but his hands were up in a placating gesture, and he had begun to crouch to meet you at your level. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

Your chest had begun to sting with your quick inhales. The man took the smallest step forward, and you rushed back, your head slamming into a table and making your vision blur. 

“Azriel, you are scaring her,” the other man patiently said. He hadn’t moved from the door, but something about him felt more imposing. Your head was throbbing too much to make sense of it. 

Azriel looked over his shoulder. “Well, what would you like me to do instead, Rhys?” he quipped out, as if this were some kind of game and you weren’t being held hostage. 

Okay. 

You were the one going insane. That had to be it. You had fallen into the hall back at your apartment and had some sort of psychotic break, prompting your very appropriately acting roommates to put you on a psych hold. That was it. That was why you were seeing shadows and wings and glowing bulbs. You blinked hard and tried to orient yourself to that truth, hoping that some clarity would come with the revelation, but when you opened your eyes, you were still there. 

“This isn’t real,” tumbled from your lips, sounding breathy and light. “You—you aren’t real. And I’m going insane.” 

Azriel shook his head. “This is real. You are in the Night Court. Is that where you’re from? Or are you from somewhere else?” 

“Night Court?” you mumbled to yourself, gaze falling to your fingers as you fiddled with the hem of the satiny dress. And you focused on them, then, more intently than you had when you first woke up. You flipped your palm over and looked at the length of your fingers, at the elegance that flowed along your wrists and up your arms. They were your hands, but they weren’t. Not at all. 

Night Court. 

You couldn’t focus on just one thing anymore, your eyes traveling around the room without abandon. They went from Azriel, to the man at the door, to the window, to the paintings along the wall. 

Were you from somewhere else? You were from New York. You were getting your master’s in library science, and you were going to be a librarian. You had a tiny, cramped apartment in Syracuse with roommates getting grad degrees in STEM. Night Court—that didn’t make sense. 

It didn’t make sense because you were crazy. You had gone crazy. The energy drinks had driven you insane with their promises of copious vitamins and energy and a faster metabolism. This was the price. 

At some point, Azriel had dropped to his knees to mirror you on the ground. “I don’t think she’s going to answer us, Rhys,” he quietly called out, eyes never leaving you. “Maybe Feyre would be better.” 

“I’m not sending Feyre in when I can’t see if she has… motives.” 

Something clicked in your brain. Things lined up, information being shelved in alphabetical order until confusion made way for understanding, and then that understanding lingered. 

“Feyre?” you mumbled again. The man, Rhysand, your brain provided for you, perked up in the doorway. “That book.” 

“What book?” Rhysand quickly asked. 

“The—series. It’s… I read it a few years ago, but I don’t think it’s—” Your next breath was an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god. I am actually going insane. I’m hallucinating, and it’s—I should have gone to law school, oh my god.” 

“Law school?” Azriel echoed. 

You snapped your gaze up to look at him, finally taking in the hazel of his eyes and the shadows that weaved into his dark hair. Then you found his hands, confirming something to yourself when scarred tissue rested atop his thighs. Rhysand was next, and you located his pointed ears and elongated features almost instantly. 

Another disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. Azriel moved again, and you shot back, head connecting with the table for a second time. Pain split down your neck, something rattling on the surface above. You brought your hand up to tame the ache, but Azriel’s hand had raised too, and for a second, the shortest second, your fingers brushed. You tore your hand away, pressing it into the base of your skull, snapping your eyes to his. 

Something pulled. The air stagnated. 

It felt like the pull from right before all of this happened, before your brain short-circuited and threw you into a fantasy land you’d read about during your gap year. You leaned into it, hopeful that somehow, it would zap you back into reality. That maybe if you honed in on the feeling, you would find that this was all some coma-induced dream you could forget about with time, but always reference when you told the story of your appendix bursting—because you were still holding out hope that it was actually that. 

It did the opposite. You gave in to the pull, tugging on the glowing thread, and it made you feel more rooted in the spot. More concrete in the make-believe. Still just ahead of you, Azriel made a gasping sound that echoed each of your panicked breaths from before. You scanned his expression, etched your gaze into the high corners of his face, but he was seemingly frozen. His chest didn’t move. His shadows paused. 

“What—” 

You didn’t get the chance to finish your question, not that it had ever been formed in your head. Azriel shot to his feet, stumbling back and causing you to flinch again, to cower into the table that you had been trying to inch away from. He looked down at you, and his expression pinched, looking pained, before his hand gripped at his chest, covering his heart as his shadows wove between his fingers. One came down and brushed your cheek, and you screamed, jolting into the light of the window. 

Azriel flinched at the sound. He took another step back, and then another. You hadn’t realized you were breathing hard again until your shoulders met the far wall, your bone digging into the wood. Your mind was racing at an impossible speed, all your theories and concerns and all of the confusing sensations melding together. And maybe you could have handled it, maybe you could have collected yourself, but there was a mirror just across the room. You looked at it with your blurry, unfocused vision, and you thought it was another painting. At first. But then you moved, and the figure etched within it moved with you. And it was a mirror, and it was you, but it wasn’t. 

You looked like yourself, could recognize yourself, but you were changed. 

Made. 

The thought sang in your head, unfounded, and your panic turned to terror. Because this entire time, thoughts had all been yours. They had been unorganized and scary and untrue, but they had all come from you. But that one hadn’t been. 

So, you did the first thing you could think of on your own, the first thing that truly felt like it could bring you back to yourself. You reared your head forward, and then you let it fall back with force. The pain was similar to before, but it was numbing, almost. And it didn’t bring you back. Someone shouted, panicked, but you thought maybe the numbing was reality, so you edged forward again. 

You didn’t have the chance to try a second time. 

Your head slammed back, but it hit something soft, something that gathered the momentum and didn’t let it continue. Azriel was in front of you again, no longer edging out of the room, and it was his hand that stopped your assault. He was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, and then he wasn’t. He yelled something over his shoulder, and then Rhysand was in front of you. The door opened. Footsteps followed. 

“Do something.” 

“I can’t—”

“Anything.” 

And then there was nothing. 

Looking at them, both men are sitting as if relaxed, but you see the tension in their shoulders and the set of their jaws. Surely, refusing them would be worse than accepting your fate.

Inhale, exhale. Nice and slow to steady your nerves. You shift in the seat, hands now flat on the table before you. It’s only cool against your palms for a moment before the wood warms and the grain becomes evident.

“If I say no, it’ll turn ugly,” you summarize, hating how they both nod, “but if I say yes and I’m not happy with my new life?”

There’s a flicker of something soft in Rogers’ eyes as he reaches out to take out to take your hand. The gesture is repeated by Laufeyson and you’re astounded by how different their hands look and feel. Both big, one is more slender, soft, and cool, while the other is broader, warm, and calloused.

“We understand your trepidation,” Laufeyson assures you.

Rogers nods. “We’ll be good to you.”

Now, if only you knew what their definition of “good” was. Still, you find yourself nodding along.

“I cannot possibly make an educated choice between the two of you,” you hear yourself say, “so you’ll have to learn to live with each other.”

You hear Rogers’ nasal intake of breath, see Laufeyson’s free hand flex. They shoot each other a short glance but their attention is back on you in a heartbeat.

Everything that follows is a blur: they have you close up the cafe, barely allowing you to send a text to your boss to warn that you’ll be gone and that you are sorry. Then they walk with you to your home, both of them busy on their phones arranging for moving boxes to be delivered and for the best real estate agent to clear their schedule for the rest of the day.

At your little apartment, they allow you the privacy to change out of your work clothes before sweeping you into a taxi – seemingly the only neutral vehicle they could agree on rather than any one of the men having to accept a ride from the other.

Squished between the men on the backseat, you’re thankful that they keep their hands to themselves at least for a while longer – no, you have no hope that will last but for now it feels like you only have your own body left under your control and it makes the air scratch in your lungs as if wanting to escape on a scream. Still, you keep quiet.

The first place you drive to is on the edge of downtown and it isn’t hard to guess that it’s right on the border between Rogers’ and Laufeyson’s turfs, making it possible for both men to come and go without “trespassing”.

The apartment is a penthouse and the real estate agent that’s waiting for you is babbling about the view and the spaciousness as she shows it off. You have a hard time focusing on what she says even though you try. It doesn’t matter, though: you can’t see yourself living in a place like this because as fancy as the apartment is, it’s also devoid of any soul. So by the end of the tour, you just shake your head softly and the two mobsters sweep you out the door and on towards the next place.

A brownstone near a park. Three floors and a little garden out back. Kids that play in the street which makes you nauseous at the idea of bringing the mobsters into their neighbourhood and so you refuse to even finish the tour before you quietly ask to leave. You know you’ll have to chose something at some point but it can’t be this.

Another street in the liminal space between the men’s hunting grounds. Tall buildings with old facades and parisian roofs that hold yet another penthouse – this time with a roof top terrace – where a new real estate agent awaits, nervously wringing his hands until he spots the men whose presence reducing him to an ass-licking wimp. You don’t blame him.

And somehow, even if just for a moment, this place distracts you from your situation as you wander through the rooms. Despite the current emptiness, it’s easy to envision what it could end up being with furniture – even if you hesitate in the bedroom at the idea of the size of the bed needed. Will Laufeyson and Rogers be able to share a bed?

“Do you like it here?” Rogers asks softly under the real estate agent’s ramblings about flooring materials.

Do you? It’s not anything you had ever thought you’d achieve in your wildest dreams but...yes.

“I do,” you admit quietly.

Laufeyson has overheard your answer and with a nod he turns to the frazzled man trying to sell the place. “We’ll take it.”

“You...oh...lovely!”

---

They tell you that you can bring over whatever furniture from your old place you might want to keep but frankly, IKEA is not the provider of anything particularly sentimentally valuable and, you figure, you might as well get the most out of this situation as possible, so you opt for the exhaustive project of shopping for new furniture in the days to come. Sure, some of your things will be needed to tide the gap until the new stuff has been chosen and delivered but you will be in charge of decorating and furnishing the apartment as you want and you grab at that frail feeling of control.

Control.