TRBL

On the first day of the fall semester in the second year of your graduate degree, you were sure the last thing you expected was to see the man from last night standing behind a lectern in your lecture hall.

It was the first thought that yes, it was definitely the same guy, but the more you looked at him, sitting in the back middle of the room, maybe it wasn't him after all. You were being crazy, still a bit hungover. The lecture hall began to fill to the brim with students for this class, conversations buzzing around while you dug around in your backpack for a pen.

Your head still ached from the drinks you had last night.

"Okay everyone, settle down."

The room began to quiet until silence.

"Welcome to Cognitive Psychology. Since apparently introductions are necessary," he said, voice dry. "My name is written on the board along with my email. Structure your emails correctly or you won't get a response."

You looked up to see your professor motion to the whiteboard behind him, and your stomach dropped.

Professor Levi Ackerman.

The neon sign on one of the walls of the bar flickered while you looked down at your third or fourth drink of the night.

"You never told me your name," you said, leaning your hand on the elbow propped up on the table.

The man gave a grin, taking a sip of his whiskey, before saying into the cup, "Levi."

"Just Levi?"

He set the glass down with a clink. "Levi Ackerman."

Professor Ackerman continued to speak despite your spiral, pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard while he explained his syllabus that was projected. "Attendance is mandatory and if you're looking for an easy advanced credit, you're welcome to drop the course."

His gaze grazed across the crowd of students, obviously looking to see if there were people going to walk out of the room. You watched his face, a hint of amusement on it until it scanned across the row you were sitting in.

Professor Ackerman was staring right at you, eyes looking a little bit too long.

You felt sick, the events of last night coming into full force in your mind.

"Do you want to get out of here, Levi?"

"Your car or mine?"

You could see recognition in his eyes and his speaking faltered for a moment, his mouth parted before he hid it behind the same unreadable expression he had since the lecture had begun. He started talking again about the syllabus, mentioning the clauses about late attendance and late turn-in assignments and all you could do was look down at your notebook so quickly, staring down at the blank page as if it was going to have all of the answers of what you were supposed to do. 

Out of every single professor in the university, every single graduate seminar, and every single bar in the city — it had to be him. When you met him last night, you didn’t know that he was a professor. All he said was that he did research, you hadn’t put two-and-two together that he would do research here. 

“This class will run under the presumption that you retained most of what you learned in your undergraduate cognitive psychology course,” Professor Ackerman said. “If not, refresh your memory before our next class on Thursday. Please utilize office hours if you feel you need more help with past material, but I will not hold your hand throughout the entire course. It’s above my pay grade.” 

Looking back up, you stared at the slides on the projector but the words held no meaning for you, they blurred into hazy lines, meaningless. Your mind couldn’t stop racing, replaying every single moment of last night until you felt your headache come back. 

Stepping into the modern-esque apartment, you hung your coat on one of the hangers near the door. It was decorated simply, the signs of someone who had just moved into the space. 

“Did you just move here?” You asked, walking deeper into the apartment. To your right was the kitchen which was cleaned impeccably, so much so that there wasn’t even any water stains in the sink. Did he even live here, or did he just have an amazing cleaning lady? Low lights hung from the bottom of the cabinets, illuminating the space only enough for you to see the shape of his face when you looked back at him. 

Levi nodded. “A week ago.” When you swiped your finger against the counter, seeing no evidence of any dust or crumbs, he laughed. “It bothers me when things are out of place.” 

“Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?” 

You wondered how you had missed it. There were psychology books lining the bookshelves in the living room and you had even commented on them while he stood behind you. Maybe you had been too tipsy to think twice, or maybe it was because after you had he pushed your hair to your other shoulder and started pressing warm kisses to the back of your neck. It was a phantom feeling, you could still feel them as you sat here now. 

“Now that that’s over with, does anyone have any questions?” 

The lecture hall was silent, a few exchanged glances here and there. Professor Ackerman waited for a moment, and then another, eyes scanning the lecture hall once again for hands raised. All of the hesitation and recognition that you’d caught earlier was buried under a guise of practiced professionalism. If you hadn’t spent hours with him last night from the bar all the way into the early hours of the morning, you would believe that he always looked like this. Untouchable and unreadable, a professor that addressed his graduate students with indifference. 

Levi gave a single nod, reaching for his laptop to change the slides over to the first official lecture material. “Good, then let’s get started.” 

Despite your best efforts to keep up with the material, most of the lecture was unsuccessful in terms of learning. Every time Professor Ackerman said something even remotely similar to what he said to you last night, you freezed, blinking hard enough to blur your vision, forcing yourself to stare at the projector so that you couldn’t focus on anything else. 

The dry cadence of his voice brought you back to that apartment, tugging another memory to the surface. His hand would graze against the wooden edge of the lectern and you would remember the way that it felt running against your bare thigh, body pushing you deeper into his firm mattress. 

“You can take more, can’t you?” Levi whispered against your ear from behind, hand pushing against the small of your back to arch your ass up. He slid into your warm heat again, a low, raspy groan leaving his lips when your cunt accepted him without any restraint. “Just like that, good girl. Already so wet for me.” His words sounded broken, ragged, like he was tearing at the seams. 

By the time the lecture ended nearly ninety minutes later, your notebook only contained a few bullet points of information you weren’t even sure was relevant. Students began to sit up and leave the classroom while you sat there, watching Professor Ackerman talk with some girl who walked up to the desk. She was wearing a frilly pink top, already bargaining with him about attaining extra credit if she could be his teaching assistant. By the looks of it, he didn’t seem amused, shaking his head and saying something you couldn’t make out. 

You wanted to go up to him, to tell him that you didn’t know he was the professor for your class. If you had known you never would have come onto him last night. You wouldn’t have gone home with him, kissed him, fucked him into the early hours of the morning. 

But there were other students beginning to crowd his desk as well, and the last thing you wanted to do was create some type of scandal between the two of you on the first day of school if someone was to overhear. 

Standing up from your seat, you grabbed your things, shoving them into your backpack and beginning to scoot past the chairs and desks of the row you were in to reach the steps that led outside. Maybe if you got out of the room quickly enough, you could go to the scheduling department and ask if there was any other course you could take in order to satisfy the credits you needed. Maybe you wouldn’t have to confront him and could drop out of the class before—

You made it to the top of the stairs when a voice cut through the murmurings of the last group of students to walk out of the classroom through the other doors to your right. You stopped in your tracks, slowly turning around to see him looking directly at you. 

The door thumped, echoing in the hall between the two of you alone. He kept staring while you walked down the stairs, holding your bag against your side. Up close, you could see the familiar shape of his jawline, the tiny scar beneath his lip that you had kissed more than enough times now. 

He studied you for a moment now that you were a few paces away from him, grey-blue eyes watching your every move like he was trying to figure out the right thing to say. 

“I didn’t know,” you said, words tumbling out faster than you had hoped they would. “I promise I didn’t know. My advisor told me that someone else was going to teach this course.” Which was the truth, your advisor told you that a Professor Davis was teaching this semester, she was the only professor that taught this course on campus for the past five years. You knew the schedule like the back of your hand, there was no Professor Ackerman anywhere in it. 

“I accepted the position two weeks ago,” he said. “The department had already posted the lecture with the previous professor. They were planning on sending the updated information today.” 

You sighed in relief now that you knew he believed you. You didn’t want him to think that this was some type of trap, that you had specifically planned this. It could’ve gotten you into big trouble in terms of getting your graduate degree, hell, it could’ve cost your entire enrollment in university.

It had just been a coincidence. 

A cruel, unfortunate coincidence. 

You took a deep breath, relief flooding through your entire body. “Thank god,” you whispered. “I thought you’d think that . . . I don’t know. Planned this. I truly had no idea.” 

Levi’s brows knit together before he raised one of them. “I never considered that. I’ve only been in town for two weeks, I didn’t know I was teaching this seminar until three days ago.” 

An awkward tension crept back up between you both, both of you reaching the same conclusion silently. You were still his student, he was still your professor. 

“What happened last night,” Levi said, swallowing so hard you could see his Adam's apple bob. “It happened before we knew who each other were.” 

“I know.” 

“We can’t discuss what happened with anyone,” he continued. “Unless you already did, and then we have another problem.” 

You shook your head immediately. “No, I haven’t. My roommate doesn’t even know where I went after I left the bar.” 

Levi held your gaze for a moment, searching for any hint that you weren’t being truthful. Satisfied with what he didn’t find, he gave a small nod. “Good.” 

“And you?” You asked, though you were sure you already knew the answer. 

The corner of his mouth twitched up for a moment. “I don’t discuss my personal life with colleagues.” 

You wanted to laugh at how he said it in such a matter-of-fact way, but you bit the inside of your cheek instead. 

“I don’t want this getting out any more than you do,” he added. “The university has policies, as I’m sure you’re aware.” 

As is the case with all universities, relationships between faculty and students within their own classes and departments weren’t just taboo and frowned upon, they were the things that warranted investigations and disciplinary hearings. It didn’t matter that neither of you had known before it happened or before he officially became your professor. All of those would be considered things that were just inconvenient details to the advisory board. 

“It wouldn’t end well,” you said quietly. “They’d just know I slept with my professor.” 

You’re so tight, fuck, you take me so well.

Heat rushed to your face, prompting you to look away, your eyes focusing on a crack that ran through one of the hall tiles. 

Levi’s eyes casted down to the floor like he was thinking the exact same thing you were. “Yes, they won’t care about the details. So we draw boundaries.” 

Boundaries, right. Like you couldn’t remember the way his mouth felt while he kissed the soft skin of your inner thighs, or how bruising his hands felt against your wrists while he held them above your head. It felt stupid, knowing that no matter how many boundaries the two of you spoke of, it wouldn’t change the past. 

“Outside of the classroom, we don’t know each other,” Levi stated clinically, almost as though it was a fact. You almost believed it even though it wasn’t true. “What happened before this morning stays between us. I’m just your professor.” 

The words sounded like rejection even though it wasn’t. It was practical and it was necessary, probably the smartest thing that either of you could do in this situation if you couldn’t switch sections. Still, that didn’t stop it from feeling like rejection. 

“No personal texts or calls,” Levi continued. “If we happen to run into each other off campus, we keep the interaction brief or have none at all.” 

“You’ve really thought about this.” 

“I’ve been thinking about it since the second I saw you sitting in my lecture.” 

Levi’s expression softened then, realizing that what he said probably sounded harsher than he meant. “I don’t want to put your degree at risk or my job,” he said. “If circumstances were different . . .” He trailed off, glancing over at the door like someone was going to come through, not finishing what he wanted to say. “It doesn’t matter. They aren’t.” 

You could fill in the blanks, you didn’t need a psych degree to do that. If you hadn’t enrolled in his seminar, it would be different. If he worked at the neighboring university or if you had already graduated, it would be different. Maybe there could be something there between the two of you. 

Instead you were standing in an empty lecture hall. 

On the first day of the fall semester in the second year of your graduate degree, you were sure the last thing you expected was to see the man from last night standing behind a lectern in your lecture hall.

It was the first thought that yes, it was definitely the same guy, but the more you looked at him, sitting in the back middle of the room, maybe it wasn't him after all. You were being crazy, still a bit hungover. The lecture hall began to fill to the brim with students for this class, conversations buzzing around while you dug around in your backpack for a pen.

Your head still ached from the drinks you had last night.

"Okay everyone, settle down."

The room began to quiet until silence.

"Welcome to Cognitive Psychology. Since apparently introductions are necessary," he said, voice dry. "My name is written on the board along with my email. Structure your emails correctly or you won't get a response."

You looked up to see your professor motion to the whiteboard behind him, and your stomach dropped.

Professor Levi Ackerman.

The neon sign on one of the walls of the bar flickered while you looked down at your third or fourth drink of the night.

"You never told me your name," you said, leaning your hand on the elbow propped up on the table.

The man gave a grin, taking a sip of his whiskey, before saying into the cup, "Levi."

"Just Levi?"

He set the glass down with a clink. "Levi Ackerman."

Professor Ackerman continued to speak despite your spiral, pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard while he explained his syllabus that was projected. "Attendance is mandatory and if you're looking for an easy advanced credit, you're welcome to drop the course."

His gaze grazed across the crowd of students, obviously looking to see if there were people going to walk out of the room. You watched his face, a hint of amusement on it until it scanned across the row you were sitting in.

Professor Ackerman was staring right at you, eyes looking a little bit too long.

You felt sick, the events of last night coming into full force in your mind.

"Do you want to get out of here, Levi?"

"Your car or mine?"

You could see recognition in his eyes and his speaking faltered for a moment, his mouth parted before he hid it behind the same unreadable expression he had since the lecture had begun. He started talking again about the syllabus, mentioning the clauses about late attendance and late turn-in assignments and all you could do was look down at your notebook so quickly, staring down at the blank page as if it was going to have all of the answers of what you were supposed to do. 

Out of every single professor in the university, every single graduate seminar, and every single bar in the city — it had to be him. When you met him last night, you didn’t know that he was a professor. All he said was that he did research, you hadn’t put two-and-two together that he would do research here. 

“This class will run under the presumption that you retained most of what you learned in your undergraduate cognitive psychology course,” Professor Ackerman said. “If not, refresh your memory before our next class on Thursday. Please utilize office hours if you feel you need more help with past material, but I will not hold your hand throughout the entire course. It’s above my pay grade.” 

Looking back up, you stared at the slides on the projector but the words held no meaning for you, they blurred into hazy lines, meaningless. Your mind couldn’t stop racing, replaying every single moment of last night until you felt your headache come back. 

Stepping into the modern-esque apartment, you hung your coat on one of the hangers near the door. It was decorated simply, the signs of someone who had just moved into the space. 

“Did you just move here?” You asked, walking deeper into the apartment. To your right was the kitchen which was cleaned impeccably, so much so that there wasn’t even any water stains in the sink. Did he even live here, or did he just have an amazing cleaning lady? Low lights hung from the bottom of the cabinets, illuminating the space only enough for you to see the shape of his face when you looked back at him. 

Levi nodded. “A week ago.” When you swiped your finger against the counter, seeing no evidence of any dust or crumbs, he laughed. “It bothers me when things are out of place.” 

“Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?” 

You wondered how you had missed it. There were psychology books lining the bookshelves in the living room and you had even commented on them while he stood behind you. Maybe you had been too tipsy to think twice, or maybe it was because after you had he pushed your hair to your other shoulder and started pressing warm kisses to the back of your neck. It was a phantom feeling, you could still feel them as you sat here now. 

“Now that that’s over with, does anyone have any questions?” 

The lecture hall was silent, a few exchanged glances here and there. Professor Ackerman waited for a moment, and then another, eyes scanning the lecture hall once again for hands raised. All of the hesitation and recognition that you’d caught earlier was buried under a guise of practiced professionalism. If you hadn’t spent hours with him last night from the bar all the way into the early hours of the morning, you would believe that he always looked like this. Untouchable and unreadable, a professor that addressed his graduate students with indifference. 

Levi gave a single nod, reaching for his laptop to change the slides over to the first official lecture material. “Good, then let’s get started.” 

Despite your best efforts to keep up with the material, most of the lecture was unsuccessful in terms of learning. Every time Professor Ackerman said something even remotely similar to what he said to you last night, you freezed, blinking hard enough to blur your vision, forcing yourself to stare at the projector so that you couldn’t focus on anything else. 

The dry cadence of his voice brought you back to that apartment, tugging another memory to the surface. His hand would graze against the wooden edge of the lectern and you would remember the way that it felt running against your bare thigh, body pushing you deeper into his firm mattress. 

“You can take more, can’t you?” Levi whispered against your ear from behind, hand pushing against the small of your back to arch your ass up. He slid into your warm heat again, a low, raspy groan leaving his lips when your cunt accepted him without any restraint. “Just like that, good girl. Already so wet for me.” His words sounded broken, ragged, like he was tearing at the seams. 

By the time the lecture ended nearly ninety minutes later, your notebook only contained a few bullet points of information you weren’t even sure was relevant. Students began to sit up and leave the classroom while you sat there, watching Professor Ackerman talk with some girl who walked up to the desk. She was wearing a frilly pink top, already bargaining with him about attaining extra credit if she could be his teaching assistant. By the looks of it, he didn’t seem amused, shaking his head and saying something you couldn’t make out. 

You wanted to go up to him, to tell him that you didn’t know he was the professor for your class. If you had known you never would have come onto him last night. You wouldn’t have gone home with him, kissed him, fucked him into the early hours of the morning. 

But there were other students beginning to crowd his desk as well, and the last thing you wanted to do was create some type of scandal between the two of you on the first day of school if someone was to overhear. 

Standing up from your seat, you grabbed your things, shoving them into your backpack and beginning to scoot past the chairs and desks of the row you were in to reach the steps that led outside. Maybe if you got out of the room quickly enough, you could go to the scheduling department and ask if there was any other course you could take in order to satisfy the credits you needed. Maybe you wouldn’t have to confront him and could drop out of the class before—

You made it to the top of the stairs when a voice cut through the murmurings of the last group of students to walk out of the classroom through the other doors to your right. You stopped in your tracks, slowly turning around to see him looking directly at you. 

The door thumped, echoing in the hall between the two of you alone. He kept staring while you walked down the stairs, holding your bag against your side. Up close, you could see the familiar shape of his jawline, the tiny scar beneath his lip that you had kissed more than enough times now. 

He studied you for a moment now that you were a few paces away from him, grey-blue eyes watching your every move like he was trying to figure out the right thing to say. 

“I didn’t know,” you said, words tumbling out faster than you had hoped they would. “I promise I didn’t know. My advisor told me that someone else was going to teach this course.” Which was the truth, your advisor told you that a Professor Davis was teaching this semester, she was the only professor that taught this course on campus for the past five years. You knew the schedule like the back of your hand, there was no Professor Ackerman anywhere in it. 

“I accepted the position two weeks ago,” he said. “The department had already posted the lecture with the previous professor. They were planning on sending the updated information today.” 

You sighed in relief now that you knew he believed you. You didn’t want him to think that this was some type of trap, that you had specifically planned this. It could’ve gotten you into big trouble in terms of getting your graduate degree, hell, it could’ve cost your entire enrollment in university.

It had just been a coincidence. 

A cruel, unfortunate coincidence. 

You took a deep breath, relief flooding through your entire body. “Thank god,” you whispered. “I thought you’d think that . . . I don’t know. Planned this. I truly had no idea.” 

Levi’s brows knit together before he raised one of them. “I never considered that. I’ve only been in town for two weeks, I didn’t know I was teaching this seminar until three days ago.” 

An awkward tension crept back up between you both, both of you reaching the same conclusion silently. You were still his student, he was still your professor. 

“What happened last night,” Levi said, swallowing so hard you could see his Adam's apple bob. “It happened before we knew who each other were.” 

“I know.” 

“We can’t discuss what happened with anyone,” he continued. “Unless you already did, and then we have another problem.” 

You shook your head immediately. “No, I haven’t. My roommate doesn’t even know where I went after I left the bar.” 

Levi held your gaze for a moment, searching for any hint that you weren’t being truthful. Satisfied with what he didn’t find, he gave a small nod. “Good.” 

“And you?” You asked, though you were sure you already knew the answer. 

The corner of his mouth twitched up for a moment. “I don’t discuss my personal life with colleagues.” 

You wanted to laugh at how he said it in such a matter-of-fact way, but you bit the inside of your cheek instead. 

“I don’t want this getting out any more than you do,” he added. “The university has policies, as I’m sure you’re aware.” 

As is the case with all universities, relationships between faculty and students within their own classes and departments weren’t just taboo and frowned upon, they were the things that warranted investigations and disciplinary hearings. It didn’t matter that neither of you had known before it happened or before he officially became your professor. All of those would be considered things that were just inconvenient details to the advisory board. 

“It wouldn’t end well,” you said quietly. “They’d just know I slept with my professor.” 

You’re so tight, fuck, you take me so well.

Heat rushed to your face, prompting you to look away, your eyes focusing on a crack that ran through one of the hall tiles. 

Levi’s eyes casted down to the floor like he was thinking the exact same thing you were. “Yes, they won’t care about the details. So we draw boundaries.” 

Boundaries, right. Like you couldn’t remember the way his mouth felt while he kissed the soft skin of your inner thighs, or how bruising his hands felt against your wrists while he held them above your head. It felt stupid, knowing that no matter how many boundaries the two of you spoke of, it wouldn’t change the past. 

“Outside of the classroom, we don’t know each other,” Levi stated clinically, almost as though it was a fact. You almost believed it even though it wasn’t true. “What happened before this morning stays between us. I’m just your professor.” 

The words sounded like rejection even though it wasn’t. It was practical and it was necessary, probably the smartest thing that either of you could do in this situation if you couldn’t switch sections. Still, that didn’t stop it from feeling like rejection. 

“No personal texts or calls,” Levi continued. “If we happen to run into each other off campus, we keep the interaction brief or have none at all.” 

“You’ve really thought about this.” 

“I’ve been thinking about it since the second I saw you sitting in my lecture.” 

Levi’s expression softened then, realizing that what he said probably sounded harsher than he meant. “I don’t want to put your degree at risk or my job,” he said. “If circumstances were different . . .” He trailed off, glancing over at the door like someone was going to come through, not finishing what he wanted to say. “It doesn’t matter. They aren’t.” 

You could fill in the blanks, you didn’t need a psych degree to do that. If you hadn’t enrolled in his seminar, it would be different. If he worked at the neighboring university or if you had already graduated, it would be different. Maybe there could be something there between the two of you. 

Instead you were standing in an empty lecture hall. 

His hands weighed down on you, smoothing over the swell of your breasts as his fingers rolled rhythmically around the peaks. The friction was searing and intense; it felt as though it were burning through your very bones.

Then, as his hands left your skin to brace firmly against your hips once more, you understood clearly. Aang was on the precipice, teetering on the very brink of his breaking point.

"Are you close? Hahh! Ngh-! Please! Please tell me- Ah! tell me you're close!"

Aang is beseeching, his groans turning mindless as he slurs.

"N-no, my love. Not y-yet." 

Your answer only makes things worse for Aang, seeing as how he was close to exploding, the fire within him getting smaller and tighter till the space could no longer contain the heat.

"Please! I can't-!  Can't hold on- Ohh!"

His warnings were futile the moment his head was thrown back into the pillow, legs folding up as his thighs came up, letting you support yourself on them, back arching momentarily.

You could feel him crammed inside you, his release warm as his whines grew, eyes begging as they opened again, meeting yours in desperation.

"Ohh! Oh! T-too much!"

You continued your movements, the muscles burning in your legs as you doubled your force, your fingers quick and nimble as they reached between your thighs, aiding you in your own release by adding pressure to your nerves.

"Oh spirits! Please! I can't!"

Aang groans, eyes screwing shut as his fingers dig into your flesh, gripping tighter than the coil currently building in your stomach.

"Just one more...please, my love..." you gasped, your voice trembling with the weight of your impending climax. 

"Give me j-just one more."

Aang couldn't find words; he could only offer a frantic, desperate nod as he heaves. He let out a low, guttural moan, his hips stuttering upward to meet your descent even though he had already spent himself. 

The friction was overwhelming as you rode the peak of your desire, seeking the shattering release against the velvet warmth of him.

Then finally, the world splintered into light. You arched your back, crying out his name, the waves of pleasure crashing over you.

In the wake of your release, the heightened sensitivity of his body betrayed him; caught in the throes of your ecstasy, Aang felt the pull of a second wave. 

With a choked sob of pleasure, he surged into you once more, his body shuddering as he surrendered to another release.

Silence eventually reclaimed the room, save for the ragged synchronicity of your breathing. 

As the haze began to lift, you leaned forward. Looking down, you saw him flushed a deep, beautiful crimson, his chest heaving beneath you. His eyes remained blown wide, dazed and exhausted.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you lowered your head to rest on his chest, remaining perched atop him in the quiet aftermath. 

"Wow," you murmured, tracing the line of his collarbone, "you held out for a lot longer this time..."

"Ouch," Aang breathed, sounding as though you had delivered a stinging rebuke rather than a compliment, though a lopsided grin tugged at his mouth.

You chuckled again, lifting your gaze to meet his dazed expression. 

"This takes me back to our first time." You teased, shifting your weight to sit upright once more, your silhouette framed by the dim light.

A groan vibrated through him, and he brought his arms up to shield his eyes from your playful reminiscing. 

"Ugh...do not remind me..."

You chuckled at him, leaning forward to place a brief kiss to his cheek.

"Come, let us get cleaned up," you commanded gently.

But Aang merely sank deeper into the pillows, his limbs seemingly made of lead. 

"Need a minute..." he pleaded, his voice thick with the lethargy.

"Very well," you conceded. 

As you pulled yourself free from his embrace, a small, wounded whine escaped Aang at the loss of your warmth. 

But before you could retreat, his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you off balance as you sit once again.

"Rest for a while," he muttered into your skin.

You gave a mock huff, leaning back against his strength. 

"I cannot! I have to clean myself and have my tea."

"So many rules..." he sulks, though his grip loosened, allowing you to slip away. 

From the tangled sheets, he watched you walk away, his eyes trailing the graceful lines of your bare form. 

He noted with a flicker of bewilderment how steady your gait remained, entirely unbothered by the exertion. 

Pouting faintly, he let out a huff, unable to understand how you could remain so effortlessly composed while he felt utterly undone.

Once you had finished cleaning up, Aang had followed after you once you vacated the bathroom, moving to clean himself as well. You had quickly asked a maid who was walking past your room to have a hot water and a cup delivered. 

As you waited, you retrieved the box of tea leaves, opening it with practiced ease before measuring out a small portion into the infuser. The delicate sphere clicked shut just as a soft knock sounded at the door. 

The maid entered without delay, placing the tray upon the table across the room, and you offered her a brief word of thanks before she excused herself just as quickly.

Crossing the room, you set the infuser into the cup and lifted the kettle, pouring the steaming water over it, watching as the color slowly unfurled into the liquid, deepening with each passing second. 

You brought the cup to your lips after a few minutes, turning to rest back against the table, the edge pressing lightly into your lower back while you took a careful sip.

The bathroom door opened behind you, and you glanced over your shoulder to find Aang stepping out, a towel secured around his waist as he smoothly walks over to you.

"Does that thing really work?" he asked with a quiet curiosity beneath it. His hand rose to brush a stray strand of hair away from your face before he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.

"We have avoided pregnancy thus far," you replied, a faint smile touching your lips. "There is little reason to doubt it now."

Aang only hummed, moving as his shoulder coming to rest beside yours against the table. 

"I don't know," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his thoughts already moving ahead of him.

 "Sometimes it feels like...if something is meant to happen, it just will. No matter what you do."

You turned your head slightly toward him, a hint of amusement in your gaze. 

"Oh? And you have come to this conclusion just now?"

He huffed a quiet breath, almost sheepish, though his face remained thoughtful. 

"Not just now," he said. 

"It's just...the way things work sometimes. Like the Avatar."

Your brows drew together faintly. "How so?"

Aang shifted his weight, turning a little more toward you, caught in the trail of his own thoughts. 

"I don't think the spirits decide when the next Avatar is born," he said slowly, choosing his words with care and trying to frame his idea correctly. 

"I think they wait for it to happen. And when it does...the only thing left is to end the life that came before it."

The words were a lot more heavier than his tone suggested, and you took a few moments to your self to understand what Aang meant.

"So the spirits cannot create life," you said, watching him closely now, "only take it?"

Aang gave an uncertain shrug, his gaze coming to you.

"Maybe," he admitted.

"I don't know if that's the truth...it just feels that way sometimes."

You did not respond immediately, choosing instead to observe him, watching carefully as he turned toward you fully. He looked as though he wanted to say more, a restlessness that had not been there a moment before clear in his eyes. 

Before you could make sense of it, he moved, stepping closer until he stood directly in front of you.

You watch him as you lifted the cup once more, intending to take another sip, but his hand came up without warning, stopping the motion midway. 

He took the ceramic from your fingers with gently and set it aside on the table beside you, the faint clink of it sounding louder in your mind than it actually did.

"Aang?" you asked, looking up at him, your head tilting as your brows drew together in quiet confusion.

He did not answer.

Instead, he sank to his knees before you, the movement unsuspecting. His arms came around your waist with a weight that felt heavier than his frame allowed one to believe. 

His head dropped forward, resting against your stomach, his cheek pressing into the soft fabric of your robe as though seeking refuge within your warmth.

"Why stop life when it is inevitable?" he murmured, his voice almost lost against you.

You inhaled carefully, your hands hovering uncertainly before settling on the edge of the table behind you, bracing yourself against it, both for balance and for thought.

"What are you trying to say, Aang?" you asked, and even though your voice was quieter, it wasn't any less steady.

"I'm not trying to say anything," he replied quickly, though the contradiction lay plainly within the words. 

He shifted slightly against you, his grip tightening just a fraction. 

"Just...would it be so bad...?"

The implication did not escape you.

You exhaled, your posture easing to allow your weight to rest more fully against the table, your fingers curling against its surface.

"Aang....it was your idea to wait two years."

"I know— I know," he insisted, the words tumbling out, his voice muffled as he pressed closer, hiding his face further against you, avoiding the weight of his own words.

A quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself, your hand lifting to rest on his head.

"What has gotten into you?" you asked, keeping you tone gentle on noticing his hesitant nature.

At that, he pulled away.

The movement was abrupt, and he rose to his full height once more, his hands still stationed at your waist as he looked down at you.

"Everywhere I go," he began, "I see parents with their kids. Teaching them things, guiding them, showing them how the world works. Here, in the Fire Nation, in the Earth Kingdom... everywhere." 

For a brief moment, he looked younger. Not the Avatar, just Aang, speaking aloud a dream he had clearly carried for a while.

"And I just think...I'd love that. I'd love to teach someone Air Bending."

The words were out for interpretation, and you nodded slowly, understanding not just the meaning, but where in his heart it had come from.

Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted as his composure faltered, a nervous jitter taking over his face.

"That's not the only reason of course!," he added, his hand rising from your waist to cup your cheek.

 "I really do want that life with you."

He was sincere, and you couldn't help but a smile grace your lips.

"I know. But you said you wanted to wait," you reminded him gently, trying not to appear dismissive.

"You said you wanted time for us. To travel, to live, for it to be just us, before anything else."

You continued, anchoring him to his own words.

"And I agreed."

"That is...a reason," Aang admitted, his voice faltering slightly.

"Not the only one..." The rest of his words left unspoken, unsure whether to continue.

You did not let the silence stretch.

"What is the other reason?" you asked, and there was no mistaking the intent behind it, you wanted a clear answer.

Aang sighed, his palm still resting against your cheek, his thumb brushing faintly against your skin.

"I knew that once we settled in Republic City...I wouldn't be able to stay," he said slowly, afraid  his admission might offend you. 

"Not for long, though. I thought if I gave us those two years, I could figure things out. Make more time and learn how to be around more."

Your expression shifted at that, the weight of a single word settling deeper than the rest.

"What do you mean, you wouldn't be able to stay?" you repeated softly, focusing on the only words that mattered to you.

Aang's gaze flickered, the answer already there, though he hesitated before letting it come.

"Being the Avatar...it doesn't really stop," he said. 

"Not after everything that's happened. The world is still healing from the war, and there's always something that needs fixing, somewhere I need to be." His jaw tightened faintly, more so in acceptance and not frustration.

"I knew the time I spent with you...those months away from everything...it would mean I'd have a lot to catch up on."

He paused, the words seemingly no enough for what he was trying to say.

"But I don't regret it," he added firmly. 

"Not for a second. It was the first time in a long while that I didn't feel pulled in a hundred different directions. I got to just...be with you."

You listened without interrupting, trying to search beneath the words.

"Were you afraid you'd be an absent father?" you asked after a moment.

Something vulnerable crossed his face then, your words seemed to have pulled at a fear he had already spent far too much time thinking about.

"That's part of it," he admitted, his tone low. 

"I thought if I gave it time, that in two years I could sort things out, make sure that when we finally..." His voice trailed off again, words stuck behind his nerves.

His lips pressed together as color rose faintly along his cheeks, betraying the rest of his thought before he could finish it.

Aang stepped closer without a word, his hands bracing against the table behind you, trapping you gently between his arms as he lowered his face into the curve of your neck, hiding the warmth that had crept into his face.

"When it happens..." he murmured against your skin, his voice softer now, less certain but no less sincere.

"...I would be able to take time off, and be there throughout your pregnancy. I want to be there. For everything."

Your breath hitched faintly at that, the words making your heart lurch in your chest before you could steady it.

"Aang..." you whispered, touched by the weight of what he had considered, what he had planned without ever saying it aloud before.

Your hands rose slowly to his shoulders, applying just enough pressure to guide him back. He responded immediately, pulling away, though he did not move far, stopping just enough for your eyes to meet his again, his arms still braced on either side of you.

You lifted your hands to his face then, cupping his cheeks with a gentleness that matched his own earlier touch, holding him there before leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips.

You did not pull away immediately, remaining there to feel his warmth linger against your skin while the question you had buried for months finally rose to the surface. 

Slowly, you drew back just enough to look at him properly again, your hands still cradling his face.

“How can you love me so much?” you asked, the words leaving you with a tremor you could not conceal.

Aang blinked, very obviously caught off guard by it, and for a moment, he simply shrugged. The gesture was almost boyish with its uncertainty, offering no answer where one was so clearly needed.

Something inside you tightened, the old fear you had tried so desperately to bury beginning to rise again.

"You know," you continued, the undercurrent remaining sharp, "I saw Katara in the city."

The name settled between you, and Aang stilled under its weight, the warmth from moments ago draining quietly from his face.

"I think I understand why you cared for her so deeply."

His expression faltered, the joy draining from it as he searched for a response that just did not come.

And you did not give him time to find one.

"No," you corrected yourself, your voice tightening. "That is not right." 

Your eyes held his, unwavering now. 

"You love her, don't you?"

He straightened at once, your hands slipping from his face as he reached forward instinctively, his voice breaking through with urgency.

"My love—"

You stepped away before he could finish, the movement cutting him off just as surely as your words had, creating space between you. The table was no longer at your back, nothing to anchor you now except your own resolve.

"I do not understand it," you said, your voice weak as you spoke.

"Back then...I was content. More than that, I was grateful. The man I believed would remain as unrequited love, the one bound to me in a marriage without love, had turned to me and said otherwise."

The words left your lips with difficulty, each one tasting bitter, though you did not stop, the chains circling around your heart loosening in tandem.

"I did not question it." You went on, your composure thinning at the edges. 

"I did not allow myself to. I thought if I did, you might remember...where you once stood. Who you once stood beside."

Aang did not move.

"But now," you said, your voice dropping, quieter, more fragile despite your effort to keep it steady, "I know better. I know that you love me."

Your breath came slower now, doing little to steady the rising tension.

"So tell me..." You continued, meeting his gaze fully, refusing to look away, "Why do you love me?"

The question had finally left, feeling as though the weight of it had been physically stripped from your being.

You had felt breathless by the end of your words, despite having spoken so softly. You weren't sure if he had heard you.

Aang had heard every word. Loud and clear. 

And he didn't have an answer for you.

"I don't know."

The words landed with a quiet finality, a ringing building in your ear as you fought to keep your expression from breaking.

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"My love..." Aang began, hesitating, the words breaking before he could fully form.

"What?" you cut in, the restraint slipping, your insecurities bleeding through. 

"Just say it. Just—" You stopped yourself, feeling yourself falter in spite of your efforts. "Be honest."

Aang held your gaze, and nodded.

"I will be," he said.

"I will be honest and tell you that...for the longest time, when I thought of my future...I saw Katara."

The words landed exactly where you expected them to, yet your jaw still tightened. 

This was not new information. You had known it long before this moment, long before you had ever allowed yourself to stand beside him. And yet, hearing it spoken aloud, hearing Aang say it carried a different kind of pain.

"I would think about everything," he continued. 

"What our life would look like. How many children we might have. Whether they would take after me, or her. I wondered if they would be Air Benders...or if they would carry her bending instead." 

The life he described sounded painfully familiar to him, each word carrying the weight of something he had once wanted with complete certainty.

"I imagined it all. A home, a family...a legacy."

You tried to hold yourself together.

You truly did.

But the tears gathered despite your effort, slipping free before you could stop them, betraying the composure you had fought so hard to maintain. 

You saw him shift forward, one step, instinct pulling him toward you, but he stopped himself the moment he caught sight of your expression, the firmness in it enough to make him opt to stay put.

"I can't say those feelings disappeared the moment I met you," he went on, his honesty unwavering even now. 

"That wouldn't be true."

You braced yourself, though for what, you were not entirely sure.

"But somehow...they changed," he said, something solemn lined through his voice. 

"I didn't notice it at first. But after a while...it was your face I started seeing instead."

Your breath caught again, your gaze lifting back to him, surprise breaking through your sullen face.

"I didn't understand it," he admitted, a faint crease forming between his brows. 

"It didn't make sense to me. I felt guilty. I thought...I thought I had betrayed her somehow." 

Saying it aloud appeared to unravel him slightly, guilt threading deeper through his words. 

"I knew what she felt. I knew she cared about me in the same way, and I couldn't stop thinking that choosing you would hurt her."

He exhaled slowly, the sound heavier than before, his thoughts gathering again before he continued.

"I never figured out when it changed. Or why..." his voice was more subdued now. 

"I wish I could say it was something simple...that I saw you once and just knew. Like it was love at first sight. But it wasn't like that." His lips curved faintly, but there was no humor behind it. 

"I didn't even realize it was happening until it already had."

He takes a step forward, still hesitant in approaching you, even after you had evidently let your guard down.

"For a while, I thought something was wrong with me," he added, the memory clearly carrying equal parts guilt and fondness.

"I kept finding reasons to be around you. Every moment I had, I wanted to spend it with you." A faint breath escaped him, almost a quiet laugh at himself.

"I even thought maybe you had done something to me. Some kind of...spell. That I couldn't stop thinking about you no matter how hard I tried."

"Aang..."

"I can tell you the truth," Aang said at last, the hesitation gone. 

"I can't stop caring for Katara, or any of my friends."

The admission did not waver.

"But I can also tell you this," he continued, taking a step toward you, closing the distance making you draw your eyes upward. 

"I love you."

You felt it then, not just by the words alone, but in the way he said them as he stood before you, stripped of everything except what he felt.

"I tried to deny it." 

The words continued spilling from him now that he had finally allowed them out.

"Back then, I kept telling myself it was still her. That I just needed time, that I was confused. That we were only married in name, that it would pass." His gaze dropped, unable to hold yours. 

"But it didn't. It was already too late."

He drew in a breath, though it did little to steady what came next.

"I'm sorry I can't give you a straight answer," he admitted, the helplessness in his voice sounding crueler to himself than it ever could to you.

"I wish I could explain it properly. I wish I could make it make sense." 

His hand lifted unconsciously, pressing against his chest, fingers curling into his skin of his left side. 

"All I know is...when I thought about leaving you...I—"

The words faltered as his breath hitched, his hand tightening against himself.

"When I tried to forget what I felt for you..." he continued, though the sentence strained, breaking under its own weight. 

You stepped closer without thinking, your concern rising faster than you could contain it.

"Aang...?"

He swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he forced the words out.

"I thought it would kill me."

The confession broke something open.

"Aang!" you cried, the restraint shattering entirely as you closed the distance between you, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him into you without hesitation.

He bent into you, his posture folding slightly, his arms tightening around your waist as he held onto you with a quiet desperation, his breath uneven against your neck.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, the words rough and strained beneath everything he had been trying to hold back. 

"I'm sorry I can't assure you more than that..."

"No," you said quickly, your voice trembling. 

"No, I'm the one who should be sorry." You pulled back enough to look at him, your hands rising to his face, wiping at the tears you had not noticed until now. 

"I'm sorry to have doubted you. I'm sorry, Aang."

Your touch softened as you held him there, your gaze steady despite the tears still clinging to your lashes.

"I love you," you said quietly.

His breath steadied just enough to answer.

"I love you," he replied, with no hesitation, as he leaned forward, closing the space between you in a kiss that carried everything he had failed to explain.

When you pulled back, the tension that had filled the room had softened.

"Thank you for being honest," you said, your composure returning with a smile.

Aang only nodded, the motion simple as his gaze remained on you a moment longer before he noticed the way your eyes slipped away, a faint shyness settling over your expression.

"What is it?" he asked, curious at your sudden timidness.

You hesitated for a second, then spoke bashfully.

"It seems my way of speaking has begun to influence you," you said, a small smile forming despite everything that had just passed. 

"I must admit...it was rather nice to hear you speak like that."

Aang's lips curved into that familiar grin at once, flashing his teeth at you.

"Oh?" he teased, his arms slipping around you again, drawing you closer with an ease that returned as naturally as his breath. 

"But if I keep talking like that, I won't be the same guy you fell in love with, will I?"

"No," you replied, looking up at him, your chin resting lightly against his chest as your smile tenderly. "You won't."

And then you perk up as you remember something, leaving his grasp as you held onto his hands.

"Were you serious about us...trying for a child?" you asked at last, the uncertainty in your voice betraying how carefully you had been holding the question back.

Aang's grin appeared instantly.

"Nahhh."

You stared at him flatly.

One look at your face had him straightening immediately.

"I mean—no! Wait, that's not what I meant." He laughed nervously, hands lifting in surrender before he hurried to explain himself. 

"I was serious. I swear I was serious." His voice softened after the brief panic, honesty slipping back in easily. 

"It's just...something I've been thinking about a lot lately, and I wanted to tell you instead of keeping it in my head forever."

You watched him carefully, waiting for the rest.

"And," he continued, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, "I do hope that someday we'll have a lot of kids."

Your brows lifted slightly.

"Really?" you asked. "And how many exactly is 'a lot' to the Avatar?"

Aang considered it with alarming sincerity.

"Maybe five."

The silence that followed was almost laughable.

Slowly—very slowly—you turned your head to look at him properly, disbelief written so plainly across your face that even Aang began to look uncertain.

"Are you serious?"

The worst part was that he still looked completely genuine.

"Yeah," he answered simply.

You stepped away from him at once, crossing the room in long strides until you reached the abandoned cup of tea resting on the table. 

Behind you, Aang blinked in shock before scrambling after you.

"H-Hey!" he called, half laughing already.

"You have finally managed to frighten me," you say with a sharp exhale, lifting the forgotten tea and drinking the rest in one go despite how cold it had become.

At that, Aang broke into loud laughter, following after you without hesitation.

"Isn't that cold by now?" he asked between amused breaths.

"It still serves its purpose."

That only made him laugh harder.

"Seriously though," he said, still smiling as he came to stand beside you, his fingers moving thoughtfully against his chin, "is five really that crazy?"

You looked at him in complete disbelief.

"You have my full permission to take a second wife."

Aang gasped dramatically.

"Wow," he said, placing a hand over his chest. "That's so considerate of you, my love."

The teasing barely left his mouth before your palm smacked against his chest.

He only laughed louder as it settled between you, fading naturally, the warmth of it lingered in the room even after the sound itself disappeared. 

Aang's smile softened first, eyebrows knitting together before he finally spoke again.

"I can't give you a child right now," he admitted, his voice low once more. "I'm sorry."

Your gaze lifted to him immediately, the apology catching you off guard.

"It's alright, Aang," you assured softly. "I want to wait."

"I know," he said quickly, though there was still strain beneath the words. 

"It's just..." His shoulders dropped slightly, exhaustion surfacing through the cracks again. 

"I don't know how long you'll have to wait."

You frowned at that.

"What do you mean?"

Aang hesitated for only a second, deciding in that moment to come clean to you and share matters that he definitely shouldn't be speaking of.

"The reason I've been here for the past month is because..." He exhaled slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck yet again forcing the words out. 

"The Fire Nation is getting close to a civil war."

The cup nearly slipped from your fingers, and you set it aside before it actually does.

"What?"

"I didn't know how bad things were before I brought you here," he continued quickly. 

"If I had known sooner, I never would've asked you to come." His expression tightened, his own regret seeping through.

"Yesterday's meeting was the first time I realized how serious it actually is."

"How serious?" you questioned, your attention entirely fixed on him now as your worry became obvious.

"There hasn't been violence yet," Aang answered, the reassurance coming with little comfort. 

"They're still trying to negotiate, and that's a good sign. I'm hoping it stays that way."

"And how long will it take to resolve?"

Aang shook his head.

"I honestly don't know. There are groups rising against Zuko's rule, and every time one issue settles, another pops up somewhere else."

"What do they want?"

Aang let out a breath through his nose.

"He won't tell me."

Your brows pulled together sharply.

"What do you mean he won't tell you? You're the Avatar."

"I know," Aang replied, running a hand over his face. 

"I'm supposed to keep balance between the nations, but this..." He paused, struggling to articulate it properly. 

"This is different. It's not one nation threatening another. It's a rebellion growing inside the Fire Nation. I don't know how far I'm supposed to step in. And it's harder because Zuko's my friend."

"If you cannot help directly," you said carefully, "then what have you been doing here for a month?"

Aang leaned back against the table, weariness finally becoming visible in full.

"I've been helping him gather allies," he admitted. "Meeting old friends. Talking to leaders across the nations."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"He has the Avatar running errands?"

That earned the faintest huff of laughter from him.

"It sounds bad when you say it like that," he muttered. 

"But people trust me. They trust what Team Avatar built after the war. I'm just trying to use that trust to help him."

"And then what?" you pressed softly. "How does any of this end?"

Aang went quiet.

For a long moment, he said nothing at all, his eyes lowering toward the floor before his hand came up to clutch at the side of his head, exhaustion creeping into his countenance.

"I don't know," he admitted honestly. "Right now, I really don't know." Then his eyes lifted to yours again. 

"And honestly? I don't want to think about it tonight."

"Aang..."

"I'm just glad you're here," he interrupted gently, the tension in him easing the moment he looked at you properly. 

"Where I can see you. Where I know you're safe."

Your chest ached, but you smiled nonetheless.

"I'm glad I'm here too," you answered earnestly.

The heaviness lingered in the room still, just as suffocatingly, and after a brief silence, you decided to pull him away from it before his thoughts start to spiral.

"Aang?" you hummed lightly, your voice carrying something sweeter now.

"Hm?" he answered absentmindedly.

"Do you realize..." Your smile widened slowly. "You are still standing here in nothing but a towel?"

Aang blinked.

"Oh yeah—"

His sentence cut off abruptly into a startled yelp.

"Hey!"

Your laugh rang through the room the moment your fingers tugged at the knot, the towel loosening instantly beneath your hands. 

Aang barely caught it in time, clutching the fabric to himself with both hands while staring at you in complete betrayal.

You were already halfway across the room laughing, and Aang's gasp echoed behind you.

"That was evil!" he shouted after you, horrified and amused all at once as he scrambled to keep the towel in place around him before chasing after you.

You moved to the bed, settling yourself with your legs stretched out before you as you watched him.

"Why are still holding on to it? You won't be needing it here..." You suggested, your voice lulling with amusement.

With a slow, deliberate motion, you reached for the knot of your robe, loosening it until the silk fell away, baring yourself to his gaze.

Like a lemur caught in the open, Aang freezes. 

His eyes fell to your chest by instinct, only to avert his gaze in that very heartbeat, his cheeks flushing.

"We just took a shower." He reasoned, though his voice lacked the conviction of a true protest.

"Are you saying no?" You tilt your head as folded your knees toward your chest, an invitation that left little to the imagination.

The towel slipped from his hands.

Your giggles became uncontained as Aang moved toward you. The mattress dipped under his weight, his shadow engulfing you.

"I believe..." he began, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes glazing over as they remained fixed on your lips.

"It is my turn to take the lead."

"Is it?" You tease, his eyes meeting your at that.

"Mhm."

"Then," you whispered, a challenge in your eyes, "best of luck to you."

The sky had not yet begun to lighten when Aang woke you up.

The world outside remained wrapped in darkness, the palace still and quiet in those early hours where even the wind seemed to tread softly. A faint chill lingered in the air, though it never quite reached you beneath the warmth of your blankets.

Aang was already awake.

He had been for a while.

Kneeling at your side, he leaned over you slightly, careful not to disturb you too quickly, his thumb brushing slowly across your forehead, moving strands of your hair away from your face tenderly.

"My love..." he murmured gently, barely breaking the silence. "Wake up."

You stirred at his touch before you did to his voice, your nose scrunching faintly as you shifted beneath the sheets, turning instinctively toward him. 

Your eyes barely opened, still heavy with sleep, as your body responded first, your arms lifting to wrap around him, pulling him closer to you as his knees hit the side of the bed.

Your cheek pressed against his shoulder, your bare skin warm against his, and you let out a quiet hum of protest, caught between sleep and waking.

"I have to head back to Republic City," he said softly, one hand settling at your back. 

"Do you want me to bring you anything from home?"

The word rung in your mind, briefly waking you up more.

Home.

You didn't answer the question, opting to tighten your hold on him, your face pressing further into him as a quiet complaint slipped from your lips.

"You're going back?" you mumbled, your voice soft and slurred with exhaustion. 

He only nodded with a hum.

"How unfair. Now that I'm here...you have to leave."

Aang exhaled quietly.

"Yeah, I know." he admitted, almost apologetic as his fingers traced slow lines along your shoulder.

"We just have to be a little patient," he continued, "I'll be back in three days. I promise."

You nod, pulling back to see if you could trace out his face in the dim room.

"...Come back safe," you murmured, not having any requests.

Aang smiled, though you couldn't see it properly.

"I will."

Reluctantly, he eased himself out of your hold, and the loss of his presence was immediate leaving you to feel colder than it had any right to be.

He reached for the blanket, pulling it back up over you properly, tucking it around your shoulders with care.

Then he leaned down and a soft kiss was pressed to your forehead

"Go back to sleep," he whispered. You barely stirred in response, already drifting again.

Aang watched you with a smile, picking up his glider that was leaning against the nightstand, before he quietly made his way out.

chapter five coming soon...

a/n: writing smut for this is so difficult. cause tell me, why am i getting flustered using the usual smut lingo for this story?

[taglist open] (please mention under the latest chapter or the story masterlist)

masterlist

It had been eight months since he had last returned.

Eight months had passed since the harbor had seen the familiar shape of Appa descending from the sky. The city carried on, but those who knew him felt his absence.

Katara found herself searching the skies every loose minute. She told herself it was a habit, that she preferred the open air to the confines of the city, but even she did not believe it entirely. She longed to see Aang, worried his adventures had gone askew. 

She understood the reason for his absence. The world demanded his presence in ways that could not be ignored, and she wouldn't ask him to turn away from that. Understanding, however, did little to ease the sense of distance that had settled over time.

For her, those expectations had taken on a shape she could no longer dismiss.

What they had shared in the past had never been defined, left suspended between their small moments or shared kisses, something that hadn't resurfaced since the end of the war. 

They had been younger then, shaped by the urgency of war and the closeness it forced upon them, but time had not erased what remained. It made it a lot heavier to hold, at least for her.

The time spent building and growing the now Republic City had kept them close yet far apart because of duty. But once it had been over and settled into this new world, Aang took to finding more of his heritage, travelling wherever Appa could reach.

Now, another anniversary of the Republic City had arrived, bringing her friends along with it. 

Sokka, her brother, arrived a few days ago from the Southern Water Tribe. And Toph arrived just yesterday from the Earth Kingdom with a few of her pupils in tow. 

And although the responsibilities of a Fire Lord were inexplicably heavy, Katara was sure Zuko would draw upon a visit as well. 

But the person she hoped to see the most had yet to show his face. She had hoped that his return would bring clarity, that distance would have resolved the unlabeled tension. 

That this time, he would stay long enough for something to begin.

No one ever receives an advance notice of his arrival. The Avatar came and went as needed, his presence guided more by circumstance than by schedule. Even so, there was always a shift in the air when he returned.

It was no different this time.

The anniversary celebrations had filled Republic City with life, the streets crowded with people, music threading through the air, and voices rising in easy celebration beneath the afternoon sun. 

The city center was alive, and it was difficult to notice anything beyond what was directly in front of you.

Until something passed overhead, casting a swift, giant shadow onto the people. It moved across the ground and over the buildings, drawing attention upward.

Heads tilted back, the crowd already bubbling with excitement. And then someone said it.

"Look! It's the Avatar—!"

High above, Appa descended through the open sky. The wind shifted with him, carrying the force of his arrival down into the streets below as the crowd instinctively moved back, clearing space without needing to be told.

On his head sat Aang. He was so easy to recognize, even from a distance.

Katara saw him first, as always. Her breath caught, her gaze fixed upward as the shape of him became clearer with every passing second.

Sokka followed her line of sight, squinting for half a moment before breaking into a grin.

"I told you," he said, nudging her lightly. "I told you he'd show up today."

Toph tilted her head toward the ground, arms still crossed, though her attention sharpened immediately. 

"Took him long enough."

Appa lowered, the air swirling around him as he descended into the open space ahead. The ground seemed to brace for it, and when he landed, the impact sent a gust of wind outward that forced the nearest onlookers to step back further.

The crowd erupted. Cheers broke through all at once, voices rising over one another.

"The Avatar!"

"He's back!"

Aang stepped down with ease, his movements light despite the height he had descended from. The moment his feet touched the ground was light and controlled, like he was the air itself.

He reached up briefly, unfastening the straps of the packs secured behind him before lowering them— setting four large bags (something he had not originally set out with) carefully onto the ground.

Above them, Momo settled with a contented chirp, curling into place as though the journey had not bothered him in the slightest.

Aang straightened as he looked out at the crowd, taking in the faces, the noise, the energy of the city that had continued in his absence. But he was hoping to catch a sight of his family above all.

His eyes skimmed across the crowds and he found them easily, smiling at the familiar faces. It was the same smile they remembered, remaining unchanged despite the months that had passed.

Sokka took a step forward immediately, already raising a hand.

"Aang—!"

But Aang did not move toward them.

Instead, he turned back to Appa once more. Before they could even take a step forward, he lifted himself lightly from the ground with a small current of air, rising just enough to reach the edge of Appa's saddle.

Then he held out his hand.

They were confused. Momo had claimed the travel bags without concern, already drifting toward sleep despite the noise that still lingered around them.

Aang didn't really have anyone else who had accompanied him when he left. The thought settled between them without needing to be spoken, drawing their attention back toward the saddle they had assumed was empty.

Before any of them could voice it, they saw a hand appear first, fingers settling into Aang's before the rest of you followed, rising into view as you pulled yourself upright from where you had been seated along the saddle. 

Your hand remained in his as Aang's grip tightened enough to steady you, and in the same movement, he drew you closer, closing the space that existed between you. 

Your arms circled his shoulders as the two of you remained there, suspended in the air. Then, gently, he brought you down.

The air shifted around you as your feet met the ground beside him. His hold lingered to ensure your balance before easing. When you separated, it was only by a small measure that left the connection between you intact.

The crowd, once loud with excitement, had begun to thin as attention returned to the celebration, though a handful remained, watching with quiet curiosity, their earlier cheers settling into murmurs that carried more questions than answers.

No one reached for a conclusion just yet.

Katara, Sokka, and Toph moved forward almost at once, their attention pulled in two directions at once, drawn to Aang yet returning, again and again, to you.

You had already turned slightly, your hand lifting to rest against Appa's head, and your touch was seemingly familiar enough that the great sky bison leaned into it without resistance.

By the time they reached him, the distance had closed enough that the moment could no longer be delayed.

Katara moved first.

She closed the space quickly, and whatever restraint she had held dissolved the moment she reached him. She wrapped her arms around him without hesitation, the force of it enough to make him shift back a step before he steadied.

"Aang," she breathed, relief threading through her voice despite her effort to keep it composed. 

"It's so good to see you."

Sokka followed without pause, stepping in with a grin, his arm wrapping around them both and pulling them in.

"Yeah, pal, good to see you," he said.

Toph approached last, her head angled slightly as she reached out and pulled him into an embrace once the siblings had stepped back.

"Well, I can't see you," she said, her voice carrying its usual bluntness as she smirked, "but it's good to have you back, Twinkle Toes."

Aang laughed quietly, slipping easily into the space between them as though the months apart had been mere minutes.

"It's been one hell of an adventure," he said, his smile widening, his energy returning despite the changes that had settled into him. 

"But it's really good to see you guys."

He looked between them, taking in their presence fully now, before something shifted in his expression.

"Where is Zuko?" He noticed the absence quickly, as Katara stepped in.

"He'll be here tomorrow." She ensured. Aang nodded once in understanding before smiling back at them. 

"I'm really glad you're all here," he added, turning slightly.

"Because there's someone I want you to meet."

He called your name.

You turned at once, your attention shifting back to him, your hand lowering from Appa as you stepped forward when he beckoned you closer. When you reached him, he guided you gently to stand in front of him, your back pressing close to his chest.

His hands settled at your shoulders, as though presenting you to his friends (which he technically was).

The space around them seemed to narrow again, attention pulling inward and onto you.

And then, without hesitation, he spoke.

"Guys, this is my wife."

The space was quieter than the open streets of the city, removed from the curious eyes that had followed them from the city center. It was Katara's home, a short tower much like Aang's, warm and simple.

There was a low wooden table set at the center of the room and cushions arranged around it. The scent of food lingered in the air, a spread of dishes laid out with attention. They sat together on the floor, as they had many times before, yet it no longer felt as comforting with the addition of a new presence.

Aang settled easily, his posture relaxed as though the weight of his responsibilities had been set aside for the moment. You remained close beside him, your arm linked through his, your shoulder leaning lightly into his side.

The food was passed between them, and Sokka had already begun eating with little restraint, serving himself generously from the meat-filled dishes Katara had whipped up. Aang remained with the vegetarian plates set aside for him, thanking Katara quietly for the effort before beginning to eat.

You followed his lead, keeping to the same dishes, avoiding the drinks that Sokka and Toph had taken for themselves, your silence unbroken, your attention lowered more often than not.

The moment they had settled, the questions were poured over Aang all at once. Sokka and Toph tried to remain respectful to your presence while asking for your story, meanwhile Katara hadn't questioned the two of you at all, but evidently curious herself.

Aang had kept it brief, offering information sparingly about your history. He had said that the two of you had met while he was traveling, that things had moved quickly and you fell in love, that it had simply felt right. 

And being the Avatar meant having to oversee Republic City, he couldn't stay where he had met you, so the decision to get married had been made quickly, making you two return together, to build something here instead.

It was obvious they had many questions, but they sure as hell would not question their friend right in front of you.

Congratulations had followed, quiet and measured, and then the moment had passed, left to settle beneath everything that came after.

It was Sokka who filled the silence again, though this time not with questions, but with usual new ideas that spawn in his tinkering brain.

"So I've been working on this new design," he began, already gesturing with his hands despite the food still in them, his voice picking up pace as his excitement took over. 

"It's basically a reinforced mechanism—stronger joints, better rotation, and if I get it right, it could handle way more pressure than anything we've built before."

Aang leaned forward slightly, interest immediate. 

"Wait, so for like quicker transportation?"

"Exactly!" Sokka said, pointing at him with a quick nod. "I'm thinking something that could carry more weight, maybe even support multiple functions depending on how it's built."

Toph snorted softly. "So... you're just upgrading what already exists?"

"That's not—it is to improve efficiency." Sokka replied quickly. 

"Sounds the same to me."

"It's not the same," Sokka insisted, already leaning further into it. 

"Efficiency is important. You can't just throw things together and hope it works."

"You literally do that all the time."

"That's different," he said, without missing a beat. "That's instinct."

Aang laughed, slipping into place as though nothing had changed between them, his attention fully caught now.

"No, wait, that actually sounds really interesting," he said, his tone brightening. "If it can handle more pressure, you could use it not only for transportation, but construction too!"

"Exactly," Sokka said, pleased, already building on the idea. "See, this is why you get it."

Toph tilted her head slightly. "Yeah, because he's the only one listening."

The conversation carried on like that, Sokka speaking the most, his words running ahead of themselves as Aang kept up easily, asking questions, offering ideas, while Toph cut in whenever she pleased, her remarks sharp and comical each time.

You remained quiet beside Aang, your hand still resting around his arm, your gaze lowered more often than not, contributing nothing to the conversation yet not removed from it either.

Katara was quieter still, her attempts to keep up with the conversation falling short no matter how carefully she held her smile in place.

She spoke when needed, but for the most part, she said nothing at all, her attention shifting, her gaze returning to you more often than she would have liked before pulling away again.

Time passed quickly as it does when you're enjoying yourself, until the light outside began to soften, the sun lowering, shifting the room into a quieter shade.

Eventually, Aang took note of the time and your tired figure, his attention drifting from the conversation as he set his cup down.

"I think we should head home," he said, his tone gentle, though final. 

"It's been a long journey, and I want to get her settled in."

No one protested, agreeing quietly with a few nods as the evening drew to a close without resistance.

You both rose slowly and Aang moved toward the open balcony, the evening air slipping in as he stepped outside, a soft note leaving his whistle.

It did not take long for Appa to respond.

He floated close to the railing as Aang secured the travel bags onto the saddle before turning back to you, offering his hand as he helped you up first. Only once you were settled did he follow, stepping lightly onto Appa's head as he glanced back one last time.

"See you guys soon."

And then Appa rose, the wind lifting around him as you both left the balcony behind.

Once you had both left, a quiet settled over the three of them. The room, which had only moments ago carried conversation and liveliness, now held something far more glum.

Katara no longer held onto her smile. It faded slowly, the effort behind it slipping away until her lips formed a frown. She remained seated for a moment longer, her hands resting in her lap. The situation pressed in around her, suffocating her.

Sokka noticed it immediately. He had been watching her since Aang stood to leave.

"Katara..." he started, softer now, the edge gone from his voice.

She blinked, as though being snapped out of a dream. When she looked up, the smile she gave him was small and practiced, held together with effort.

"I'm just going to get some air," she said, not waiting for him to respond.

She stood up, her hands smoothing briefly over her clothes, an unnecessary gesture meant to steady herself, and then she turned toward the door.

Sokka pushed himself up immediately. 

"Katara, wait—"

She didn't.

She stepped out before he could reach her, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft finality. And whatever she had been holding in place gave way, unseen.

Sokka stopped short, the words he had meant to say left unfinished, his hand lowering slowly back to his side. He remained standing for a moment, staring at the door, as if expecting it to open again.

He exhaled sharply, the tension in him settling into something heavier as he dragged a hand through his hair before dropping back down onto the cushion, leaning back on his hands.

For a long time, he had not been entirely thrilled when he first noticed what had been forming between Aang and Katara. It had been uncomfortable at first, something he had watched with suspicion, protective instinct getting the better of him. 

But time had softened that resistance and he came to to accept it once he noticed how much his sister really adorded Aang. And Aang, was his best friend. Of all the people, he could trust him with Katara.

He had come to see it as inevitable, something that was bound to happen, and had secretly been expecting to take place already.

This—

This had not been part of that expectation.

"...Okay, what just happened?" he said after a moment, his voice sharp.

Toph did not answer immediately. Her head tilted slightly, getting more comfortable on the floor as she stretched out her limbs.

"That was bad," she said finally.

Sokka let out a short breath, sitting up straighter. 

"Bad? Toph, that was really bad." He ran a hand through his hair again, frustration settling in now that the moment had passed.

"He just—what, disappears for ten months, comes back, and suddenly he's married?" His voice lifted slightly, disbelief breaking through. 

"Since when does Aang do something like that without telling anyone?"

Toph leaned back slightly, her arms crossing, her expression unchanged. 

"Since apparently eight months ago."

"That's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

Sokka pushed himself to his feet again, pacing once across room before turning back toward her.

"She was waiting for him," he said, quieter now, though the weight behind it remained. 

"You know that, right? She didn't say it, but she—she was waiting."

Toph didn't interrupt.

"She thought..." he started, then stopped, exhaling through his nose as the frustration tightened again. 

"I thought—We all thought—!"

He didn't finish that either. The pieces didn't fit together cleanly anymore.

"He didn't even say anything! I am sure one letter wouldn't have hurt! I mean, what the hell was that story? I don't buy it for a second." Sokka continued, his voice lower now, though the edge hadn't left. 

Toph shifted slightly, her tone still calm, though less dismissive now.

"Yeah. He was lying." She says casually, as if it hadn't been the confirmation Sokka was looking for this entire time.

"What?! What do you mean?"

"What you said, Snoozles. Their story. Aang was lying. He probably didn't say much because he knew I would catch his lies."

"Wait...does that mean Aang is in trouble?" 

"Don't think so. From what I sensed, she didn't seem like much of a threat, and Twinkle toes did seem to care for her, there was no lie there." She explained her observations.

"Then I don't get it, Toph. What did Aang lie about?" Sokka questions, keeping his motive straightforward.

"None of what he said was a lie, but it wasn't the entire story. All I'm saying is, he said just enough of the truth to not make me suspect anything."

Sokka was livid.

"Why do you look so relaxed?! Aren't you mad at him? This doesn't seem like the Aang we know!"

"Chill out. I'm sure he's okay. Although...he's not one to think things through. Not when it comes to helping people anyway."

Sokka perks up at Toph's insinuation. "You think he's helping her?"

"My best guess."

"Well, that's no excuse," Sokka shot back immediately. 

"He knows better than that. He should know better than that. We are always here to help, he  knows that!"

"Maybe he just didn't need our help for this. From what I felt, he seemed happier, at least since I last met him.

Sokka's shoulders remained tense, his jaw tightening as his gaze stayed fixed on the door, though there was nothing left there to see. The space Katara had occupied was empty, her absence settling heavily into the room as Sokka grew worried for her.

"...I should go after her," he said, already half-turning.

"Give her a minute," Toph replied, her tone steady. "She won't want an audience right now."

Sokka stopped, even though the tension in him remained coiled tight, he did not argue. Instead, he hesitated in his step for half a second before lowering himself back onto the cushion.

"...He really messed this up," he muttered, the frustration slipping through despite the effort to contain it.

Toph tilted her head slightly at that, her expression unchanged.

"Did he?"

Sokka looked up at her, frowning. "What do you mean did he? You saw her."

"Yeah, I did," she said calmly. "I'm not saying she's fine. I'm asking how exactly this is all on him."

Sokka let out a short, disbelieving breath, the sound sharp against the quiet. "Toph—"

"No, think about it," she cut in, forcing him to listen whether he wanted to or not. 

"It was obvious Katara liked him. I'm not arguing that. But we also thought it was obvious Aang liked her too."

Sokka opened his mouth to respond, but the words stalled, choosing to let her finish.

"And maybe he did," she continued. "Maybe he still does. But technically, they were never official on any grounds. "

"That doesn't mean—" he started, but she did not let him finish.

"It means nothing was decided," she said. "If somehow Aang's feelings changed, we can't blame him for it. "

Sokka's expression tightened, then softened enough to show that he understood Toph's argument.

"That doesn't make this okay," he said after a moment.

"I didn't say it did," Toph replied. "I'm saying we can't act like he broke some rule or something."

Sokka leaned back slightly, dragging a hand over his face as he let that sit, the frustration in him shifting.

"It's just—ughh! Married? Aang won't do something like that on a whim!"

"But he did it already."

"I know. Did you see Katara's face? Even Aang must have noticed it, it was that obvious, fuck!"

"He didn't do it to hurt her."

Sokka didn't respond immediately.

"No," he admitted after a pause. "Of course not."

Aang was not careless, and he was not cruel. He did not make choices like that without reason, which meant there had to be one.

If Toph was vouching for the authenticity of Aang's marriage to you, then—

"...He really meant it," Sokka said, the realization settling in slower this time, heavier.

Toph nodded once. "Yeah."

Sokka exhaled, some of the tension leaving him, though it did not ease what remained.

After a pause, Sokka spoke again.

"What you said earlier... about him not telling the whole truth." His gaze flicked toward her. "Do you think we should tell Katara?"

Toph didn't answer right away. She leaned back slightly, considering the situation. Katara was a fierce woman, and although Toph was sure she won't do anything drastic, even she couldn't trust to stop things from going downhill.

"Not yet," she said after a moment. "She's already dealing with enough. Telling her that now isn't going to help."

Sokka frowned, though he didn't argue.

"So we just... don't say anything?"

"For now," Toph replied. "We wait. Maybe once Zuko gets here. We'll have a good old Team Avatar huddle! Uhh...without the Avatar, of course."

The answer did not satisfy him completely, but it settled enough for him to let it go, at least for the moment.

Toph shifted slightly, adjusting her posture before speaking again.

"When is Zuko getting here anyway?"

Sokka glanced at her, the shift in topic catching him slightly off guard before he answered.

"He should arrive by tomorrow afternoon."

Night settled over the city without resistance, the last of the noise fading. By the time you got settled in your new home, the world outside had quieted, leaving only the soft hush of the empty streets.

Inside your home, you lay beside Aang, the distance between you nonexistent, skin against skin beneath the covers, the warmth of him melting into your flesh. Your head rested against his chest, eyes fluttering to a close to the steady rhythm beneath your cheek.

Each breath of his matched your own without effort, his arm lay beneath you, holding you in place, while his other hand moved slowly through your hair.

Your fingers shifted lightly against him before your voice broke through the stillness.

“It seems your friends do not like me.”

Aang’s hand stilled for a brief moment before continuing its slow movement, his touch no different than it was before.

“They just met you,” he said. “It was unexpected.”

“That is one way to describe it.”

“They’ll come around,” he said after a moment. “It just takes time.”

There was no bitterness in your voice, only an acknowledgment that did not seek to challenge him. You shifted slightly, lifting your head to look at him.

“That water tribe girl,” you said. 

His hand slowed, and you felt the shift immediately. You held his gaze for a second longer before letting it fall, settling back against him, your cheek returning to its place over his chest, though now, the rhythm behind his chest had upped its tempo.

“That was her,” you continued, lifting your head again, your eyes finding his. “Was it not?”

He did not answer immediately. To be honest, he did not need to. You had understood plenty.

“Yes.”

The word settled between you, and you smiled.

“I see.”

You heaved a sigh, feeling your own heartbeat speed up.

“I am sorry,” you said after a moment.

Aang's reaction was immediate as he frowned faintly

“There’s no need for that.”

"I feel as though there is." His hand stilled again, resting lightly against your back now, no longer moving.

“I made my feelings very clear to you, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” you answered. “But that does not mean no one was hurt.”

The honesty in your voice did not leave room for dismissal. Something in his expression shifted then, softening.

“She’ll be alright,” he said after a moment, though the words carried less certainty than he might have intended.

You did not respond to that directly.

“Your friends are important to you.”

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation.

You nodded faintly, your breath evening out again against him.

“Then I hope they will come to accept me.”

“They will,” Aang replied, more certain this time, his hand resuming its slow movement through your hair, steady, grounding. “It just might take some time.”

The tension eased slightly, but Aang didn't need to see your face to know what you were feeling at the moment.

Then, almost as an afterthought, his tone shifted.

“And you haven’t even met my closest friend yet.”

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to look up at him again.

“Oh?”

Aang smiled faintly.

“Zuko,” he said. “The Fire Lord. He’ll be visiting soon.”

He leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, urging you to sleep, before settling his head back onto the pillow.

“I think you’ll like him.”

chapter two

a/n: i feel like this story has potential.

[taglist open]

For a moment, he didn’t move. He had lost so much. And now, in your arms, was the first Uchiha born after the ruins. He did want to hold him. More than anything. But fear gripped him. The fear that he might break this small, perfect thing with his own rough hands.

You could see it in him immediately: the way he hesitated, how his hands hovered and pulled back like he wasn’t worthy.

"It’s okay," you soothed, voice like a balm against his fraying nerves. "Here, let me help you."

Haruki squirmed, making a small sound like a sigh. Sasuke flinched visibly.

"Sasuke," you said gently, "you won't break him."

He swallowed. His jaw line was rigid as he slowly reached out. He held Haruki like he might hold a blade that could slice him open, firm but stiff. 

"No, no, here," you chuckled softly, guiding his arms with your hands, "Support his head there, let his body rest on your arm. Relax, Sasuke. You’re holding your son, not a weapon."

For a second, he looked at you, like he didn’t know how you could be so calm. But then he looked down... and his whole world shifted.

Haruki's tiny hand flexed in the air, brushing Sasuke’s chest. That small, instinctive touch broke him open in a way no war, no battle, no wound ever had. His breath left him in a shudder. His fingers, so used to sword hilts and seals and blood, softened.

He cradled Haruki closer, adjusting with an awkwardness that made your heart ache with love. His chin dipped slightly, and his bangs fell forward, shadowing his eyes as he gazed down at the small life breathing against him.

Haruki blinked slowly, eyes heavy with newborn sleep. Eyes that were yours,  so achingly familiar that Sasuke’s chest tightened painfully. He looked closer, memorizing every tiny piece of this miracle in his arms: the soft curve of Haruki’s nose, just like his own. The stubborn set of his little lips — again, his.

But those eyes. Your eyes.

"He has your eyes," he said at last, and the words cracked at the edges. Like he didn’t quite believe it. Like saying it aloud made it real in a way he hadn't prepared for.

“You think so?” You said staring at your baby…A carbon copy of his father, what an audacity. 

You looked back at your husband's face to say that he was wrong and saw the exact moment it hit him, that he had a family now. That something of the Uchiha clan lived again, not in revenge or burden, but in life.

Haruki gave a tiny sigh, curling closer to Sasuke’s chest as if sensing the warmth waiting for him there.

He was the spring Sasuke hadn't known he was waiting for. He was the beginning, not the end. 

Bonus: The first few nights home, the house was so quiet it almost hurt. Haruki used to wake up crying when he was hungry but besides that, he was a very calm baby. What made you wake up during the night more often than not, it wasn’t the baby who stirred you — it was the absence of warmth beside you.

Tonight, the moonlight spilled silver across the floor, and your bed was empty except for you. You blinked sleepily, turning your head and there he was again. 

Sasuke stood next to the crib, bare-chested, dressed only in loose black pants, his hair mussed from restless hands. His arms were folded tight across his chest, his whole body locked in a tension you knew too well. He stood as still as a statue, eyes fixed on the tiny rise and fall of Haruki’s chest.

Watching. Counting. Making sure.

You slid out of bed quietly and padded over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. You pressed your cheek against the warmth of his back. 

"He's okay," you whispered against his skin, your lips brushing the curve of his shoulder. "Sasuke, he's fine. He's safe."

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just kept standing there, rigid, his hand gripping your arm as if anchoring himself.

Finally, voice low and rough, he said, "During the birth... I was terrified."

You held him tighter.

"I couldn’t do anything," he murmured, barely audible. "I just had to stand there. Watching you hurt, watching him struggle to breathe at first... I thought... if I lost you..." His voice cracked, a sound almost like a growl, raw and aching. "If I lost you both... I wouldn’t survive it."

You turned him gently to face you. His eyes were glassy in the low light, haunted in a way he never showed anyone else.

You cupped his jaw in your hands, brushing your thumbs over the sharp lines of his cheekbones. "You didn’t lose us," you said firmly. "We're right here, Sasuke."

He bent his forehead down to yours, exhaling shakily, as if trying to breathe in your stead. You felt the fine tremor in his body, the remnants of fear he could never fully silence.

"It happened so fast before," he whispered. "One day... everyone was gone..." His voice broke off.

You kissed the corner of his mouth softly, as if stitching the words he couldn’t finish back together. "That won’t happen again. We’re not a dream you're going to wake up from. Haruki’s strong. Just like you." You said trying to make him smile a bit although it didn’t work. 

He closed his eyes tightly, letting you hold him.

When Sasuke finally crawled back into bed with you, pulling you flush against his chest, his hand lingered on your stomach, then your hand, and finally, very carefully, he reached out and linked his pinky with yours.

My Dearest Niece,

Your letter reached me with great relief. However, it is with both regret and love that I must inform you I will be unable to attend the upcoming Space Trade Referendum or your arraignment, as I had dearly hoped. It is nearing the time for me to give birth, and travel is no longer possible in my condition.

Please do not mistake my absence for a lack of support. House Ginaz stands firmly beside you. Though I cannot be with you in person, my thoughts and every affection will remain with you throughout. Should the path ahead grow treacherous, you must remember – our doors are always open to you. 

Take heart, my beloved niece. You are never truly alone.

With all my love and best wishes,

Lady Ginaz

THE PLANETS ARE UNIMPORTANT FROM SO VASTLY FAR AWAY.

You’ve decided, in the quiet hours between stars and the lumbering days swallowed in the unforgiving dark, that you despise space travel.

The ship that carries House Atreides through the void is cathedral-like in scale and shape, though it breathes no warmth; Cold drips from the walls in a silence complete and empty, the darkness beyond your window looming and ancient.

You grow nauseous with each passing moment; sitting with your knees drawn to your chest, a figure etched in silhouette and quiet breaths against the glass pane that spans your entire chamber wall. And beyond it – lurking, swallowing the winking distant stars: the vast and unforgiving absence. 

Nothing stares back at you, undaunted by that snarl you’ve so coveted; No sky, no night – but instead, something far more knowing than either. The deep. The end. 

Your lip has split down its center. Cracked from nerves, perhaps, or dryness, or cold; Time ticks and the blood wells, dries. One of your hands worries the cuff of your dress, worn thin between your fingers. 

The days are counting down.

Three until the Referendum. Four until your fate is debated beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Landsraad: Your name. Your power. 

I don’t wish to startle you, but I want you to be prepared, Duke Leto had said at dinner, just an hour past; The Baron will be there. And it is likely that with him will be one of the nephews.

That was all he said, but it was enough.

You do not speak his name. Not aloud; Not in the clean light of the Atreides ship, not where others might hear and recognize the flicker of hunger in your eyes.

Feyd-Rautha.

It echoes in the chasm of your mind, though you have spent weeks burying it; and now, on the eve of all things, still the name stirs. 

There is rage; the kind of fury that shapes bone and heat and history, that tears at your ribs, dries your throat, twists your heart. But buried beneath it, a coal gone cold in absence, is something stranger. A memory of closeness; not tenderness, never tenderness – but of a warped craving, a softened proximity.

The hush of late nights when you could not sleep. The weight of a head resting on your chest. A hand lingering just a second too long.

The memories return unbidden. 

Not the pain, though that too lingers somewhere deep; but the quieter things. A bowl of pigment, black as the void, smeared across a bare chest. The same paint, in the shape of your lips, pressed to rough palms before a door opens to a screaming arena. Red wax currants, bitter and bright, smuggled in secret from the traders of your homeworld. An expression, private and darkly unsure, that you did not understand until it was too late.

They twist inside you now — these images, these shadows — ribbons soaked in vinegar and honey. They do not belong to you anymore. 

Still – still, you wonder what it would feel like to stand before him again. And you wonder, as you stare at your figure, so lovingly restored with the bright breath of Caladan – you wonder if Feyd-Rautha might recognize you now. 

If the sight of your face could finally make him flinch.

It is not yet time to land for a few more hours; though someone knocks across your vaulted chamber. 

You startle in your position, rising to tug the ties of your traditional formalwear tight and befitting.

“Yes?” you call, too sharply.

You are still steeped in the bitter, brackish memories of your shell of a life on Giedi Prime– it clings like soot to your ribs, makes you crueler than you mean to be.

A voice, small and careful, replies from the other side of the door – it is not Hestia, who has been left on Caladan with the rest of the House; no, the voice belongs to the younger handmaid. The timid one, who wears nervousness like perfume; Her words are cautious, but there is something in them – something unsettled. You wonder, idly, if it’s you she fears. “My lady,” she calls through your door, “Lord Paul wishes to speak with you.”

For a moment, you hesitate. Then: “Let him in. Please.”

Your voice is gentler this time; a forced, practiced smile in the hopes it might calm whatever unease she carries. 

You do not turn when the door opens. 

His steps are soft as he enters the room, but you feel him, a tremor in the air. He comes to stand beside you, and mercifully he does not speak right away.

Far from the sea winds of Caladan, Paul looks different – formal, steeled. His curls are tamed and he wears the Atreides sigil high at his collar. 

The brass catches the starlight; So do his eyes.

You wet your lips before speaking, the tang of your own dried blood familiar upon your tongue. “Hello, Paul.”

Your words hang in the air like mist – you know too well that the garden still remains between you; unspoken, heavy, bruising something tender inside you both. A shame, a bruise upon the fresh skin of hope. 

Still, you are grateful it is him now – it is easier to breathe with him near, even when it hurts. Even when it frightens you.

After all, you will be expected to stand beside him upon arrival – and for the rest of your days, you remind yourself – and at the thought, you begin to panic quietly.

You are not ready. Not to perform diplomacy, not to feign unity, not to pretend you are not terrified of the tribunal that awaits.

But in your panic, Paul says your name.

It startles something strange inside you, something sharp and flurried and placating; and so you wait, watching his lips part as though he debates saying something else. 

He doesn’t. 

Nor does Paul hold your gaze long – instead, he follows your gaze into the abyss of space, his posture tense, hands neatly at his sides. You are both dressed too finely to be comfortable; silks, metals, that youthful diplomatic grief.

Paul’s breathing is low, steady, and you soon find your own breath matching his without thinking; It soothes something that’s been scraping along your spine since the moment you left Caladan. After a few passing breaths, you bring your hands to clasp. 

“Will you sit with your father for the drawings?” you ask, voice crisp, far more controlled than you expect.

“Yes,” he replies, “For the referendum. But not for the trial. Only House Representatives can sit the bench.”

You do not know whether to be relieved or disappointed; so you merely nod, hands twisting together and soothing the embroidery at your waist.

Paul is still watching the stars. “I used to get nauseous during space travel,” he murmurs, as if sensing you'd wish to leave the conversation topic.

You almost laugh at the coincidence; A short thought that’d grazed your mind not minutes ago as you rose from your bed and met a bout of nausea yourself. 

“I haven’t felt quite right since we left orbit,” you admit, gaze flicking to him, soon letting curiosity and the small glimpse of warmth his rosy cheeks have given you loosen your rigid posture. 

“Have you traveled off-planet much?” you allow yourself to wonder, imagining a young Paul wearing a little pressed uniform and staring glumly into the stars.

“Not particularly,” he shakes his head faintly, “Only to High Council sessions with my father. Kaitain, mostly.”

You glance at him sidelong. “Is it really just one enormous city?”

“Mostly Corrinth,” Paul muses, “I don’t…particularly care for it. The green spaces feel…” he frowns, searching for the words, “wrong. Curated. Like–” he shrugs in that single-shouldered way you’ve grown to mirror, “Like nature was an aesthetic choice by the city architects. There’s no fresh air.”

This draws a twitch of a smile to your lips. “Fresh air,” you mutter under your breath, twisting your necklace around your finger – an old nervous habit which feels far more weighted by the pendant of the Atreides hawk upon it. Paul watches your hand move; you pretend not to notice his reflection upon you in the plexiglass.

“Giedi Prime was similar,” you add quietly, “Even the rain smelt of oil.”

In the reflection, Paul looks at you again; there is a pause, and it hums between you. Gravity draws you back to him, turning slowly. His eyes are ink beneath the starlight; Watchful, gentle in a way that frightens you. 

A violent rush of feeling coils in your chest with the chill of the air conditioning unit above your heads: dread, yes – and something quieter, more dangerous.

You have begun to rely on him. Not like before – not like Feyd-Rautha, when dependence was a matter of survival and fear; no. This is trust. Unearned, perhaps. Reckless, certainly.

 But it grows nonetheless.

It has been a lonely many years. And in Paul, you have found – unexpectedly, and without warning – a cracked, wary mirror that you cannot stop yourself from staring into.

The hush between you settles like the snowfall of Sabberon’s Longnight; Paul’s gaze wanders beyond the window, a furrow ghosting across his brow. He speaks, and you wonder if those shadows of your mind have haunted him too. 

“I haven't told you before. I can't... imagine what it was like,” he says, “But I admire your resilience.” 

The word rings hollow to your ears – resilient. 

You’ve heard it too many times, each utterance a small coffin nailed shut on what you once were. A title bestowed; a laurel for surviving what should have crushed you. 

As if endurance were a choice. 

Your sigh curls and cools in the air, though you cannot help the curl of your lip when you glance at him. 

“Perhaps one day,” your voice is dry but teasing, “people will stop telling me how strong I am.”

In the corner of your eye, Paul turns to you; his presence feels strangely nearer now, as though he’s crossed some invisible boundary in the space between breaths. His brows lift in that boyish curiosity he so tries to hide. You see it, though. You see him. 

“What would you have people say instead?” He wonders, a soft curve to his lip.

Hestia once insisted between doubtful glares from you that there was a flicker of humour that lived within Paul, strange and ill-timed as it may be. You’d rolled your eyes at that once, though perhaps that is what you see now: an ember of something human and reachable all at once.

Your stomach flips at his gaze on yours, and soon you ache. 

A sudden, irrational yearning surges through you, a tide breaking over a cliff; how cruel it is, how shameful, to want things to be normal. To be young.

To be admired by a boy promised to be your husband – to be wanted not for your name, not for your ruined legacy, but simply for existing in a certain light. 

For smiling and making his stomach flip as it so strangely does to you sometimes. To be courted, not bargained for.

What would you have people say instead? 

So your grin is one of unsureness, of something skirting the lines you hardly knew you could draw.

“Maybe something shallow,” you murmur, not meeting his eye. “That… they like my hair, or the dress I’m wearing.” You sigh, a coy thing as you look back up at him. “What do people usually say to normal noble girls?”

Your words fall in the space between you, skittish but jesting and warm. And then Paul smiles. 

A real one, not the one he uses for the court or for show, but something young, and boyish, and oddly sweet; The sight of it does something strange to your stomach. 

“Well,” Paul starts simply, “I do like your hair.” 

Your immediate glance is sharp and hot, betrayed by the warmth rising in your cheeks; His face is lit softly by starlight, and you blink away the girlish laugh of surprise that threatens to escape. 

What comes from your lips instead is a small huff of both disbelief and flattery that only brightens his boyish grin. 

“But... honestly,” he continues as he tilts his head, “I’m fairly certain if anyone complimented your appearance outright, you’d have their tongue.” 

You scoff at this, another urge to laugh pulsing at your throat; you cover with a narrowed gaze, tongue poised to deflect even though your cheeks are hot. “Just because I’m–” 

But Paul does not let you get that far; the impudence of it is regrettably charming. “And your dress,” he assesses, tilting his head and surveying you with maddening attention, “I like the color, but it pales in comparison to the woman wearing it.” 

And bless the void, his words actually work; In a desperate attempt to conceal your fluster, you roll your eyes so hard it might be audible.

A scoff dies in your throat as you weakly shove at his shoulder, swallowing down your flustered laugh. He lets you push him. He smiles back. 

“That was awful,” you get out, failing to conceal the dance of a smile upon your lips nor the heat leaking across your cheeks, “I-” you stumble over a sharp laugh, “That was awful,” you repeat, a curved smile betraying your words.  

His grin is too much. 

You stare out at the plexiglass with hot cheeks and chewed cheeks to conceal your grin. “I’m merely following instructions,” he insists, tilting to lean into your space, searching for your gaze as his voice dances somewhere dangerously between mockery and affection. “I can be shallow and complimentary if that’s what you want.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” you defend sharply with hot cheeks, arms crossing, “I didn’t actually want those particular compliments.” 

Though he turns to face you fully, and his eyes dance with something keenly warm and unknown; The viridian of his uniform stands out starkly against the matte stone around you. And there he stands, a painting half-finished and still so devastatingly beautiful, light catching in strange places that make your heartbeat pulse. 

“You seem not to know what you want,” he says with a small grin, and it doesn’t feel like a criticism – though still, the words strike deep. 

Your smile slowly changes; his words, unintentional as they were, spin your mind toward Kaitain – toward its glittering rot, towards the expectations pressing on your chest, pulled taught as a leaden corset. 

But you are slowly, grudgingly learning that Paul's silences are not anymore made from coldness, but the workings of a steeled and brilliant mind; that his distance now is not from disdain as it first was, but the weight of futures he carries with pride. 

The guilt spurs you to some other breathless confession, underdeveloped and weak.

 “I may not act like it all the time,” you murmur, barely above a breath, “but I am grateful. Your House has been… kinder than I deserve. And I’m sorry... for when I’m not what you deserve.” 

The quiet is not cold, though it is not particularly warm either. Your breaths fall in the empty space where the warmth once lied, swaying with your uneven toes as you ignore the heat in your cheeks.

Paul does not answer with words – but you feel the brush of his pinky against your own as you stand and look out over the swallowing abyss of nothing together. 

And the corners of his mouth turn up just slightly, the way the moon sometimes seems to smile down at the Caladan sea. 

THE SUN IS HIGH AND BRIGHT WHEN THE CONVOY ARRIVES. 

Paul steps from the spaceport into the muggy heat – humming with bowed Imperial courtiers, veiled greetings exchanged beneath polished pollution masks. 

His own mask presses to dewy skin; His father clasps one man in an embrace, grinning like he’s a kid – Paul’s lips twitch in a grin beneath the fabric of the mask before he corrects his expression, standing rigid and proud. 

You are beside him – still and severe as a carved statue, the gleam of the city glinting in your hairpiece; fire caught in gold. A crown of spires rises far beyond you: glass and metal piercing the horizon, fountains weeping into wide marble basins, banners fluttering like wounded birds along the boulevards.

The air is too warm, too bright; and yet Paul feels chilled, as if the dooming sense of belonging he’s felt since stepping foot onto the ground in Kaitain grows by the moment. 

The transportation convoy winds through the city’s gilded arteries, past statues of golden emperors and theaters golden and wild. You sit beside Paul still, quiet as a mouse – and the whole time, your gaze never leaves the Opal Palace, distant and monstrous on the horizon. 

Your brows are worried in that delicate, fixed way; a fracture beneath glass. Paul does not ask. He doesn’t need to. 

He knows what awaits you. 

If things tilt wrong in the days to come, your ancestral lands could be carved like meat between beasts; and already, the Harkonnens feast on the remnants.

Inside the shuttle, the air is recycled and the silence is brittle. His parents speak softly ahead, their heads canted to each other in a steeple, whispers dissolving like the echo of prayers. Paul leans against the window, the ache of sleepless nights dragging at his temples; dreams now leave him wearier than waking. And you are less of a girl and more of an evergreen, rooted to your seat with your stare piercing into the Opal Palace. 

At the lodgings, a reception awaits. 

Gilded uniforms, subtle bows, gloved hands shaking Paul’s then lifting yours to kiss. His hands twitch, mind ticking at each word uttered under breaths and around corners. You endure it all with deadly grace, but he sees it again: that flicker in your eyes, the coil in your spine, that terrible, animal instinct to flee.  

It lives in him, too.

And all that remains in the tail of arrival is a brush of hands – accidental, fleeting – that stills him mid-step. When he glances, your gaze meets his. Some unspoken thing passes between you, brittle as spun glass, warm as blood; but as a maid gestures him forward, down another hall, Paul turns without a word. The back of his hand tingles. 

Your absence follows like a shadow.

The days on Kaitain are stifling and seemingly endless. Paul does not see much of you nor his mother in the days following arrival; Conferences bleed into town halls, town halls into hearings, each one a theatre of veiled alliances and sharpened smiles. 

As with most of his life, Paul listens more than he speaks; cataloguing names, faces, loyalties – every stance on the approaching referendum etched into his memory until his head throbs and his mind worries. His father insists on morning and evening debriefs, leaving little time for rest, and none at all for you. 

Corrinth City is garish and over-perfumed; Even the sun feels artificial, too bright to trust. 

Paul misses Caladan; misses the honest quiet of creaking floorboards and salt-stung air, the echo of Atreides guards and soldiers training, misses the way every window cuts with purpose, misses how each meal is prepared with love, intention. 

On the second night, over a quiet supper, his mother speaks of the courthouse she visited that day with you and Thufir. 

You’d gone to submit your genetic data; to sign the final documents naming you the sole heir of a house in litigation. 

“Was it dreadful?” his father asks you upon noticing the flicker of disdain in your visage. You, so often serious and quick to miss a tone of jest, shrug smally. 

“It was pleasant enough,” you reply cordially, pausing as you chew your lip, “Though I didn’t much care for the golden dome.”

Paul nearly smiles. 

They do love their gold here, Paul thinks dryly; but as quick as he thinks it, your eyes cut to him sharply.

A blink and a draw of your brows, as if startled by something – just a glance, but it startles him too; He meets it without meaning to, an eerie creeping sensation crawling along his nape. Then it’s gone.

The conversation drifts elsewhere. Strategy, conversation, wine. But Paul remains still, the ghost of whatever just happened lingering longer than it should.

YOU SEE LITTLE OF PAUL AND THE DUKE IN THE DAYS LEADING TO THE REFERENDUM. 

The Great Council’s chambers are forbidden to you; despite being the Head of your House, you are indeed the sole proprietor of your House’s trial, and thus remain exiled from the very fate that concerns you most. 

There is nothing for you but waiting – a miserable fate, your days filled with the echo of distant decisions and your nights with the slow, curling dread that creeps into the hollows of your chest.

The time between arrival and the arraignment’s vote is littered with pageantry. Pointless gatherings, ornate dinners, whispered alliances wrapped in velvet; a plastic, fabricated replica of the more grand memories from your past – the ones with fur-lined halls and large flickering hearths, harps and waltzes and flakes of snow melting against the warmed wide windows of the Wolves’ Castle. 

You watch Paul float through it all – tireless, unreachable – each morning, sulking to the dining table with sleep-heavy eyes and a low voice, muttering with his father over breakfast. There is a new gravity to Paul – or perhaps you simply regard him in a new way.

Your own days are even more dull by comparison. 

After the short, sterile visit to that gilded, ugly court to provide your genetic data, there’s little left for you to do but sit and listen – await secondhand reports and offer your thoughts like distant echoes on a faraway pane of glass.

And though the Atreides try their best, it is evident at every turn. You are a ghost at your own trial.

One evening, you attend a play at the Imperial Opera House. One of the Emperor’s daughters is in attendance, and the nobles buzz around her like flies to rotting fruit. You loathe them; Each jeweled word they utter makes your skin crawl. 

Lady Jessica stays close when she can, offering gentle conversation and quiet watchfulness – but she, too, disappears into her own veiled meetings, slinking into darkened corners and slipping through shadowed doors with secrets you cannot name. It is only a reminder of what is to come when you return to Caladan. 

Hestia, your truest friend, did not come with you; The maid assigned in her place is kind, but timid – her eyes often flicker to the blade you keep tucked against your pillow each night. You say nothing. Let her wonder.

You spend long hours staring at the wall, turning over half-remembered pieces of old words, some echo that brims in the corner of your memory with a taunting, howling tremor. The Shortening of the Way. 

You try, but there is no clarity, only static.

And despite the company, you feel alone. More than you have been in some time. 

Perhaps that is why you fall asleep early on the eve of the Referendum. 

Perhaps that is why you dream what you dream.

The slap of bare feet upon cold stone is a staccato rhythm, one swallowed by the dark, by the vastness of lifeless halls. Breath comes from your lips ragged and vicious, quelled only by a tremoring palm.

If this world had natural weather, perhaps there'd a storm clawing at the walls, shrieking your name through iron rafters; mocking the fear in your chest, the thrill in your bones. 

A shout rings distant, one familiar as the blood that thrums in your veins – then laughter, low and rolling like thunder across poisoned skies.

He is close.

Your heart slams within you, though not merely in dread; The dull heat pooling in your gut grows sharp, aching lower, knotted tight beneath your ribs. 

You should not want this – the hunt, the game, him. But there is something ancient and wicked inside you; those snarling whispers in the edges of your mind promising some shortening of the way – that does. Something that dares him closer.

You are not drugged like the others.

You are awake. 

And it is your nameday.

The blade, cold and ceremonial, sits sheathed at your side. A gift on the nameday of the bride-to-be; Harkonnen tradition. 

It glints, silver and virginal in the faint light – but by the end of tonight, it will taste blood. 

You are a shadow in swishing silk through halls of Barony’s keep – the walls sweat oil and the castle moans like something dying. Your skirt snags on sharp edges and catches upon your bare feet as you press deeper into the dark. This place is alive – and it hates you.

The laughter is louder now – and in a thrumming heat of resolve, you accept your final option to prevent the inevitable. 

Because this is not for control.

If he wanted such a simple thing, Feyd-Rautha wouldn’t need this theater; He has it already. Your rooms, your servants, when you train, the messages that are incinerated before they can reach you. 

Everything, save one thing.

There is that one power, tucked beneath your skin; born in the years on Sabberon with your mother and sisters, in whispers and controlled breaths and flicks of eyes. Irresistible, silent, strategic. In hooded women and whispered chambers. Feyd-Rautha knows it.

He fears it, even as he yields to it. It is the one game in which you have the upper hand. 

But desire is a dangerous currency, and indeed he’s learned to spend it well.

Worse still, you’ve come to hunger for it too. Because in the quiet hours, when he leans close to whisper, or when his bruised laughter coats your skin; when he watches you fight with that glint in his eye or touches your throat with reverence disguised as cruelty – you want him. 

You want the power he leaks, the darkness he spills. 

His laugh comes once more, too close. You freeze, breath caught. “Come out, little pet,” his voice purrs through the dark. “I can smell your fear.”

And maybe he can – but fear is not all that stirs inside you.

He enters the room with a predator’s leisure. You glimpse him; blades in his hands catching the light like twin moons.

You run.

He follows with a lurching glee – and footsteps echo in a chorus of hellish anticipation.

“You can run,” he calls, mockingly sweet. “But you belong to me.”

You slip down another passage. You are swift, silent – but not invisible, and he remains just behind you, bleeding from the walls and the shadows themselves.

You find a corner, press your back to stone. Blade drawn.

And when his shadow finally passes, you strike. 

Steel clashes in a quick, fierce blur. You draw blood; several shallow cuts that draw out a sharp, sinister smile – but it’s not enough. 

You are tackled in merely a few minutes. 

The impact steals your breath; and he’s on you, knife glinting as he traces your jaw. You tremble, but not in fear; not entirely.

His weight pins you, and desire sears through you. Despite your sound mind and the curling hatred, still your body answers his every touch, hips arching, throat exposed. 

And when he whispers against your throat, “Have you ever tried spice?” you can barely think to answer more than a groan. 

He tastes you – chest, collarbone, blood. “When we go to Arrakis,” he curls, “you’ll have it.” 

His knife drops. His mouth claims you.

Fingers grasp idly by your side for your blade’s hilt, but pleasure clouds your mind – and his voice curls again, lips slick against your own. “I’ve seen it, little pet. In a dream.” His voice is far away now, and you fumble for the knife. “A throne room. Spice glinting in the sand that trails in the doors… Me, on a throne,” Feyd-Rautha growls, nipping sharp at your lip, “and you, knelt before me.” 

An eerie sensation, crawling with the memory faint enough to not be your own – some thing that lingers in the back of your mind. You shiver beneath him, and he laughs darkly. Your hand finally grasps the hilt of your nameblade, heartbeat galloping as you stare up into the absence of his eyes. 

Your cheek has beaded with blood once more – his tongue follows the bloom. 

The breath you give is not surrender, but it might as well be.

“Have you ever tasted yourself?” he wonders into your cheek, and you shudder – whether in disgust or longing, it no longer matters.

The deft fingers of a cold hand drag down your sternum – over your chest, caressing in a way that reminds you – this is celebration. This is how Harkonnen men mark their brides-to-be.

He presses his blood-slick lips to you with all the reverence of a lover, and none of the gentleness. You feel your own heat stir, involuntary, shameful.

You wish you wanted to deny him – but instead unfurls the hunger, the trainings and teachings of years piously knelt beneath an altar of women before you. Of dark veils and shadows and long-awaited tests and needles. 

There is a dark thing in you. A darkness that drinks his presence, that invites him closer.

And you are a fool.

You drop the blade, and he smiles.

Not kindly – it is not the smile of man, but of beast; delighted by your surrender.

He leans close enough to taste your fear. And when you close your eyes, when your breath stutters with something near release, you barely notice the shift of his hand.

Not until the pain comes.

Not until the blade – your blade – blooms and paints itself anew between your ribs.

You arch in agony, and he watches you writhe, eyes lit with rapture. His mouth parts, a soft groan escaping as blood slicks his fingers. 

You scream – not for mercy, but in betrayal.

You are not dying; the wound is shallow. Ritual. A marking.

But it is enough.

Enough to remind you of what you are, of what he has made you. Of what he will always be.

The blade drops, clatters as he kneels beside you, breath as ragged as yours; as if he’s just spent himself in the act. 

Feyd's thumb drags the blood from your chest and presses it to his lips with a slow hum that nearly sounds like an apology.

You lie there, silent, the stone cradling your back like a tomb as his hands, trembling with some warmth you do not dare name, caress your side, watching blood slide down your sickly skin. 

Your body burns. Your chest bleeds. And in your mind, something shifts.

The understanding of what must come next. 

You will let Feyd-Rautha have this night.

And then one day, you will take everything from him.

Even his name.

THE MORNING OF THE REFERENDUM BREAKS OVER KAITAIN NOT WITH LIGHT, BUT WITH A DULL, SUFFOCATING HAZE.

Paul does not eat.

He sits at the long table beside his mother, across from you, sleeves rolled to the forearm like his father, all posture; but the silence in him is not passive. It hums, it bleeds – a memory, flayed open in the night and left raw beneath his skin.

He doesn’t look at you, but your presence gnaws at him all the same.

The dream had come in flashes. Shadows, screaming stone – the blade he recognizes all too well buried in soft flesh that should not have bled. 

The ache in his chest pulses with guilt and the strange shame of a voyeur. He had watched it – all of it – helpless, dreaming as though it was not his own. And you had screamed like a dying star.

Now, you sit barely two arm’s lengths away, offering strategic insight on the viability of late-season fruit exports, voice clear and composed – as though your ribs had not been cracked open in his mind hours ago.

Paul chews his melon like ash.

He wants to believe it was a trick. A Bene Gesserit interference. A test. A cruel rehearsal of fear, perhaps, to root out some weakness in him or you or the bond that teeters on the edge of something unnamed. But no – this was not his mother’s way, not bid from the Reverend Mother.

Because Paul has grown up his entire life preparing to marry a complete stranger, as is requested by almost every noble person in the known universe – why, then, wouldn't they trust him to carry through with it, even if he had once believed you to be a spy? There is no dire need to ensure the marriage will happen – both of you have admitted your reluctance, but not once have you nor him declared to refuse the union.

And further, he is even more unsettled by it. He has never before shared memory. Not truly – not even with his mother, whose presence in his psyche he’s known since childhood like a light at the end of every dark hall. But when he meets your eyes, accidentally, briefly – you’re already looking at him. As if you know.

A shiver, thin as wire, winds down his spine, and he drops his gaze.

His mother watches him, eyes hawk-sharp above her tea. His father, though, is too engaged in conversation to notice his son’s strangeness; He listens to you, truly listens, brow creased with the weight of leadership and something softer, the quiet trust he has begun to place in your intellect, your ability to find patterns in the sands before others see the storm. Perhaps he keeps you engaged to prevent your mind from landing in the court you are to be in in just a day’s time. 

Paul’s mind exhausts, spinning and whirring. 

Could this be the Mentat training? A new layer of perception awakening under stress? A capacity to reach – not forward, as one would with spice visions, but across – to the minds of others? 

To project, to absorb, to trespass without intention? It concerns him more than he can name. And the dream – blood, screams, glinting smiles, sharp whispers – it echoes in the recess of memory. His stomach turns.

A steward appears; their transport awaits. His father rises. So does he. 

He says nothing yet. But later – after the votes, after the speeches, after the sand settles – he will speak to Thufir. He will ask about Mentat dreams, psychic bleed, connection.

But for now, Paul Atreides follows his father into the lightless day, haunted by the echo of your blood on stone and the question he cannot yet afford to ask:

What is being set up for us? And more darkly still: What if it’s already begun?

The chamber is a hive of power; robed delegates from the Greater and Lesser Houses, Spacing Guild stewards, high-ranking Imperials all murmuring. A tide before a storm. 

Paul sits beside his father, spine taut. His eyes scan the crowd, then flick, unbidden, to the seat that will hold you tomorrow. Alone, exposed. Answering for a family that he’s begun to believe never once answered for you. 

He gnaws his lip, recalling the trunk he'd requested be brought with them on the trip to Kaitain; perhaps you could use a distraction tonight, from what's to come – or would that just make you more skittish, more ready to bite any hand near you? He hopes it soothes. He needs it to.

The lights above are surgical, too white. And there, a rotting blot in the crowd.

Paul’s spine goes rigid.

Across the hall, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen reclines grotesquely in his suspensors, his mass sprawled across two seats. His skin gleams like something left too long in the dark; Memories – not quite his – pulse like bruises.

His father exhales beside him. “Paul,” he chides in warning – as if he’d leap across the aisle and slit the Baron’s throat. Not here. Not now.

“I won’t,” Paul whispers in response to the unspoken statement, far too calm; But his fingers twitch against his knee, and the rage coils tighter in his chest. A quiet inferno. A promise.

And then: the vote.

One by one, the Houses call out – voices like hammer blows – siding with the new spacing reforms. It’s not yet a death sentence, not yet; but it's clear. The Baron's network of power has teeth now.

After a recess, the final votes are tallied; Imperial Mentats, their eyes flashing, approve of the calculations. The presiding official steps forward and addresses the gathered delegates.

“Esteemed Houses of the Landsraad, members of the Imperium,” he begins, his voice carrying through the chamber. “The new spacing trade routes have been decided.”

Paul's mind whirls with possibilities as the herald of change continues, “The routes are set to transform with a large expansion through the Epsilon Opiuchi system and the Campas system,” the herald announces, “along with direct routes through the Core Worlds of the Imperium.” 

Paul closes his eyes.

Calm, unnatural, washes over him; too cold to be comforting. These changes could mean opportunity, yes. But it reeks of Harkonnen leverage. Of the Guild’s whispered alliances. Of shadows, crawling toward war.

He leans toward his father, lips barely moving.

“What do we do now?”

The Duke's jaw clenches, gaze unreadable.

“We adapt,” he says.

YOU'RE IN THE BEGINNING STAGES OF PANIC WHEN THE REQUEST COMES.

Having bathed and spent the last half hour staring blankly at the wall, letting tomorrow gnaw through you like acid, you barely register the handmaid’s voice until she repeats herself: “Lord Paul has requested your presence in his chambers.”

Your brows draw together. 

It’s much too late for that. And yet, what else would you do?

The thought of another hour alone in this room makes your skin crawl; and so you slip into a nightgown, hair still damp as you follow the servant through the halls.

Your stomach is tight. Paul has an unnerving habit of finding you at your lowest ebb; when your mask cracks, when the ache creeps in, when silence becomes a punishment. 

And whether it’s duty, or empathy, or something else entirely, you never know how to receive it.

And tonight, it’s especially jarring.

Supper had been more joyless than usual; muted by the final recount of the Referendum outcome. 

The prospect of a Harkonnen monopoly over the new trade routes left a hollow dread in your small circle and a warning throb of anticipation in your stomach each time you consider the trial to come. You hadn’t touched your food. Paul had barely spoken.

And now this.

But when you enter his room, your breath catches.

Because it’s… not what you expect.

A table has been dragged near the hearth, an open casket beside it emptied and velvet. Five bottles of wine crowd the table’s surface like impatient guests, towering behind two untouched glasses. Paul is already seated, uncorking a bottle; the pop fills the air with something heady and dark.

You hesitate as you shut the door, a feeling of fight or flight leaking into your muscles. “Celebrating with a few bottles of wine, are we?” you ask, bitterness creeping into your voice.

Paul meets your gaze, expression grave but rather patient. “There’s little else to do but drink.”

You raise an eyebrow – this is Kaitain. You could go to a gallery, a park, one of those rooftop bars where the nobles pretend they’re gods. 

But he clearly isn’t going anywhere; and certainly, neither are you. 

Your feet pad against the floor as you sink into the seat opposite him, limbs heavy with tension. “I suppose,” you murmur, your fingertip tracing the rim of your glass. “Your hard work’s all but finished.”

He doesn’t take the bait of your offhand jab – and something in his stillness makes your throat tighten in guilt. He's extending a palm – and you ought not to bat it away.

“You told me once you’d never tried wine,” Paul says simply, as if stating the weather. “I thought you might want to.”

 You’d told him that in passing, some time ago. You’re not sure how he remembered. He pours it slowly, and you watch in a sleepy lull. 

What he doesn’t say lingers – I thought you might want to, before everything might change tomorrow. 

A deep maroon fills your glass; dark, fragrant, almost velvety. It looks like blood in the firelight, and something in your chest stirs, warm and unsteady. “I prefer red,” he adds in a lull of his own, “they don't taste that different, but red feels… warmer. Deeper.”

His cheeks are pink.

Perhaps that's why a strange, grateful smile blooms, tugging at your lips before you can stop it. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s fear. 

Maybe it’s that you don’t want to be alone tonight – and Paul, for all his mystery, understands the value of silence and company better than anyone else you’re met in your life. 

You hesitate just enough that he lifts his brow.

“It’s not poison,” he mutters sardonically. You exhale from your nose softly, words falling plain but with some attempt at wit, “that’s exactly what someone about to poison me would say.”

Still, you sip.

It settles upon your tongue in layers: spice, smoke, something like cherry flesh and dark oak. Warmth spreads down your throat, into your ribs. Your gums tingle faintly.

You swallow and exhale through your nose, surprised. “It’s better than I thought.”

BY THE END OF THE THIRD GLASS, PAUL'S LIPS ARE STAINED RED.

You notice it faintly, dazedly – the rich, bruised color lingering in the center of his lip like a secret. Somewhere between the opening of the second and third bottles, things began to slip. 

The Zincal – bold and earthy, from the Southern Continent of Caladan – warmed you more than expected. Paul had spoken about it with such practiced poise, as if lecturing from a podium rather than pouring into delicate crystal; He’d learned everything there was to know about Caladan’s culture, he said, to make the guests feel welcome.

You’d found it so incredibly endearing that you’d nearly laughed at it. The first sign you weren’t quite yourself.

The second was subtler; a slow, simmering heat in your belly that began the moment Paul leaned back in his chair and rolled his shoulders, casual and unthinking.

The stiff uniform from earlier is gone; only a thin under-tunic remains now, white and soft, unbuttoned far lower than before. His chest catches the firelight; flushed, gleaming faintly with warmth and wine, his throat exposed and moving when he swallows. You try not to look, but your heart drums against your ribs like a warning.

Is this what intoxication feels like?

Your cheeks are flushed, your limbs too loose, your mind wrapped in silk and fog. You’re sure your lips are just as stained as his – a matching hue of violet and mauve – but you can’t bring yourself to care. You're weightless. Softened. Unburdened.

It’s that same strange feeling you had days ago aboard the ship, watching the stars flicker past the hull, as if you’d slipped into a version of yourself that cares less. Or, perhaps, carries less. The version that doesn’t dread every coming hour.

And now, with the fate of your future waiting like a blade on the other side of the sunrise – you feel calm. Not safe, exactly – but real.

Content, despite the doom rumbling just beyond the horizon. And Paul, who sits across from you in silence, radiates a quiet that calls you deeper into it.

On the fourth tasting – a sparkling white, crisp as mountain snow and delicate as sleeping tides – something in you unfurls.

You feel it as the warmth seeps through your chest, into your limbs, loosening every guarded corner of yourself. Words fall freely now, like petals from a too-heavy bloom.

Paul listens with those gentle, grave eyes of his, stretched out on the bed like some untroubled saint; boyish and cast upside-down, a lion in sun-drenched repose. His curls dangle over the edge, hanging in loose, dark spirals.

You’ve migrated to the floor, sprawling on the thick carpet; just a girl in someone else’s room, full of summered secrets and flushed whispers.

“I met the Harkonnens when I was young,” you say, sleepy and warm, watching him through your lashes. He's been asking about your upbringing for the better part of half an hour now. “My mother was instructed to have me mate with Feyd-Rautha when I came of age, and I suppose it was seen as a savvy move for the Baron's alliances. We met twice before I was sent there. Once at ten. Then again at…” your brows furrow, searching for the memory far back in your mind, “...fourteen.” 

There’s a noise of disgust from the bedpost.

Paul makes no attempt to be polite about it – a scoff twisting his mouth, his head still upside-down so that his handsome features appear strange, otherworldly, as he watches you. You stifle a laugh, your lips twitching, even as heat flickers in your belly.

He looks absurd like this – absurd, bizarre, and impossibly beautiful.

The air smells of cherries and cinnamon, the hearth spitting softly behind you, the fire’s glow painting everything in shades of gold and blood-red.

Your fingers graze your own cheeks, as if surprised by their warmth; You are drunk, surely. 

But not the wild kind – no, this is dream-drunk. Fog-drunk. The kind that makes you forget who you’re meant to be, and lets you speak like a girl who never learned silence.

“It was a Bene Gesserit match?” Paul asks, though his voice is thick with wine, his mouth barely moving.

You laugh – light and girlish, and entirely unlike yourself. If you were sober, it would perhaps horrify you.

“Of course it was,” you say, sighing as you lean back on your hands, your head tilted sideways to better observe him. His brows – so full, so expressive – shift in playful exaggeration, clearly trying to coax another laugh from you. 

“As is ours,” you whisper.

A quiet descends; eerie and weighted. You can almost hear the shift in Paul’s breath, the tightening in his shoulders. His eyes have lost their softness now; they narrow slightly as his thoughts churn. His face, flushed from either the wine or the heat or his strange position, looks flushed and too pink to be so noble. It's a thing neither of you have admitted to one another before now; the silky webs that tie you together through the shaded corners of the Landsraad. But you both know it.

The clock chimes softly in the corner, and your heart pangs with it. A reminder of the hour. Of the fate of the sunrise in the morning. “It’s late,” you murmur.

Paul hums, tipping his glass and letting the remnants spill onto his tongue. You watch the motion with interest, though you're already spiraling again – the fear returns, faint and unwelcome.

You should go. Tomorrow is court. Tomorrow is duty. Tomorrow is everything.

But the thought of returning to your own chamber feels cold and unbearable, and the wine whispers in your ear. Stay.

You sigh. “I don’t enjoy sleeping like I used to,” you admit, finishing your glass and reaching for the bottle beside you. Your voice, now syrupy, floats above the fire.

Paul watches you fumble with the cork, his eyes shining with amusement. You try to pry it open with your teeth, and he tilts his head, bemused.

“I can’t imagine why that could be,” he murmurs dryly, voice low and velvet as he watches you.

The cork gives, and your vision shifts. The dizziness feels like a memory – like those dreams you dare not speak of. The ones where his mouth traces your neck, his hands hold your hips fast, where desire blooms too quickly to want to stop. 

So you speak, your mind hooked on the memory of his hands around your hips in dreams, of lips pressed to warm skin. 

“Some of my dreams I don’t mind.”

Your words land like embers; The fire crackles. 

Paul’s head lifts – just barely – his eyes sharpening, a blade honed by wind.

But it’s hit you, what you’ve just said – and so you avoid his stare, reaching instead for the dessert wine he’d described earlier. You pour, deliberately slow. Offer it to him. 

He accepts it in silence, his face unreadable, lips parted slightly as if still stunned by your admission.

And yet you can feel it now, pulsing between you – the question neither of you dares ask aloud: Does he dream them, too?

Your eyes flicker to his hands, how deftly they move as he cracks a few knuckles - the vein that trickles down his arm, the creamy smooth skin that glows against the fire light. Does he see you similarly when he observes you in waking hours? Does he, in turn, dream about your sighs, about how it may feel to run his fingers through your hair as you lie on that white sheet in the middle of nowhere, to touch your heat and feel your desire? 

The thought is dangerous. But the look he gives you is even more so.

I don’t mind some of my dreams either.

But the voice does not come from his mouth; You blink – slow, disbelieving. His lips haven’t moved – but the words feel real.

You stare, bewitched, from under your lashes as the heat in you rises, curling upward like smoke toward the ceiling.

You can't be bothered to move more than a crawl; your head pounds, but there is a warmth within you that spreads like wildfire in the summer when you move.

He watches you come closer to the edge of the bed with a stare that sends a shiver of intrigue over you. It is not what you expect; you expect wide eyes or maybe a blush – his cheeks are already pink, though, and there is something dark and hungry below his hazy, inebriated stare.

You swallow down your own hunger and sigh. “You got me drunk,” you whisper, dazed, cradling the bottle like a relic.

His mouth glistens, wine-stained and parted slightly with the crook of a grin. “Did I?” he muses, skeptical, eyes half-lidded. 

You nod, though it feels more like swaying.

He smiles faintly. “I told you to slow down.”

“You did,” you agree, voice thick with velvet, unable to deny. He must find you amusing, for he huffs a breath that brushes your cheek – warm and wine-sweet.

“But I had to try them all,” you add, almost defensively. “Who knows if I’ll afford it after this week.”

He scoffs, but not unkindly, eyes flicking between your own even from upside down. “My wealth will be yours in just a few weeks.” The words hit you like an echo, but he speaks without teasing. “As will my name. And if you want wine for every meal, you will have it,” he murmurs. “Whatever you want.”

Whatever you want.

Your heart stumbles.

You blink slowly at him, bottle cradled in your lap. How odd you must seem from where he lies – flushed and clumsy, with such laced longing in your eyes.

“I don't know what I want,” you admit, your lips parting as you stare at his beautiful, angled jaw; it clenches under your scrutiny before he whispers softly, “That's okay.”

There is a magnetism that pulls you to him like a moth seeking a warm flame. 

Your hand finds itself on his skin before you can think about it; Soft, slightly ingrained with the beginnings of stubble; over his jaw your thumb strokes, feeling the sharp edges that lie below the soft, porcelain skin. 

To your surprise, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He simply lets you.

“Is it?” Your voice, a whisper under the flickering light of the hearth. “You made it seem like a flaw,” you muse, watching in intent fixation as those very lips move under your finger’s manipulation. 

His lips part when your thumb runs over the bottom one, tugging it curiously. “It’s not a flaw,” he mutters in a gentle motion against your thumb; the words vibrate against your thumb, and the breath that leaves him hits your own lips. 

When did you lean closer? When did he? 

From this angle, his eyes shimmer like twin fragments of some forgotten star – liquid, lambent, and fixed upon your lips with an intensity that stills your breath. 

Doubt flutters its wings within you, faint and delicate as moths in the chest, but it dies beneath the weight of longing, of warmth, of need. You are tired of talking. 

The hush between you is heavy, heady; And his face, so close, so warm in the firelight, is too achingly inviting. 

So you lean down, and your lips meet his.

You must tilt your face to fit him, his mouth unfamiliar, his lower lip pressing softly to your upper one, plush and strange. The kiss is chaste; just you leaning towards him, girlish and curious, barely there. 

You draw back, heat rising in your cheeks as you blink in a daze, but Paul does not let you go far.

His fingers, cool as stones plucked from a shaded stream, slip around your neck with eager purpose, stilling your retreat. His gaze is hooked upon the glisten of your own shocked lips, parted and nearly trembling with curiosity and hunger – and a soft breath escapes you as he draws you back in, sudden, almost desperate. 

He tastes of blackberries and sparkling wine, lips pressed to yours with an eagerness that makes your stomach flip.

You cradle his jaw between your palms; his hair, dark and curling, brushes your bare collarbone, where gooseflesh has bloomed under his touch. 

The scent of the room is thick, intoxicating – cinnamon, cherries, and the syrup-slick spill of sweet wine. Did you knock it over? You can’t remember. 

His mouth glides against yours, slow, reverent. When he exhales, it’s into you; a sigh like silk against the parted seam of your lips, followed by a gentle nudge of tongue. You inhale sharply, chest rising to meet him, parting your lips to welcome him in.

And with that, time fractures.

Everything tilts – sound warps and the firelight smears into molten streaks, as if the room itself were slipping sideways. The clock ticks, but its rhythm is wrong now, skewed and off its metronome; It no longer keeps time with the world, only with the slow thud of your heart, warm and floating. 

Pulling away for a moment, you let yourself gather a breath; His fingers are cold but you presently notice how warm the rest of him is. Cheeks, jaw, shoulders, everything. 

He’s moved upright on his mattress now; sitting up, he looms above you like a saint in stained glass, haloed in hearthlight over where you perch on your knees, staring up at him with glossy eyes. On your knees, you remain: A starved transgressant, begging for salvation from the solemn preacher before you. 

A hand soothes over your hair. Between his knees, your hands settle upon his thighs; a heat rolls over in you when his palm slides down to cradle your jaw, eyes boring into your own.

Your hunger is unbearable, but your shock breaks through the daze. 

What are we doing? 

You don’t mean to think it aloud – but Paul’s brow twitches. His gaze stills. For one breathless second, you wonder if he heard you without your voice.

But the silence breaks again when his lips find yours – with greater hunger now. There is nothing delicate in this kiss; He presses forward, parting your lips with ease. You encourage his press with a small noise, tugging him impossibly closer.

 His tongue tastes of wine, of salt and heat; your hands roam instinctively over the solid warmth of his chest, memorizing the flex beneath your fingers as they slide up to his nape, toying with the curls which lie unruly. 

Still, even in the haze, you feel it when he begins to pull away. 

His lips hover near yours, the ghost of breath between you. The moment lingers like a string suspended in the air, trembling.

“It’s so late,” he murmurs, and the words land like cold dew on fevered skin. 

A shudder of reality courses through you, sudden and sobering. 

You pull back, the enormity of the night crashing down like a wave – the arraignment, the dreams, the Bene Gesserit, Feyd-Rautha, the future. It all arrives in one breathless instant. 

You retreat from him, blinking wide-eyed as shame prickles in your throat. Even as your heart sings for more. Even as his lips chase yours just for a moment.

“You’re right,” you murmur, smoothing your hair, your skirts, your shame. “I should – I should return. I'm sorry I kept you so late.” 

You rise unsteadily, and he rises too, ever gallant. You loathe him for it just a little; how composed he seems as you tremble.

And though you cannot let yourself look, you can hear the quiet regret in his voice. As if he does not wish you to go. “It was me who kept you up.”

Paul’s voice is drowsy, frayed at the edges with drink and something heavier, more tender. He fumbles to open the door, sparing you from the humiliation of your own trembling fingers as your lips still buzz with the memory of his own. 

The air in the hall is sharp – too still; and the walk to your own chambers is far too short. Your thoughts spin in a dizzy disarray. 

At your threshold, he touches your arm. A feather-light thing, almost chaste and flustering in the juxtaposition of the way he touched you back inside his chambers. 

He says your name so lightly, you nearly double-take. But he’s watching you, haloed by light as he peers down at your trembling figure. Wrought with what is to come. 

His gaze lingers on your lips, unreadable, but he does not kiss you again. Still, you wonder – does he want to?

You wish he had kissed you again; and that is a dangerous thought: You barely know him, and yet you miss him already.

His curls glow faintly, kissed by lamplight, and you think: He looks like a boy still. How strange to be so undone by a boy.

His thumb caresses your arm where he’s stopped you. “It’ll be over quick,” he promises. “And then we can go home.”

He doesn’t say what it is. He never needs to. He knows your thoughts too well. And perhaps it is this, this very little moment in a life of large ones, where you realize what he is. What he could be to you, one day. 

“I’m scared, Paul.”

It comes as a whisper, and it comes out breathless, reluctant. 

He nods, gently. “I know.”

It does nothing to quell the raging sea of despair that has resided from its previous numbness, though his hand soothes the tremble upon your skin.

“I'm going to be there tomorrow,” he promises, “You may not see me, but I'll be there.”

You can only nod, knowing that tears will come soon; and you will be caught dead before Paul sees you cry. Grief returns like the tide, slow but certain; You bid him goodnight in a voice that barely feels your own.

You pretend not to notice how he lingers a moment longer before disappearing down the corridor. 

Inside your chamber, you collapse on the bed, unmoving, eyes dry but stinging. The tears leak out quietly, unnoticed even by yourself – and you are brittle with dread. Hollowed by what awaits.

And though perhaps some part of you longs for familiar dreams – his hands, his mouth, the heat of his body – none come to you.

You sleep through the night in perfect, terrifying silence. A night without visions. A night without Paul.

A night that feels like a march towards death.

follow @sandpoet for notifs & updates.

Then comes dinner. You sit with Mikasa, feeling her warmth beside you, while Eren’s gaze lingers across the table, filled with quiet lust. Carla and Grisha sit at the head, their presence solid and commanding against the white walls adorned with flowers in marble vases.

 The sunset blazes outside in a riot of orange and blood-red, casting the room in a fiery glow that makes everything feel alive. The chairs are carved and ornate, the table draped in a soft, lace cloth, bearing an array of dishes. 

The patio doors stand wide open, flooding the room with a gentle, restless breeze. The wind teasingly brushes through your hair, dancing along the edges, curling around your face with a tender insistence that makes your skin tingle. 

Your fingers fidget anxiously with the neckline of your linen dress, its low plunging V carving a path to the promise of your bare skin beneath. It’s a little bold, a little reckless, but Mikasa’s voice echoes in your mind: It’s Gabriela Hearst! You have to wear it— I picked it up in New York. 

Eren’s gaze lingers on you, unmistakably hungry, his eyes drifting multiple times to the heavy curve of your chest. His hand brushes across his five o'clock shadow, a stubble that’s been growing, the same way you do; tangled in the sheets of his bed, his mouth hot on your neck, and his breath caressing you— No, stop it, that tickles! 

And somehow, in that moment, it feels right, daring and free. Womanly, like you've discarded the demure, shy cocoon of youth and spread your gangly limbs into a set of wings.

You sit quietly, your heart full as you savour each bite of food, feeling the heat of his gaze. Laughter bubbles up as you exchange playful giggles with Mikasa, your spirits intertwined, while your words drift to Carla about their time in Melbourne.

Mikasa’s voice lilts in as she sighs, “I really wished you could’ve come, but you were already off in Tuscany.”

You gently pinch her cheek, your eyes warm with affection. “I wish I could be with you all the time, but I can't always drop everything.”

Carla’s smile radiates pure kindness. “It would’ve meant the world if you had come. You’re like family to us, truly.”

But suddenly, the atmosphere shifts; across the table, Eren’s smirk cuts through the warmth. 

His eyes, dark and shimmering with mischief, lock onto you over his glass of wine. Yeah, family. You’re like my little sister.

A jolt runs through you, your hand instinctively tightening in your lap. His smirk widens, and he chuckles softly. “It’s probably for the best she didn’t come, Mikasa. Maybe you need to learn how to make friends without paying for them.”

Mikasa’s voice pierces through the tension, sharp with indignation. “That’s not true! Oh my god, you’re such an asshole–”

Grisha’s voice cuts in, calm but steady, “No swearing at the table, sweetheart.” Resigned but firm.

Mikasa’s protests fade, but her eyes shine with fierce emotion. “But, Dad, he—”

You smile softly, taking a small, deliberate sip of water. When the arguments fade into quiet, settling into the gentle rhythm of the weather, a warm feeling blossoms inside you. You nod along to Mikasa’s words, brushing your hair over your shoulder, unaware of the world around you, when suddenly, a boot nudges your calf. 

Your eyes lift, and you see Eren, still deep in conversation with his parents, completely unaware of your gaze, or so it seems. But his eyes sparkle with a hidden intensity that suggests he’s more aware than he lets on.

Your heart quickens as you uncross your legs, slowly wrapping your ankle around his. You feel the sturdy corded muscles of his calves beneath his jeans, the electric tension of his presence. He inhales quietly, jaw twitching with restraint, caught between composure and desire. Before you even realise it, you stand, excuse yourself softly, and make your way out.

“I just need to go to the bathroom.” With your voice thick with anticipation, you softly pad out of the dining hall, your heart pounding.

But as soon as you reach the corridor, the unmistakable thud of his boots echoes behind you. A thrill shoots through you, and with a gasp, you turn to him, as he pulls you into the privacy of the bathroom, where everything else evaporates.

The door clicks shut behind him, and before you can even catch your breath or call out his name, his lips are already pressed fiercely against yours. His hands are everywhere: fingers tangled urgently in your hair, gripping your throat with a hunger, roaming over your chest with reckless abandon.

You gasp, overwhelmed, as he quickly and roughly squeezes your ass, sending a wave of pleasure through you. Without hesitation, he thrusts his tongue into your mouth as he presses you against the bathroom counter, his tongue tracing circles against your teeth.

“Eren," you pant softly, your voice trembling as his lips leave yours only to trace a hot, lingering path down your cleavage.

"Such a tease," he grunts, his voice thick with desire, as he eagerly sucks on the flesh of your breasts through your dress, leaving a wet, soiled mark. His hands grip your hips with unbridled hunger, pulling your ass apart with enough force to make your heart race, and your arousal seeps freely down your thighs as you drip with anticipation.

Your neck arches backwards, a delicate sound, a whimper soft as a sigh, slips past your parted lips as his teeth graze and tug at your nipple, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. 

“God, I fuckin’ love your tits,” he whispers, his voice full of lust, as if they are the most precious thing in the world to him.

He ruts against you shallowly as you tangle your hands in his hair, trying to pull him off—

We can't stay in here for long; they’ll get suspicious.

“Don’t need long,” he grunts, dropping to his knees with a raw, eager intensity. His emerald eyes shimmer with greed as they lock onto yours.

His words cut straight to your core, leaving you weak in the knees, nearly melting in his hands. He’s so undeniably handsome, so rugged, it feels almost unbearable. You’re overwhelmed, caught in a tidal wave of longing, feeling like a teenager again— watching him break in bucks and shotgun beers, lost in that raw, irresistible charm.  

His head dips beneath your dress, his nose brushing against your underwear, breath coming in ragged, animalistic pants, like a dog in heat. You instinctively try to press your thighs together, a desperate effort to hold back, but a sudden, sharp crack across your ass jolts you.

“We don’t have time, Eren,” you whisper desperately, your legs trembling already.

“We’d have more time if you stopped frettin’ like a ghost at high noon,” he grins, his eyes wild as he presses a tender kiss to your knee. “I can’t let you go back all worked up, can I? Ain’t what any gentleman would do.”

“Eren, we can’t—”

Chuckling darkly, he slips once more beneath your skirt, and you can sense the smirk in his voice as he says, Wasn’t talking to you, sweetheart.

Not bothering to remove your underwear, he trails a slow, deliberate lick along the length of your crotch, then hungrily sucks out the arousal from your soaked underwear. A shiver courses through you, and you find yourself teetering on the edge, almost succumbing to the overwhelming pleasure already.

She’s so mean, ain't she, sweet thing? Doesn’t want you to get your fill—

He murmurs against the cotton, his voice tinged with concern. Then, with a gentle tut, he presses tender kisses to your aching, throbbing core.

—I wanna make you cum, baby, he slurs, his mouth brushing against the lace covering your clit. Are you gonna let me taste this pussy?

A large dribble of arousal spills out of you, directly wetting the spot above his tongue, and he moans. 

“Yeah, she's talkin’ back,” his voice a rumbling husk.

He runs his tongue over your clit, flicking it with devoted urgency, and soon enough, he feels you surrender just a little more. Your moans grow louder, more lewd, and he responds with fervour, sucking gently on your clit between his flicks. The fear melts away, replaced by pure pleasure, until you’re trembling, calling his name and begging him to give you even more.

Eren, yes, oh, don’t stop— you’re telling him how good it feels, thanking him for making you feel so good as you start to rock your hips back and forth.

“You needed this, huh?” He can feel your insides quiver and tighten around the tip of his tongue, and he lets out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Mm, yeah, I know, baby.”

Eren can’t help but smirk against you as he pushes his face back up to your dripping entrance, pulling aside your pants before nudging your clit with his nose, as he laps at the sticky sweetness gathering at your folds. He sucks your clit into his mouth, and gently flicks his tongue back and forth over the swollen nub as you moan from his touch. 

You gasp and squirm above him as he does it again and again. He sucks your folds into his mouth, tonguing and teasing them as you tangle your fingers into his dark hair. You push his face tighter against you, and he moans into your skin. 

And just like that, your thighs are trembling, and you’re shuddering. He feels your clit start to pulse on his tongue before you even get out, I’m cumming.

You cum hard and fast, and he guides your hips as you ride your orgasm out on his tongue. Your little slit clenches in phantom embraces, dripping more cum into his mouth with each contraction, drenching the bottom half of his face.

You're still shuddering, your body slumped against the sink behind you, as if the air itself has drained from your lungs. Every nerve in your body is alive with shock and adrenaline, pounding through your veins, leaving you fragile and raw.  

He rises to his feet, a smug grin curling on his lips, a triumphant glint in his eyes that makes your stomach tighten with a mix of defiance and vulnerability.  

You weakly shove him away, your trembling hands clutching at your dress as if it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. “You’re the worst,” you whisper, voice trembling, “How do I look?”  

He strokes a gentle, almost kind hand down your arm, a dark softness in his touch. “Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a teasing edge in his voice. “They won’t suspect a thing, hm?” 

Without warning, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close as he peppers your hair with a few soft, lingering kisses, both intimate and dangerous. 

Then, in a hushed whisper, he leans towards your ear, his voice thick with promise and secrecy. “Come for a drive with me tonight. After Mikasa is asleep. I’ll be out at 11.”

“Tonight? Why?” you ask him, sick with anticipation.

He pulls back, his eyes lingering over every inch of your body. He presses his body against yours, his cock hard and pulsing against your stomach, sending a shiver down your spine. He gently cups your face, the unspoken words swirling behind his eyes.

He pulls away abruptly, and jerks his head towards the door again, heat flickering in his eyes. “Go on, baby, Mikasa’ll be goin’ crazy without you there.”  

You hesitate for a moment, then shuffle toward the door, only to turn back and send him a small, yet electric smile. “Tonight,” you whisper.

             Stars spilt across the sky like pale corn, drifted into freshly turned ground. Your window is cracked open just a whisper, a gentle breeze teasing over you. That night, you were restless, the warm heat offering little relief.  Your linen shorts and light top offered little respite from the thirst in your core. As your dreams linger and swirl, you fix your gaze on the clock by your bedside, counting each second, desperate for it to strike 11.  

Suddenly, you hear the rhythmic hum of Eren’s truck from outside, and you spring up in a heartbeat. Peering out, your eyes catch the vivid flash of red streaking down the street, like a stain of lipstick across the dark canvas of night. Without hesitation, you pull a hoodie over your head, slip into your fluffy slippers, and move silently through the corridor.  

You pause at Mikasa’s door, listening to her deep, steady breaths. A small prayer catches in your throat, a plea for forgiveness, for understanding. Stepping quickly down the stairs, you reach the front door and fling it open, a grin already breaking across your face before you even glimpse him.

The car, cloaked in night, hummed a slow, nostalgic tune. Resting on its fresh summer tyres, perfectly black, with treads deep enough to hold onto secrets, it thrummed with warmth and anticipation, alive with quiet excitement. He stood beside it, the glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp lines of his jaw, the gentle bob of his throat as he took a breath. 

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he beckoned, tugging you closer with a tender nip on your earlobe.

He reached out, opening the truck door—

Get your pretty ass in there.

—and in that instant, you slid into the seat, feeling the familiar contour of comfort beneath you. He buckled your seatbelt with care, like guarding a fragile treasure, a vow of protection and devotion.

He stepped into the driver’s seat and ignited the engine, and suddenly the open road stretched out before you like a ribbon of liquorice. The countryside surrounded it, grass waving fiercely, delicate floral heads bouncing in the wind. 

His headlights catch the shimmering dust and flickering fireflies, casting a tender glow across the tarmac that seems to dance with the shadows. The radio hummed a slow, bluesy tune. Your knees tremble with a mixture of eager anticipation and the icy caress of the night, yet he remained utterly still as he cruised down the road.  

“You always this quiet when it’s just me and you?” His voice startles you. 

You fidget with the edge of your hoodie, your voice barely above a murmur. “I like the quiet.”  

“Nah,” he teases with a soft smile, “you just like makin’ me lean in to hear you better.”  

Your eyes flicker to his, catching that slow, knowing grin, like he already sees inside your mind. His 

hand gently rests on the gearshift, so close it almost touches your thigh.  

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours? You look like you’re thinkin’ real hard.”  

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice trembling.  

He snorts, warm and amused. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

You shift in your seat, your eyes fluttering over the passing houses, a mix of curiosity and uncertainty swirling inside you.  

(Your thoughts drift to images of his past affections— women with red lips and push-up bras. A montage flashes in your mind's eye of the many faces, vague yet distinct, you remember seeing beside him on the sun-drenched bleachers of your childhood, shadows stretching long as the games wore on. Never there for long, always gone before the next full moon.

A queasy sensation stirs deep within your stomach, a vortex of self-doubt beginning to blossom—)

He presses his hand gently yet firmly on your thigh again. “Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly but with an unmistakable intensity. “Don’t make me guess.”

“What am I to you?” Your voice trembles with a blend of hope and apprehension, afraid but desperate to understand.

He stiffens for a moment, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face before he relaxes, a slow, sure smile spreading across his lips. “You’re my girl,” he declares with quiet certainty, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Thought that much was clear.”

But a pang of worry presses into your chest. “But you're gonna get bored with me soon.”

“That’s what got you in a strop? God, baby, you think I’ll ever get tired of you?” His chuckle is tender, almost amused, as he turns his gaze back to the road. “Never met a girl like you, sweetheart. Oughta know that by now.”

He turns to look at you, stroking your hair as he runs a red light. “God, you’re so easy to look at. Got those beautiful, big eyes. I love when the light hits ‘em.”

A heat blooms in your stomach. He makes you boil, always a simmering feeling in your stomach.

I like it when you look at me, you admit softly, almost hypnotised by his attention.

He laughs a little, a warm, if teasing, sound. “Aww, you like it when I pay you attention, huh? You like being looked at by a grown man, don’t you?”

Your nose crinkles ever so slightly, trying to dismiss the teasing tone. “Don’t say it like that. You’re not old.”

A knowing smile graces his face, laced with a hint of roguish intent. “I’m gonna be goin’ grey soon, sweetheart. Not the young buck I used to be,” he says quietly, but his eyes linger on you with unwavering admiration.

You shake your head, a gentle defiance. “I don’t mind. I like it,” you whisper, feeling that fiery warmth ignite within you.

“Course you do, baby. You like anything I do,” he murmurs, turning up the radio. Like a faithful canine, you respond to his beckoning whistle, positioning yourself at his feet, eternally devoted.

            He pulls into a secluded park, a quiet woodland that feels like a hidden sanctuary. The sky above is shrouded in darkness, stars marbling across it. The trees part just enough to reveal Lake Maria, a sacred place of childhood memories, flooding back with a fierce, aching clarity— moments of innocence and wonder that never really faded. 

The lake stretches out before you, a glossy, obsidian mirror. The engine hums softly, a steady, comforting pulse in the stillness, as he pauses, caught between past and present.

“You know what I’ve noticed, sweetheart? The city did somethin’ to you.” As he breaks the silence, he tips his head, giving you a once-over that’s bold, but not crude. “You walk different. Talk smoother.”

You fiddle with a loose hem on your top. “I think I just got used to not havin’ men in boots hoverin’ over me.”

He chuckles, the sound low in his throat. “You wound me, sweetheart. Thought you might’ve missed me a little in the city.”

You’re a delicate instrument, and Eren wants to know if he can still remember how to play you, how to tune you to his liking. 

You surrender to his disarming smile.

You breathe in. “I did.”

Eren huffs out a quiet laugh and lets his head fall against the window. “I missed you, too.”

You breathe out. “Really?”

He grins. “Of course, I did.”

He slowly leans across the console, “What,” he murmurs softly, “You don’t believe me?”

You squirm in your seat, flustered by his unwavering gaze. His eyes are low, and swimming with mirth. He cradles your face in his hand, and your eyes flutter shut when he drags his nose along your jaw.

Your breaths are shallower now. You tilt your head sideways, facing him, and tentatively press your forehead to his. He’s rendered you breathless within minutes. You are drowning in him, his sight, his scent, his touch— you can’t talk, let alone breathe, not when he’s taking up all the space in the car.

All notions of reconciliation are abandoned when he presses a fleeting kiss to the shell of your ear, and then whispers, Think I didn’t miss my little girl?

Slowly, he raises a hand, his fingers a dark silhouette against the dim light, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers trail down, a whisper against your skin, brushing your jaw, your throat. 

The touch is featherlight, a silent prayer. He leans, and the scent of him— something woodsy and clean— fills your senses as his lips meet yours. Softness, warmth, a gentle pressure. He cups your face, fingers curving along your nape, holding you. Your lips tingle. Breath puffs, a visible cloud.

 His eyes gleam, a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, dragging it down, the slick slide of his thumb against the wet inside, then over your top lip. Just a baby, aren’t you?

A furrow etches itself between your brows as you shake your head in denial, yet a subtle, knowing smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

With firm insistence, he guides the back of your head, coaxing you into an almost unwilling nod. Yeah, you are. My pretty baby, huh?

You want to argue, but the sight of him blurs the edges of your resolve, his fingers now tracing the delicate curve of your lips, drawing you back into the hot orbit of his kiss. His hands move to your thighs, urge you up and onto his lap. You stumble awkwardly, your knee pressing into his stomach, but he seems unfazed, gently helping you settle, thighs spread over him— a stretch that sends a faint ache through your inner thighs. His hands glide softly over the outside of them, soothing the nervous tremble that runs through your body. 

He pulls back as he takes off your hoodie, his fingers fumbling at your breasts through the thin cotton of your delicate top. In one smooth, almost desperate motion, he removes it all, and a shiver runs down your spine, your bare abdomen meeting the cool air inside the truck. You instinctively cross your arms over your chest, trying to shield and warm yourself, but before you can hide, his strong hand captures your wrists. His grip is firm, with a commanding presence that pulls your hands away, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

Your hips press into his thigh, and you hitch a breath when the feeling of it flutters through you, a squirmy roll of your body at the soft-hardness of his muscles, how hot you are between your thighs, how good it feels, that little bit of friction against your cunt.

His hand, a deliberate explorer, moves across the landscape of your thigh, the pad of his thumb tracing a hot path along the inner curve, venturing beneath the modest hem of your shorts, where your moist heat lies. A single, audacious hand trails a path between your bodies, a thick finger like a brand, stroking languidly along your fabric-covered slit, applying gentle pressure to the soaked material cradling your swollen folds.

A whimper trips out of you, embarrassed at the way his thumb slips on your skin, but he shushes you, his other hand cradling the nape of your neck, gently coaxing you back into the embrace of his kiss.

His voice, a low murmur against your skin, is a tantalising blend of affection and mockery— S’alright, baby, you’re all wet, huh? 

His thumb slips higher, along the edge of your cunt. Little cunt’s so needy, isn’t it?

You nod, kissing him again, tilting your head, eager for more. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip, encouraging you to offer yourself to him, insistent, leading. Your eyes closed as you opened your mouth, allowing his tongue to slip inside, smoke and wood and danger, everything about him that was harsh against your softness. 

Eager little thing, he mumbled against your mouth, followed by a breathy huff of amusement. I like that. 

He pawed at your breasts, his calloused fingers rough on the delicate lace while teeth and lips and tongue clashed against yours. Under the insistent pressure of his kneading hands, your nipples responded, hardening into eager peaks, trying to reach his touch through the fabric. You let out another sound that was far more desperate than you had planned.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured before capturing your bottom lip between his teeth, a playful bite that advertised so much more to come. Deliberately, he elevated his thigh, pressing the solid plane of it intimately against your clothed vulva. “Now, go on.”

You didn’t need any more encouragement to slide your body forward over the solid muscle of his thigh. He offered himself willingly, a subtle roll of his hips inviting your own, heightening the friction against your clit. His hands, firm and knowing, grasped your ass, guiding and encouraging the rhythmic glide along his muscular leg. The tender flesh beneath your panties responded instantly— a renewed tide of wetness.

“So wet for me already, sweetheart?” he asked, voice gravelly and low. “We’ve barely even started.”

You had no reply except for a tight whine. Arousal gathered in your panties in a fresh flood of wetness as you continued to ride the flat of his thigh, soon leaving a damp spot on the thick canvas. Your fingers, desperate and seeking purchase, dug into the hard lines of his back; the powerful muscles beneath your hands were barely veiled by the dark T-shirt stretching across his wide chest.

 Your hips rolled forward and back, pulling the thin material of your panties taut against the shape of you. A dark rumble of amusement vibrated within Eren’s deep chest. 

Gonna cum, you whine, God, I’m so close.

“I know, baby, I know,” His hands slide over your thighs, knees spread a little wider at the width of his upper body, digging into his ribs.

He grunts as you gasp and tremble. He digs his free fingers into your ass cheeks, spreads them while you use him. And then your breaths are picking up, and your fingers tangle in his hair as you get desperate. Your holes squeeze on him, and you moan, Oh, fuck.

Wetness gushes onto his jeans, and you’re cumming. You lean forward, gasping for air, feeling the insistent pulsing of your cunt against his skin. He keeps rocking you as he rides your orgasm out of you.

“Mmm, ain't you just perfect? Didn't even have to touch you,” His voice is like gravel. His hands hold you against him, and your hands too weak to push against his shoulders as you quiver through your orgasm.

His fingers move over your stomach, downwards, until they reach the apex of your inner thighs. He hooks his fingers over the damp fabric covering your pussy, pulls your panties and shorts to the side, slow.

A soft, almost mouse-like whine escapes your lips, tinged with a blush of embarrassment, yet he silences it with a gentle shush. His other hand cradles the nape of your neck, coaxing you back into the heat of his kiss.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly, bringing his hands to your hips to support you. “It’s just me. What do you have to be worried about?”

His fingers brush over your slit— finally a real touch. With agonising slowness, he guides his hand back between your thighs, his knuckles grazing against your clit, eliciting a pathetic whimper and a reflexive urge to close your legs. He doesn’t let you. 

He grunts, a nearly inaudible sound. Keep them open.

You can’t. But he kisses your neck, his voice hot: Be a good girl, come on.

He’s hard beneath you, with the scratch of denim over his cock right under the leak of your cunt. He wraps one arm around your waist to steady you, resting one hand on your side, while he touches you with the other. A wordless whine tumbles from your lips, your head going foggy, dropping forward as he sinks a digit into you, long and thick. Your noses brush together, and he pushes deeper, and the air is thick with your quiet gasps. His mouth hovers just above your jaw as he sinks a finger completely inside you, and a tremor courses through your body. Your hands grasp desperately at his hair as he slowly and deliberately pumps his finger in and out, leaving you aching with an unbearable need to be filled, to draw him in deeper.

He chuckles, and then he presses another finger in, stretching you out around two. He gives them to you all the way, lets you take them to his knuckles, curling them forward, caressing that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

You open your mouth to beg for more, but your jaw goes slack— Eren rolls over your clit softly, rubbing little circles into it at the perfect speed, the perfect pressure. Just when your little gasps turn into quiet moans, Eren takes mercy on you and pushes his ring finger to the hilt. Eren answers your wide eyes and your little gasp with a hissing, sharp breath, marvelling at the way your walls cling to his finger, sucking him in when he slides out and back in again. 

"Just like the first time," Eren murmurs, leaning down to take your collarbone between his teeth, "are you always this tight?"

“I– please, more, please.”

Eren smiles around the mouthful of your skin he has, feeling his heart swell at how cute and airy your words come out.

Eren, you breathe, a keening testament to the overwhelming pleasure.

“So tight, baby,” Eren says in awe, pulling his head back to watch as your cunt leaves little white streaks on his fingers, “so warm, can’t fuckin’ believe how good this pussy is.”

“P-please, I want you,” you sputter.

Eren works his fingers faster, can feel the fluttering of your cunt around his fingers. It’s so much all at once, you can’t think at all. Your mind empties, trembling against him as he hooks his fingers into you. As you feel the peak washing over you, the tide recedes as his fingers slow, almost entirely. He goes from pumping his digits within you to a slow, languid probing of your walls. 

You thrash in his lap, tears glittering in your waterline. Eren thinks wildly that he might be falling in love with the little unshed tears that prick your eyes when you start to get close, the little broken pleas you give him.

What are you doing? I— I need to cum, Eren. Don’t stop.

He coos softly, his free hand securing your wrists behind your back as your body arches and twists against his lap. 

Little more, baby. You’re alright.

His fingers pry, delving just a fraction deeper, reaching the spot that makes fireworks dance on your eyelids. Again, and again, and again, kneading it like a roll of sweet bread. He moulds your insides to his fingers, presses himself so deep into you, you won’t forget him. You hitch ragged breaths against his neck, high-pitched, whiny sounds that seem absurd to your own ears, the feeling and need swelling up like a hurricane and—

It’s different this time. 

It's hotter, wetter, more sticky, this orgasm. It bypasses your stomach, bubbling up your throat and lighting up your spine. You pant, your body locking up in his lap, preparing for the climax.

Your face feels sticky and hot, and you cry out when you come again. You squirt in his lap, drenching his jeans, hand and thighs. Your mouth forms a silent scream, and your lungs seize, robbing you of breath for an eternity, until Eren's lips softly brush against your temple.

“There you go,” Eren mutters, his voice gravelly beneath you. “Good girl.”

He extracts his fingers gently, rubbing small circles on your clit. You pant into his chest, trying to catch your breath. His hand releases your wrists, and he smooths a hand over your hair. 

"How was that, darlin'?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble vibrating against your scalp, the scent of him filling your senses. "That was a big one." His breath warms the strands of your hair. 

"Really good," you manage, the word slurring slightly as you fight the delicious pull of sleep.

A pause hangs in the air, thick with unspoken questions.

Ever done that before?

You shake your head against his chest, a dizzying wave still washing over you, distorting the room's edges.

No, you haven't. Can’t take care of this baby pussy by yourself, can you? Need me to do it for you, yeah? Mmm, I know. 

He peppers kisses along your hairline, each press a possessive brand. You burrow closer, forehead finding the rough cotton of his collarbone, escaping little puffs of air and stifled whimpers.

"Not a baby," you mumble, the words muffled by his shirt.

He chuckles, a sound that vibrates through your very bones, his large hand rhythmically stroking the length of your spine. "You sure? Barely fit three fingers inside, and you wanna act tough."

“I'm not acting.”

“Aren't you?” His voice dripped with sardonic amusement. “Because you snuck outta your room to see me tonight, ain't something a grown woman would do.” With his thumb and forefinger, he grabs the soft mounds of your cheeks, compressing them together in a gesture that is both belittling and tinged with cruel humour.

His scathing words wash over you as embarrassment blooms in your stomach and curls around your heart and squeezes. 

(Did he see you as a woman, confident and self-possessed? A Madonna, pure and untouched? Or perhaps a painted whore, brazen and alluring? A flawless face gracing the glossy cover of a magazine, an object of fleeting desire?)

“What do I have to do, then? To become a woman?” you whisper. 

A woman that you want.

 His breath, warm and intoxicating, ghosts against your ear as he whispers: You have to let me fuck you, baby. Show you what it’s like to have a real man in you.

The contents of your stomach churn with trepidation and a hot anticipation.

“You want that?” His voice, quiet and stifled, is a mere breath against your skin, “You sure?”

You curl into him, eyes shining, mouth parting in a silent supplication. 

Yes, Eren. Give me everything.

He takes a long, good gaze at you, his eyes raking over your form. He sees you trapped, a delicate bird ensnared beneath his corded arms, your gaze tilted upwards, meeting his through the veil of heavy-lidded eyes, dark lashes fluttering like wings against the skin of your cheeks. In response, his cock throbs with demanding urgency.

“Alright. I’m givin’ you what you wanted,” he grunts, the word rough and laden with exertion. The rasp of denim fills the air as he pushes his jeans down, followed by his boxers, revealing his erection springing forth, the hulking mass of his shaft pressing against his abdomen. A glistening crown of precum adorns the head of his cock. Your eyes trace the sight of it, head nestled beneath the rough shadow of his chin. 

"You know what to do," he murmurs, voice thick with desire, his breath ghosting against your hair. "Be a big girl."

You spit in your palm, before pumping him. He exhales a guttural grunt, nipping at your neck in a fleeting kiss. His hand seals over yours on his cock, showing you how to touch him— a firmer grip, a little twist of your wrist and hand over the fat head. A long stroke down. His hand dwarfs yours; it makes your heart pound just as much as your fingers not touching around the thick of him does.

You emit a breathy whimper as he grinds his impressive length against your folds. He gently rolls his hips upwards, and his balls hit your round ass with a small plap. The head of his massive cock extends past your belly button, and Eren, gripping his shaft by the base, taps his tip against your navel, admiring the thin strings of precum that linger. 

It's undeniably huge. Impossibly big. It won't fit in you.

His voice drips with sadistic enthusiasm when he drawls, “I’m gonna be in your stomach, baby. Can you take it?”

You bite the tip of your thumb, a little bubble of fear in your belly, an aborted denial lingering on your tongue.

Observing your expression, a shadow descends upon his gaze. “You want this, don’t you, baby? Want to be a big girl?” He presses a small, placating kiss to your neck, and you melt into his arms.

He tugs you up a little more as he sinks an inch lower in the seat. Your ass is all sticky and wet against his hips, but you're too distracted by the drag of his cock over your cunt, bumping against your little hole. A silent acknowledgement of his imposing size floods your thoughts, the head plump and swollen, your heart pounding as you pant for air.

Your head lolls forward onto his shoulder, and your eyes lock onto his with fear and adoration. He presses a quick kiss to your hairline and then your forehead.

With painstaking slowness, he presses his cock against your entrance, slowly, slowly, slowly pushing against that tight ring of muscle. 

In the haze, you manage to stutter out: “Do you have a condom?” 

His eyes flicker momentarily to meet yours, but he doesn't answer, before his hips begin to pulse upwards with growing urgency. Your nails dig instinctively into his shoulders, a desperate plea forming on your lips— 

“Eren—”

His grin is a little too wide, too sharp. “I'll pull out. Promise, baby.”

His hand tightens, his cock pushing up in little pulses, bumping harder against your hole. A slight discomfort registers as his hips initiate a series of small thrusts, positioning the head of his cock directly against your delicate opening, causing you to instinctively brace yourself.

A little ow slips out of you, a hiccuped Eren, and he grunts into your ear, pushing a little harder and holding you tighter, his head pushing right up against her as the thickened shaft pulsates rhythmically— and then the fat head of his cock pops inside of you, with a small pop, like cracking open a can of cider. 

That little half-gasp, half-moan when he pushes past your tight entrance, the feeling of you clenching on his dick, your gooey walls sucking him deeper as he eases into you—it’s overwhelming. You jolt and cry out, whole body tense and somehow quivering. 

It's just his thick head tucked in your cunt. You’re all wet and stretched, and even through the film of tears blurring your vision, you can see the clenching and working of your cunt around him. A low groan emanates from his throat as he gently caresses the taut skin with his thumb.

Look at that, baby, splitting this sweet pussy open, aren’t I?

Inch, after inch, after inch slides into you. The pain pinches your eyebrows, and you claw at his shoulders. You curl your head under his jaw, watching him carve out a space for himself inside you. His girth throbs within you, pulsing at every whine and hiccup you give out.

So tight, so fuckin’ tight, baby. Perfect little cunt you have, you know that?

His hands grip your ass, and he impales you the last few inches down. The tendons in his neck strain against the dim glow of the car's interior, his Adam's apple a frantic rhythm against the stillness.

The eerie silence of the world around you fades into your ears, ringing when he slowly— agonisingly— begins thrusting. His cock drags along your walls perfectly with every precise roll of his hips. His groans echo around the car. The joint sounds of your ecstasy nearly drown out the lewd squelches between your legs.

You whimper, the stretch making you arch away from him, but the burst of pleasure makes you rock your hips into him.

Yeah, that’s it, you’re a big girl now, aren’t you? Riding my cock like that. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when Eren hammers your g-spot. You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel your release begin to crest. Eren's warm breath ghosts across your neck, his murmured accolades weaving a hazy spell within your mind.

One hand finds purchase in the thicket of Eren's dark hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He turns and plants a wet kiss on your palm. His movements grow swift, shallow, a frantic rhythm as your inner muscles tighten around him, and you feel the car rock in time with his thrusts, and you sigh happily. 

You want the whole town to know you’re getting fucked senseless. You want the world to know how good you’re getting it right now. Though now, your world has you spread on his lap like a fuckdoll and is pounding you like an animal.

A soft hiccup punctuates the air as Eren's teeth graze the flesh of your palm. "You alright, sweetheart? Been awful quiet." At your shaky affirmation, he presses moist lips to your cheek, the warmth of his smile imprinted upon your skin. He slides a hand down to your clit and begins rubbing it in small, quick circles. “No worries, I’ll have you screamin’ my name in no time.”

Your back arches as his thrusts pick up speed. Every thrust has your legs trembling and your voice cracking. Your eyes glaze over as his pace soars beyond the imaginable. Your hands dig into his biceps, and when you feel blood bead at the skin, he hisses in pleasure.

An intense curve forms in your spine as his thrusts escalate, a relentless rhythm causing tremors in your legs and fracturing your voice with each forceful entry.

Talk to me, baby. Tell me how good I’m givin’ it to you.

Oh, yes, mmm— oh God, yeah, so good, you manage to gasp out.

That’s right, baby. Those pencil-dicked college boys not good enough for you?

You confess: N-no. No one does it like you, Eren.

He throws his head back with a hearty groan. God, you don’t know what you do to him. Every time he thinks you’ve lured him in deep enough, he finds himself diving into you again, until he’s drowning in your wet, warm depths. His muscles strain against the confines of his shirt, his mouth hangs open, eyes fixated on the point of your shared pleasure. Visible beads of sweat line his brow, and damp tendrils of hair cling to his flushed temples.

Your gaze locks with his intense ultramarine stare once more. Your lashes flutter, and Eren presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead after brushing away the hair plastered to it.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, his voice a low, throaty rumble. "Who does this pussy belong to? Me?" You nod languidly, a slow, affirmative gesture, your body responding with involuntary shudders to the powerful, insistent rhythm of his thrusts. His hand holds one of your breasts, his palm firm as he applies a deliberate force.

He lowers his mouth to yours, and you wet your lips in anticipation. You gotta cum all over me then.

And you do. Ecstasy dances down your spine as you cry out his name. You squeeze your eyes shut as you clamp down on Eren’s cock. Brilliant bursts of white light explode behind your closed eyelids. You moan his name again and again and again, and he tells you he knows, he knows, he knows. Your arousal drips down his shaft, leaving a glistening trail past his balls and onto the padded leather beneath you both.

“Good girl,” he coos. He brings the fingers that were circling your clit to your mouth, and your tongue darts out to taste. A wave of warmth washes over you, your mind softly adrift, the edges of consciousness blurred by the lingering, sticky sweetness of satisfaction.

He expels a sharp breath, calloused hand gliding over your waist as you collapse against his broad chest, gasping for air, your body trembling with exertion. 

"You've bitten off more than you can chew, ain’t you?" he rasps, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. “Fuck an old man, and you don't even know what to do with yourself.”

He leans back, then gently flips you so you're resting against the seat. He shifts back, his gaze intense, before gently manoeuvring you so you recline against the worn leather of the seat. 

You lie there panting, sweating, keening, as he rummages in the glovebox. A flash of cold, hard catches your eye as his shotgun rattles, before he pulls out a packet of cigarettes. He lights a Marlboro, the flame hooking onto his nose and the shadows pulling at his smile. He lets the cigarette dangle from his lips, smoke curling around his face.

“Hips,” he grunts. Then, with an exhale, he strips away your sopping shorts and delicate panties, leaving you completely bare.

He tilts his head, his gaze lingering on the wet smear between your thighs, taking a long drag. He groans, his cock throbbing above you. He gives you a once-over— the disarray of your hair, the flushed colour of your cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

“You can rest here, yeah? I'm gonna take a smoke outside.”

“No— aren’t— aren’t you going to fuck me again?” A desperate plea bubbles out of your throat.

He chuckles. “Ain't you tired yet? God help me.”

A sigh precedes the moment his hand gently cups your face, pressing your lips together into a soft, exaggerated pout, squishing your cheeks between his fingers. Well, look at you. Can't say no to that pretty face, can I?

He drops a swift, decisive kiss upon your lips. “Alright, baby.” 

The overhead light switch clicks, flooding the truck cabin with a sombre, yellowish glow that casts long shadows. With a shrug, he peels off his sweat-soaked shirt, revealing the taut muscles of his torso. His heavy cock still pokes out from his jeans, slick with your heat. The low light catches the moisture on his skin, highlighting the sculpted lines of his body.

He inhales deeply from his cigarette, then lazily cups his hand around his erection; it’s already dripping, but he spits on his hand anyway. Slides his fist over the throbbing length of it, before leaning his weight on the arm of the chair. Still languidly stroking himself, he guides his erection towards your eager, fluttering hole.

Your entrance is tight, tiny, as he slots the head of his dick against it.

Don't know what you're getting into, baby, he murmurs. Too brave for your own good.

His strong hands weave into the strands of your hair, a tight grip yanking your head downward, coercing your gaze to travel the length of your body. Bathed in the cabin’s hazy, yellow light, you see the smear of cream adorning his skin, the throbbing, swollen, crimson head of his cock, and the rapid, uncontrollable fluttering of your eager, wet hole.

Distantly, you hear—

 Eyes here, sweetheart. Want you to see how slutty you are.

—and he presses himself into you again. 

You can hear the anticipation in his voice this time as he pushes inside, and you know he’s going to give it to you deep. 

The moisture of your arousal slickens his member, easing his way through the initial resistance. But it’s still not all the way in; there’s still so much of him visible when you feel a pinch. The blunt nudge of his head bumping your cervix— that perfect pain— makes you gasp, makes your toes curl. 

Is this what you wanted, baby? You want me to give you the whole thing? Yeah? You wanna take my cock deep? 

A gasp escapes, a plea woven with need: Yeah, don't stop, don't stop.

And then he’s putting a big hand on your stomach, pressing down on it as he pushes forward, coaxing: Oh, fuck, baby, I’m so deep in you. That’s a good girl, take it all the way.

When he pulls back out, the light reflects on the slick coating of his dick, makes it glisten. Each viscous movement, each sticky collision, is a testament to your need. It feels so wet, sounds so sticky. You can see how tight you are— the way your pussy grips the shaft each time he pulls his cock out, greedy for him. Just like you.

The initial sharp sting is less pronounced, smoothened by the slick of your walls, but not any less deep. His thrusts are powerful and deep from the start, ramming into you with little regard. You feel his tip smash your cervix, the pain blossoming up your spine and behind your eyes.

He continues to plunge the entire length of his cock within you, again and again, each forceful push accompanied by a guttural grunt. 

"Spoiled brat," he exhales roughly, “you always get what you want, don’t you?”

Your lips part involuntarily, releasing a series of small, breathy whimpers and involuntary hiccups. Eren chuckles, and he extracts his smouldering cigarette from his own lips, gently placing it between yours. You take a deep breath, the acrid smoke filling your lungs, and breathe it all out with his name.

And what do you want now, huh? Want me to make you cum?

A little nod.

His fingers wrap around your throat. Not tight. Just enough to feel your pulse hammer and cunt clench. The sensation is so profound that he audibly grinds his teeth. Above you, he hisses— a sharp inhale as everything gets tighter.

He memorises your face while he sinks his cock into you, buries himself deep. The overhead lights cast a stark glow, illuminating the dance of your fluttering eyelids. As you moan, he squeezes your throat some more. Tighter, enough to make your voice come out breathy and black fuzz around your peripheral.

Your mouth falls open in a perfect, pornographic ‘o’. The lit cigarette tumbles out of your mouth, a glistening strand of saliva momentarily tethering it to your mouth.

He keeps his hand on your throat even when his mouth meets yours. Cigarettes and honey on his tongue, and then on yours. He fucks you with his mouth on yours, asking if you can feel him in your tummy. Then he thrusts hard into you over and over and over again, filling up your throbbing, aching insides until you’re teary-eyed and sniffling. 

You take it all the way— past that pinching feeling that makes your toes curl and tears prick at your eyes, past the jarring impact against your cervix. He’s panting, squeezing your throat harshly, fucking you so hard that the wet slaps of skin on skin eclipse the radio.

“Just— like— that,” you gasp breathily between thrusts, looking up at him. He doesn’t even look like the same person anymore. Muscles coil and flex beneath his taut skin, his abdomen rippling with each crippling stroke. His hair falls out of his loose bun. His big, verdant eyes are half-lidded, sleepy with arousal, and his teeth are bared. He’s just fucking you like he’s starved for your body. It’s so hot to see him like this, dominating you like all of that kind older brother was only ever an act.

Right there, fuck, right there, he pants. 

God, you’re so fuckin’ sexy. Been waiting for you to grow up for so long.

Oh, God—

You feel the twitching start in the arches of your feet, and then all the tension in your core is released at once. The first seismic wave of pleasure rolls through your body, then another, and another. Your pussy clenches, unclenches, and flutters around his dick as your cum gushes out on him. 

The intensity is almost unbearable, a delicious agony that brings stinging tears to your eyes. You can't stifle the raw, fractured cries that erupt from you with each perfectly placed thrust, the pain of his deep, relentless fucking only amplifying the pleasure. 

The pain of him fucking you so deep, sharpening the pleasure until you’re feeling so good that you can’t even hold your head up to watch. Overwhelmed, you can no longer support your head, allowing it to fall back against the seat. You let it drop back down on the seat, let your limbs go limp and heavy, and he takes care of the rest— fucking as many contractions out of you as your body can take.

He’s never felt something this good before. And nothing has ever been as intoxicating as your cries of pure bliss: I'm cumming, I'm cumming.

 He wants to make it last: he needs to keep hearing you moan, keep feeling you cum. So he keeps fucking you into the seat until your loud moans devolve into quiet gasps for air.

He releases his hold on your throat, and pulls your knees onto his shoulders. You can barely breathe like this, folded in half, flat on your back, as he starts plunging his cock into you again— so hard and deep that your ears start ringing.

Hot tears stream down your flushed face as one earth-shattering orgasm throbs through you, barely ending before the next one crashes over. He relentlessly pounds into you, each thrust igniting another explosive climax; he does it over and over, makes you cum so many times he loses count. They’re all blending together, your whimpers filling his head, your squirt and his cum everywhere.

"You're too big, Eren," you manage to gasp, your voice laced with both pleasure and exhaustion, each syllable punctuated by a blissful moan.

You squirm a little each time he bottoms out, but he keeps your legs pinned against your chest easily. He’s barely letting you move an inch.

“Aren’t you getting what you wanted?” he grunts, his voice rough with exertion as he slams into you, each thrust deliberate and forceful. “You asked me to fuck you, right?”

Your reply is a tearful, fervent nod. So he continues to give you just what you asked for. He dominates you, fucking you brutally until your whole body is tensing up again.

“You want me to fuck a load into you?” he groans softly.

You shake your head hazily. A silent plea escapes you, a denial formed in the depths of your mind. 

No, you can't—

You can barely even talk, because you’re feeling the pleasure start to rise in you again. Your toes are curling. His eyes capture every nuance: the slight parting of your lips, the distant look in your eyes. And he knows you’re about to cum.

What's that, baby? Can't hear you. 

His thrusts are getting faster, messier, harder. You want to tell him to stop, that he can’t cum in you, you're not on birth control, but the curve of his cock is hitting just right, splitting your convulsing walls open, and the tip pummels into that some sweet, sensitive spot deep inside. Your body contorts beneath him, back arching, eyes rolling back as you approach that sweet release, and it sounds so distant when he says, lazily, I’m gonna cum in you, baby. Fuck.

His cum comes in jets, a growing fullness as he shoots rope after rope of hot, sticky cum into you. Each thrust has it spilling out around his cock, and you’re just watching vaguely, riding your high as he fucks up into you harshly, dick all coated in his cum. The thick white liquid, tinged pink with your blood, spills out of your pussy, drips down the sides of his dick, pooling at the seat of your ass. He impales you, murmuring fuck, fuck, fuck, until he’s all done, until you’ve just finished convulsing around his girth. 

He stays deep until you’re both done, and when he pulls out— looking down, breathing hard— his cock is glistening, a mess of your cum and his— a little white surge leaking from the tip and dripping onto your stomach.

“Look at that, baby. Such a messy girl you are, hm?” His tone is a husky murmur. He scoops up a fingerful of rosy-tinged cum, and coaxes it back into you.

As you come back to your senses, you squirm on the seat, sweaty, tired, and most of all, really upset. 

You didn't want him to finish in you, and he promised he would pull out. You attempt to deflect his touch, your brows furrowing deeply. Eren notices your discontent, responding with a sharp pinch to your thigh.

“Don't give me that look, sweetheart. I’ll get you a plan B on the drive home, yeah?” He presses a series of appeasing kisses across your cheeks and brow, aiming to pacify your agitation. His hands glide along your waist, the soft flesh moulding beneath his touch. “Just couldn’t help it, baby. You were squeezin’ me so tight.”

“You promised you would pull out.” You try to push him away, feebly attempting to create distance.

“Yeah, and I also watched you promise that you would never let any man touch you back at youth camp. But things change, don't they, sweetheart?” 

He chuckles at the look of shame and indignation on your face, “But you took it so well, baby. Took me so deep,” he murmurs, his voice a husky caress, his hand rubbing small circles into your clit. “Bet no ones ever been that deep in you before.”

You squirm, hot under his attention and fingers. You shake your head, breathlessly.

He tenderly strokes your cheek, his eyes crinkling with affection, “No? But you're a champ, baby. A real big girl. ‘M proud of you.” He seals his praise with a lingering, open-mouthed kiss, and it feels like you've won the lottery. 

He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then sucks a nipple into his mouth, releasing it with a wet pop. You sigh, your eyes drooping. “You good, baby? Got all that attitude outta you now?”

A happy hum is your only answer.

“Good. Because I'm all outta stamina.” You giggle at him, and he responds by blowing a playful raspberry against the curve of your neck. It makes you squeal and shriek with laughter. He drops a last kiss to your mouth before saying, 

Cmon, baby, let's get you home.

            The drive to the gas station is filled with quiet contentment. After Eren cleans you up with a grease-stained car rag— sorry, darlin’, it's all I've got— he redresses you with a delicate sweetness, carefully placing me back into the passenger seat, finishing with a playful, heavy pat on my head. The vintage truck cruises down the desolate roads, the vast landscape blurring into streaks of colour as we speed by, windows down, and your hair whipping in your face.

The dull sting between your thighs is a gold medal to you— evidence of your metamorphosis. 

You’re a woman now. His woman.

Overjoyed, you impulsively prop my sock-clad feet onto the sun-baked dashboard.

Eren's eyes flicker over to yours. “Feet off the dash, sweetheart,” he commands gently.

Why? You pout.

Eren sighs, a loving exasperation colouring his tone. “‘Cause I said so, sweetheart. Go on now, don't make me pull over.”

The truck rumbles to a stop at the gas station. An eerie blue light of dawn casts long shadows across the forecourt. Eren firmly locks the truck into park, before decisively shoving his door open.

“You keep that ass in line, you hear me?” he warns as his hand cups your cheek, the callouses of his skin rough on your skin.

You nod obediently, his rogue finger slipping teasingly into the corner of your mouth. His pupils dilate in response, and then he deliberately pulls his thumb out, smearing a glistening trail of saliva across your swollen, kiss-bitten lips.

“Alright, baby. Don't miss me too much,” he murmurs huskily, his voice rough with affection. With a final lingering look, he pops the truck door open, swings his muscular legs over the threshold of the worn seat, and strides purposefully towards the brightly lit convenience store attached to the gas pumps.

The gas station hums under flickering fluorescent lights, and you’re half-dozing in the passenger seat, bare legs propped on the dash, windows rolled halfway down. A chorus of crickets fills the balmy darkness.

Eren swings the driver’s door open with a soft creak. He drops into his seat, tosses a small bag into your lap, jolting you awake.

You blink down, opening the bag timidly. A small bottle of water, a pack of morning-after pills and—

Peach rings.

“You remembered?” you murmur, fingers brushing over the crinkled plastic.

He shrugs, grinning at you. “You used to eat ’em by the handful. Sucked all the sugar off first like a maniac.”

You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Didn’t think you’d remember that.”

“I remember a lot more than you think.” His voice is low, but there’s something hot under it. He’s still not looking at you.

You pull one out and pop it in your mouth. It’s sweet and a little sour— tastes like the past. He glances over again. Smirks.

“See? Still your favourite.”

You chew it slowly, savouring the nostalgic taste. Everything’s changed, but it's all still the same. Eren lights a Marlboro, and smokes it out the window.

(He's standing outside the gym, waiting for you and Mikasa to finish your swimming lessons. The sun is blazing, forcing you to squint against its glare to make out his form. His hat is on backwards, and his tshirt had the sleeves cut off. You’re still dripping, the lingering scent of chlorine clinging to your skin, a hasty pair of shorts concealing your swimsuit beneath.

Mikasa, a whirlwind of energy, burst ahead of you from the gym, launching herself directly into his arms. A warm, hearty chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pressed a kiss into her dark hair, then ruffled your own as you reached his side.

“You promised you would let me ride shotgun today!” You tug at Eren's arm, your voice colored with anticipation.)

You rip open the Plan B, swallow the small pill, and wash it down with water, alongside the guilt reappearing in your stomach.

Mikasa was probably still asleep, dreaming of you, Jean, that new car that she wanted. And where were you? Dripping with her brother’s cum.

 You can feel his eyes on the side of your face. You shake off the guilt, shoving another peach ring into your mouth. 

“Ready to head home, sweetheart? I oughta tuck you into bed now.” His words float to you through a cloud of smoke.

The thought of sneaking past Mikasa’s room again, hearing her little snores drift to you in the hall—

—feeling the burn of Eren’s hands on your throat, the stretch of his cock. Your new womanhood, forged in the fires of desire and need, your stomach molten with want.

(He laughs, a full belly one. “I did, didn't I?” he admitted, seemingly impervious to Mikasa's crestfallen expression, and extended a hand to swing open the passenger door for you with a flourish. “Well, you ready to go?”)