wither

Lohen stood up and went out, only to find you leaning back on the wall of the building, your eyes closed while holding onto your stomach, trying very hard to hold it in. Your flushed cheeks were noticeable in the moonlight, as well as your dizzy expression. Lohen found it absolutely adorable, especially the way you were so vulnerable at this moment.

Wait, what?

Lohen shook his head before going over to you, leaning beside you as he peeked at your face.

“Caaaap, don’t you look great?” Lohen teased you, making you open your eyes and meet with his. You sighed as you heard his tease, your head going back against the wall.

“Not right now, Lohen…” You mumbled to him, your hand going through your hair to soothe your headache. “Why’d you leave Varka? He’s gonna complain later..”

“Varka’s a grown man, he can handle being by himself for a few minutes. Besides, I think he’d just find another unlucky knight to listen to his stories,” he said, earning a small smile from you. “And I think a little bartender inside is starting to get worried, you know.”

“Master Diluc?” You uttered under your breath, trying to straighten out your thoughts.

“Mmmhm. He looked like he was five seconds away from snatching your wine,” he told you with lilt in his voice, playful in his nature. “You look like you would’ve defended that bottle with your life, given how bored you were. That’s rude, y’know?”

You were startled that he caught on to your boredom– but then again, this was Lohen you were talking about. It was annoying how perceptive he was. You couldn’t get a moment’s peace with him at all.

“I don’t think Varka noticed… Did he?” You doubted yourself, looking at him. Then, you let out a breath that smelled of wine, your hand combing through your hair. “Ugh, I feel sick…” You complained, your eyebrows furrowed.

"Wouldn't you want to sit down if you’re feeling dizzy, Captain? I must say, you have less survival instinct than me, and that’s saying a lot,” Lohen said, going to see if there was an available chair from one of the tables set up outside the tavern.

“No thanks, I feel better standing…”

“That’s stupid, Cap.”

“Lohen–“ He didn’t listen to you, grabbing your wrist to make you sit on the chair, not noticing how your face grew significantly redder at his boldness.

“Rude…” You said, immediately leaning on the table for support. He sat right beside you, undeniably close, just in case you needed some support. Just in case.

“You’re sooo red,” he said playfully, a smile on his face as he stared at yours, watching your face become flustered. “Are you sure you’re alriiiight?” He knew you were, but he couldn’t help but tease you. It was basically second nature to him.

Although, your reaction was far from his expectations.

In your drunken stupor, you chuckled at his attempt at a joke, leaning back on your chair, a small smile on your face. He watched your expression as you laughed, the same light from the moon that highlighted your flushed face also making you seem so ethereal right now. He couldn’t help but smile too. He didn’t realize his face became red as well.

Your head landed on the corner of his chair, unbearably close to his shoulder. He wondered why you hadn’t just rested your head there. It was much more comfortable, he’d say.

“Should we go back inside?” You said softly, looking up at the sky from your position. “I feel like he’s going to tease us when we go back in, though,” Lohen laughed at your comment, inconspicuously moving closer so your head was on his shoulder.

“Sounds like him. Do you want to go in? I quite like the breeze right now,” he couldn’t be any more obvious that he wanted to stay there, even for a little while longer, with you. He thanked the archons above that you were drunk beyond saving.

“Mmm… No, not yet… I like it here,” you said, slurring your words as you got comfortable on Lohen’s shoulder. If he weren’t flustered already, now he was malfunctioning. Lohen sighed, leaning his head on top of yours with his face buried in your hair, savoring your presence.

“Yeah? You like it riiight here? With me?” He tried to get more out of you, that mischievous smirk back on his face like it was a permanent feature on him.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Lohen,” you said, smacking the back of his head with your free hand, the other resting on the table. He laughed at your action, smoothing over the place where you had hit him.

“Is this how a captain disciplines their officers?” He muttered almost flirtatiously in your hair.

“Don’t phrase it like that!” He laughed at your words, his fingers subconsciously going through your hair. It felt almost relaxing.

“Alright, alright! Calm dooown, won’t you? You’re already drunk out of your mind, do you wanna make it worse?”

“Shut up, Lohen…” Your reprimanding tone earned another chuckle from him, going quiet. He lifted his head from yours, looking down at your face. He didn’t realize he’d been staring for too long, not until you looked up at him and caught his gaze.

“…What?” You asked, confused on why he was staring at you. He looked away just as quickly, his face crimson.

“…Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious, cap! Won’t you believe me?”

“Why would I ever?" You both laughed, completely forgetting about the Grand Master inside the tavern, probably chatting up the uninterested bartender. He watched your face, at how you just looked so comfortable with him.

You chatted like that for a while, not noticing the time pass by as the stars in Teyvat’s sky seemed to shine a little bit brighter, your laughter filling up the empty streets as your feeling of sickness started to subside.

He had a feeling then, that he wanted to feel like this every day, and that he wanted to feel it with you.

৻ꪆ – Childe

The Fatui’s gala always included very powerful figures from all over the nation, which would become useful in the Fatui’s future plans.

Childe was dressed to the nines in a suit that was tailored just for this occasion, a charming smile on his face as he entertained the guests on behalf of the Tsaritsa. He was easy to trust. With his charisma, you wouldn’t even guess that he was a harbinger, it didn’t match him at all.

You watched from afar, drinking the champagne that the servers had given you, not wanting to mingle in with the crowd yourself. You merely observed them, seeing façade after façade of the most powerful people of Snezhnaya. It was clear how uninterested you were, almost wanting to sneak out and enjoy your solace instead.

Childe finished his conversation with a duke from another nation, excusing himself as he saw you, looking too good for his own liking. He walked over to where you were, your eyes following his tall figure.

“How are you enjoying this, comrade? Up to your standards?” He asked you, getting a glass of wine from the tray of the server.

“It could be better,” you said, not trying to hide how utterly bored you were. You swirled your champagne around on your glass, looking through the crowd.

“Not liking it much, are you now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t, but your face tells me all I need to know,” he saw a server holding some pastries he knew you liked, calling them over and getting two. “Eat up, comrade. Or is this not to your liking too?”

You huffed a smile at his words, eating the food in small quantities. “Demanding as always, Childe?” he hummed at your question, eating his own.

“No ‘Ajax’ today? I can never get used to you calling me that, comrade,” he commented on your use of his title, a smile on his face. You set down your glass, looking up at him.

“Official business means official titles. I can’t be caught being unprofessional with the Tsaritsa’s weapon of war now, can I?” You flashed him a smile, mirroring his own.

“You do have a point there, comrade,” he agreed, setting down his food on the plate. He thought for a bit, a hand on his chin. “Then why don’t we get out of here? What do you say?”

You thought about it for a moment, like you were even considering staying here. You nodded after a few seconds, letting Childe drag you into a private part of Zapolyarny palace where guests weren’t allowed. He’d make an exception for you.

The wind from the palace terrace made you feel at ease despite Snezhnaya’s harsh weather, glad to be away from the stifling crowd of masks and elegant gowns and suits. You and Childe leaned against the railing, taking in the scenery from high above.

“So…” Childe started. “Still calling me my title or what?”

You looked at him, his hair blowing in the direction of the wind, messing up its style.

“Do you dislike it that much?”

“Not at all! I’m just not used to hearing it from you, that’s all,” he explained to you, scratching the back of his head. He sighed, admiring the sight of the city… and you. He stared at you for a moment, your outfit perfectly fitting you and matching the theme of the gala. Safe to say, he was absolutely enamored by you.

“Staring is rude, Ajax,” your soft voice snapped him out of his trance, returning to his charming persona. You chuckled at his sudden shift. You said his name with such familiarity and warmth, it made him feel something he shouldn’t. You looked back at the city below.

“Can you blame me when you look radiant this evening, comrade?” Childe had a bad habit of buttering you up every chance he got. Yet, every time, it makes you blush and look away. It was one of the things you could never get used to with him.

“You flatter me.”

“Is it flattery if it’s the truth?” You thought he was joking, almost laughing before you properly looked at him, stopping yourself when you saw how serious he was.

“…Not technically, no,” you said, feeling hot all of the sudden, despite the cold. Since when was he like this?

He noticed your flushed out face, furrowing his eyebrows. “Are you okay? Is it too cold out here?” He asked, pressing the back of his palm to your forehead to check your temperature. You blushed even harder, turning away to avoid his gaze as you nodded.

He shrugged off the coat of his suit, wrapping it around your frame to somehow shield you from the cold.

“Let’s go over there. It’s warmer,” he said, catching your wrist as he pulled you under the shade of the palace. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks, Ajax,” you said, looking up at him. Only then did he see how his coat fit you and how you looked so comfortable in it. Wow, you looked so…

He didn’t continue his thoughts as he shook his head, watching as you let the coat hang off your shoulders.

“What are you thinking of right now?” You saw how he kept on zoning out when he looked at you, thinking deeply— or maybe not thinking at all.

“…That you look beautiful today,” he said suddenly, in such a tender and meek way— unexpected from that of a harbinger— catching the both of you by surprise. His eyes widened as he processed what he just said, smiling to cover up his embarrassment. “Ah, I mean– uhm…” He stumbled on his words, looking away.

“Thank you, Ajax,” You chuckled as he fumbled, seeing him cover his face with his gloved hands. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“You say that like you’re being forced to,” he said, a small pout forming on his lips.

“I’m serious! You look good tonight,” you reassure him, a lighthearted smile on your face. “Not that you haven’t heard that today, anyway,” you added, adjusting his coat on your shoulders.

“I like hearing it from you better than those people. They just want something, most of the time,” he quietly says. You hummed. Being a powerful figure in Snezhnaya yourself, you understood where he was coming from.

“Some of the maidens inside seemed pretty interested, Ajax. You really don’t want to test your chances?”

“However interested they are, comrade, I’m even less interested. Besides, I’m too busy for that,” Childe clarified, his head leaning back on the wall.

Just then, from inside the palace, the music for the cotillion portion of the dance started.

“Are you sure you’re still not interested?” You asked him teasingly, looking at the window that could overlook the hall of the gala. “They look like they’re looking for you,” you said, seeing several damsels look around the hall for a ginger-haired harbinger.

“…Well, maybe I am a little bit interested in dancing with one person,” Childe mumbled, not looking at the window, but rather at you. You saw in the reflection of his gaze, tearing your eyes away from the gala and looking up at him. A sudden realization dawned upon you, but you didn’t comment on it.

“You should ask them to dance, then, no? It’s a waste of a good night,” You said.

“Hmm, okay…” He turned to you, offering his hand. “May I have this dance, then, comrade?” He asked you, his eyes shining in the night, a smile on his face. He looked relaxed and composed, but if you knew him more than the mask he wears, you’d know how nervous he was right now.

But all his thoughts went away when you smiled at him, putting your hand on top of his. “You’re quite the sweetheart, aren’t you, Ajax?” You said it like you expected him to ask you. How could you be so calm right now?

He pulled you closer into a dance, his hand on your waist, while his other supported yours. He started to sway you around, following the beat of the music that leaked from inside. In that moment, he couldn’t deny how enchanted he was by you.

Thirty minutes passed since you started dancing, your head rested on his chest as your steps began to become more minimal. Childe was basically hugging you at this point, his hand on your waist keeping you close. His chin rested on top of your head, the hands that held each other dropped to your sides, yet still enclosed. It all felt too natural for two people who worked with each other.

“Why not dance with people with actual influence, Ajax? I feel like you’d benefit from that better,” you said quietly.

“Influence on what?”

“Y’know, the Fatui… Connections and stuff like that,” you explained, looking up at him. He looked down to see you. He hummed in thought, his hand on your waist moving to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“…Well, what about the one who has an influence on me?” He questioned softly, spinning you around when the music called for it. Just then, you landed close to his face, and you saw him look at your lips, and back to your eyes. Childe sighed then, pulling you closer to hug you, trapping you in his arms as he hides his face— which was currently blushing profusely— into the crook of your neck.

“What’s wrong, Ajax?” You asked gently, hugging him back in an attempt to comfort him.

I think I love you.

He was so, so tempted to just tell you, to risk your companionship, to risk you.

But, he didn’t. As much as he claimed to love you, he couldn’t, in a thousand years, imagine his life with you if he chose to risk it all.

“…Nothing,” he mumbled into your neck, letting himself savor your presence. Yeah. This was fine. This was enough for him.

᯽ – Wanderer

Nahida had assigned him on an important paired assignment a few months back, with his very willing partner— you.

You and Wanderer were complete opposites. He had a permanent scowl on his face and an aura that could scare away scholars from his mere glance. While you were one of the few people that grew to know how caring he was really like.

Recently though, your research paper with him was going downhill faster than the fall of a certain fatui harbinger, previous scholar! (Not that he cares.)

You were stressed to a tee, and it wasn’t helping that your partner had a habit of cramming like a maniac and getting things done right before the deadline. The results of your research didn’t match your hypothesis at all! Nothing also aligned with the papers you’ve already seen with similar topics. Your professor was really going to fail you now…

You were hunched back on the table, books, quills, and parchment paper placed in an organized mess that covered the entire table. Your hands were dirty with ink and papercuts were a common sight to you now. Meanwhile, a certain puppet calmly wrote on a scratch, looking as composed as ever.

While you… How could he even begin to describe you? You looked like you hadn’t slept in days— in this case, was true— and your hair stuck out from all directions because of how much your hand went through it in habit.

“Calm down, won’t you? Before you get permanent wrinkles on your face. You don’t wanna look worse than you already are, do you?” He said to you arrogantly, putting down his quill and turning his attention to your form.

You sighed, fixing your posture, your head in your hands.

“Just ‘cause you’re a puppet doesn’t mean you can say that about humans, y’know,” you commented halfheartedly, not in the mood to argue with him and his annoyingly pretty face.

“I’m just saying it like it is.”

“Maybe try focusing on the paper more than me, huh?”

“How can’t I focus on you when you look like an absolute mess?” He crossed his hands as he leaned back on the chair.

Maybe it was the late hour getting to you, or maybe it was the fact you were months into this and you were nowhere near finishing it, but you just couldn’t deal with him!

“Look, if you’re just gonna stay and bitch around, just leave. I can do more by myself and with you hanging around and doing nothing,” you couldn’t deny that the stress was definitely affecting your words and actions, but you felt unapologetic then, hyper-focused on the project that was due in a month.

Wanderer sighed. He wasn’t a stranger to the moments when you’d lash out on him, knowing it wasn’t really him you were angry with. He knew there was no use trying to get you to calm down when you were upset.

“Fine. But when I come back, you better have cooled off,” he said, standing up and leaving you in the library. Ugh, how annoying could he get?

You continued to work for a while, still stuck on the same thing.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed until Wanderer came back, this time with a cup of your favorite drink and some food from Puspa Café. He returned to your side, placing the food on the table and the coffee in front of you. You glanced at it, putting your quill down.

You stayed silent, suddenly feeling very bad about what you said to him earlier. He didn’t respond, watching as you drank the coffee, then sighing.

“Next time you do that, I’m dropping you as my partner,” he threatened, grabbing the paper you were working on before he arrived. You didn’t think much of his threat, seeing as he’s said several times before and yet, here you were. Still there.

“Sure…”

“I’m serious.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, leaning back on your chair, sighing deeply.

“Stop that,” he said suddenly, reading through what you wrote. He annotated on it, correcting your mistakes and adding his suggestions.

“Stop what?” You looked at him, now eating the food he’d gotten you. It was only now did you realize that you hadn’t eaten anything that day, and it was already late.

“That sighing. You’re so stressed, it’s getting bothersome.”

“It’s not my fault that this paper just can’t seem to cooperate!” You defended yourself, a frown on your lips.

“You’re not going to be able to control what the outcome of this study is. That’s why it’s research, you study it and see why it’s that way. So stop stressing your pretty little head and calm yourself before you break down,” he said.

“…You suck at comforting people, Hat Guy,” you mumbled, covering your face with your hands again, before taking a deep breath.

“I’m just telling it like it is. It’s not like you're going to fail because of that. I won’t let it happen,” you hummed at his words, finally looking at him.

“…Thanks.”

“For what? Not letting you fail? We share a grade, you know. If you fail, I fail,” he explained, crossing his arms.

“For dealing with me. I know I can be too much sometimes,” you admitted, your fingers fidgeting on the paper cup of your coffee.

“Sometimes?” He said mockingly, raising his eyebrow.

“Fine, all the time. Stop interrupting me,” you couldn’t hide the exasperation in your voice, your hand going through your hair once more.

“Continue then, Your Majesty,” little shit.

“Never miiind,” you said, taking back your words of appreciation. Your smile still held a certain weight that you tried to hide from him, that his words and actions still weren’t enough to calm the storm.

You both continued to work on it, yet the pressure was getting to you. You couldn’t solve the issues in your study, and when you did, you would find another problem that was hard to figure out. It was exhausting you, both mentally and physically.

Wanderer saw how the stress was building up again, evident in your frown and your overall state. By now, the library was almost empty, save for the few scholars who were also working on their own research papers.

You were so, so close to breaking down, and Wanderer noticed it before you did.

In your stress, you didn’t realize you had started tearing up, the tears dropping onto the parchment you were writing on, smudging the ink of what you wrote.

“Ugh, shit..” you exclaimed quietly, wiping your eyes. It proved to be useless, seeing as your paper quickly became stained with tears.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong? What’s bringing this on, huh?” Wanderer exclaimed in a surprisingly soft tone, wanting to reach out but not knowing if should. Carefully, he guides you to lean back on your chair, his hand on the back of your chair as he went closer to you, observing the way you avoided his gaze.

“I just… I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong… It’s so annoying…” You said through your tears, desperately trying to cover yourself in embarrassment. Wanderer pulls your hand hide away from your face, wiping your wet cheeks with a spare handkerchief he had.

“It’s okay. Just let it all out,” he says with such an unfamiliar tone, you couldn’t believe you were talking to the same person.

You quickly tried to compose yourself, your deep breaths turning into shaky sighs. Wanderer whispered comforting words to you in the quiet of the night like it was second nature to come to your aid.

“It’ll get better, okay? Don’t let it consume you whole. It’ll be okay, I promise,” he mumbled to you, waiting patiently for you as your tears finally dried, leaving you exhausted.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” he said with such kindness. You wouldn’t expect it from the ice-cold scholar from the Vahumana Darshan. No one would.

He talked tender words to you for a few minutes, warmth blossoming in his chest. It was ironic that he could feel that way. But it reminded him of how human it made him.

It surprised himself that he didn’t think twice to comfort you and make you feel better. He knew that he wouldn’t do that for anyone else. No way.

You were the only exception.

As you two spent some minutes in comfortable silence, he realized one thing. He liked making you feel better. He always wanted you to feel good, even at the expense of his own convenience. It wasn’t like him at all.

“Feel better?” He asked you, rubbing your back to sooth you.

You nodded in response, still sniffling. “Yeah, I’m sorry again—“

“Don’t. Don’t say anything. Just feel better,” he realized then, that when the words came out before he could process it, that he felt something different with you.

He wouldn’t feel this warm feeling if comforted anyone else. He was sure of it. He knew he wouldn’t feel the need to ease their worries like he did with you.

He didn’t know what this feeling was. He should consult Nahida with it.

You have a dirty secret.

Well… maybe dirty isn’t the right word. 

Lucrative.

Thrilling.

Deeply, and I mean deeply embarrassing if anyone you knew in real life ever found out.

You make premium content.

Sex content.

It started after so many failed job searches; it’s so hard to find work in this day and age as a young adult with zero experience. You also attend college, and you know the moment you do actually get a boring, shitty job as a cashier or some shit, you’d want to shoot yourself in the head due to all the stress that’ll come with it.

You saw other girls on TikTok, flaunting their gaming set-ups from DMing creeps on Discord, going on calls with them, masturbating or pretending to, and they get the biggest paycheck of their life.

You’d do that if you didn’t have to go on call with them and hear their gross, disgusting voice.

So you chose the other option, chose to sell your body online, even though, compared to how girls on Discord make money, they don’t have to sell their nudes, just talk on call, you’d rather just record yourself doing lucrative acts.

I mean, why not? You were already broke, stressed beyond any comprehension, already spending too much money on lingerie that no one ever saw.

Now someone sees it, thousands of someones, actually.

It’s practically a job at this point, your real job if you’re being honest.

You lie to your parents, tell them you work at a cafe near campus, and they’re so proud of you. Their hardworking daughter, juggling school and work and still managing to keep her grades up.

If only they knew.

You don’t just do it for the money, even though that’s how it started. Like, yeah, the money is actually insane, more than you’d ever even expect, so much that you've had to open separate bank accounts just to hide it from your parents. But that's still not why you keep doing it.

You do it because it's fun.

You do it because it feels good.

I mean, why wouldn’t it?

It’s fun dressing up all cute, bringing your aesthetic in your videos because the fans love it. Soft pinks, light pastels, lace, ribbons, and so many bows.

You show your face in your videos.

But you wouldn’t ever get caught. Why? Because you wear wigs, cute ones that actually look good and not shitty party city ones, you do your makeup in a way that people on TikTok and Pinterest would call ‘dollmaxxer,’ eyelashes, glossy lips, aegyo sal shimmer forever and always.

You cosplay sometimes, characters from games and anime that your subscribers request.

That’s the thing that sets you apart from a lot of creators, most of them crop their faces out, wear masks, keep the camera angled just so. You’re lucky you don’t have any distinctive birthmarks, tattoos, or anything tying you to the girl who goes to college and buys coffee from the campus Starbucks.

It didn’t take long before you moved out of your college dorm. Roommates are a liability when your job involves moaning loudly on camera three times a week. 

Now you have your own apartment, expensive but worth it, a pink sanctuary where you can film without worrying about anyone walking in.

Your content is... specific.

You goon, that’s the word for it, that’s what people call it on the internet.

You slap your face with dildos, letting them bounce off your cheeks, you grind on pillows and plushies, soaking the fabric while you whimper and moan. Sometimes you even sell the pillows you grind on, subscribers love it all. 

You drool excessively, letting spit drip down your chin while you suck on a dildo attached to your wall, your eyes rolled back, your tongue out too far. 

You make yourself look stupid, brainless, like a toy that exists only for pleasure.

It's fun. 

It feels good. 

And the sponsors love it.

Sex toy brands send you free products constantly. Vibrators, dildos, plugs, things you didn't even know existed before you started this job. All you have to do is use them on camera, tag the company, and they keep sending more.

What you hate is your subscribers.

Obviously, your content caters to the male gaze. That's the market. That's where the money is. 

But god, the men are disgusting. 

The comments they leave, the DMs they send, the way they talk to you like you're not a person, just a thing they can say whatever they want to.

You have some subscribers who are women, followers, and mutuals who found you through the aesthetic side of things. They're the sweetest. They leave nice comments, send supportive messages, and actually treat you like a human being.

The men are the problem.

You also profit off being a virgin.

It’s not a lie, you know, some creators fake it, like Sophie Rain. But you’re genuinely untouched.

Never had a boyfriend. Never had sex, never even been kissed before.

The dildos you use on yourself don't change that. Toys aren't real dicks.

It's your biggest money maker, honestly. The virgin thing. Men lose their minds over it. They DM you constantly, begging to be the one to take it, offering obscene amounts of money to fuck you on camera.

You always deny.

Always.

Because even so, even after everything you've done on camera, you want to wait for the right person. You want it to mean something. You want...

You don't know what you want.

But you know it's not some random subscriber with a dick pic in his DMs.

Tonight, you're exhausted.

You just finished filming a two-hour session, one of those marathon streams where you edge yourself over and over until your thighs are shaking and your brain goes blank. Your subscribers loved it. You made more money in those two hours than most people make in years.

And now all you want to do is lie in bed and doom-scroll until you pass out.

You're on your stomach, still wearing the sheer babydoll lingerie from your stream, lacey underwear clinging to you. You’re on your phone, Twitter open, scrolling mindlessly through your feed. 

Your algorithm feeds you content from girls like you, with similar aesthetics, similar content. Some of them are your mutuals, creators you’ve befriended through the weird little community you’ve stumbled into. You leave sweet comments on their posts, the kind of supportive girl-to-girl energy that balances out the gross male comments. 

You're not really paying attention, just scrolling. 

And then something new comes up.

It's a video, a boy, this time, which is unusual for your feed. The algorithm is probably experimenting, testing your preferences.

The boy is skinny, pale, really pale, like porcelain skin. He’s on a bed with white sheets, his face is cropped out of the frame, but you can see his body, lean and so pretty, looming over a girl who lies beneath him.

He's holding her arms above her head.

And he's fucking into her mouth.

You don't scroll past. You don't mindlessly like and move on. Instead, you tap the video to turn up the volume just a little.

The sounds are obscene.

Wet, throat gagging sounds, the girls' muffled whimpers mixing with his soft grunts of pleasure. He fucks into her mouth, slow, at first, almost lazy, then faster, harder.

The girl taps his thigh. The universal signal for "I need to breathe." You've done it yourself, with the dildos attached to your wall, practicing for videos, it’s basic human instinct, you think.

He laughs.

That laugh.

It's mean and amused and condescending, and something about it makes you clench around absolutely nothing. 

He doesn't stop. If anything, he goes faster, ignoring her desperate taps, using her mouth like it belongs to him.

Only at the last second does he pull back. She gasps, choking, saliva dripping down her chin, and before she can recover, he's pushing back in.

Your pussy clenches again.

The video is in Japanese, which was obvious mainly because of the body parts being censored and the words coming from his mouth. You don't understand a single word from it, but something about him, about the way he moves, the way he sounds, the casual cruelty of his body language...

You click on his profile.

scaramouche

His profile picture is a boy's pale, slender hand gripping a girl's face. His bio is in Japanese characters you can't read, so you copy it into a translator.

"i'll fucking digest you, one kiss at a time."

That's it. That's all he has to say about himself.

He’s following zero people, fucking dickhead you think, and he has over 500k followers.

Holy shit…

More than you.

You scroll down, his age is listed, 20. He’s 2 years older than you. 

Obviously, as any normal person who's about to stalk a stranger's content, you click on the media tab.

Your heart drops.

He shows his face.

Not everyone does; most people don’t want others to recognize them in real life. You didn’t expect to see his face because in the other video, the camera was angled down. 

This guy, this scaramouche, he doesn't seem to care.

He's hot.

No… hot isn’t the right word to describe him, actually. He’s pretty, beautiful, even, in a way that doesn’t even seem real.

Dark indigo hair, which could almost be blue or even purple in certain lighting, eyes the same color. 

A face that definitely shouldn’t be used on making porn.

The first video with his face in it is him on a couch with a girl. His house is expensive, the kind of expensive that screams old money or nepo baby or both. The girl's face is blurred, but his isn't. He's looking directly at the camera, completely unbothered.

Nepo baby, you decide. Has to be. Some rich kid who hates his mom and spends her money on whatever he wants, not caring about his image or his future or anything.

He probably gets away with it because he's a man.

The video is in Japanese as figured. You watch it anyway, picking up on body language instead of words. The girl looks nervous, shaking slightly, and he sits close to her, petting her hair, touching her thigh. He leans in but doesn't kiss her. Just hovers there, making her wait.

You get bored and translate the description instead.

He calls her shy. Says she just broke up with her boyfriend, saw his content online, and wanted to be one of the girls in his videos. He talks about how he's going to ruin her. Turn her into a perfect little doll.

You don't feel disgusted by it; you don’t even know what you feel.

You keep scrolling.

Ten minutes later, you've gone through most of his content.

He's always in control, always cruel, always making the girls in his videos fall apart in ways that look almost painful. But he also... takes care of them. In his own way. Kisses them while he fucks them. Leaves hickeys all over their skin. Holds them down but also holds them close.

It's confusing.

Probably more confusing for the girls.

It makes you feel things you don't want to examine.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, you give up pretending you're just curious.

You grab the vibrator from your nightstand, the one you just used on stream, and press it between your legs.

You cum to the sound of his voice.

His moans, the way he laughs at the girls when they beg, the way he laughs even harder when they start shaking from being overstimulated. The things he says in Japanese that you don't understand but somehow feel in your core anyway.

You cum again.

And again.

You're on your third orgasm, trembling and oversensitive, when your phone buzzes with a notification.

A DM.

From him.

Your heart stops.

You stare at the notification, certain you're hallucinating. You followed him earlier, when you first clicked on his profile. You didn't think anything of it; you follow lots of people.

But he followed you back.

And now he's messaging you.

You tap on the notification with shaking fingers, fully expecting to see a wall of Japanese characters you won't understand.

It's in English.

You stare at the message for a full minute in shock. Your brain is refusing to process this, because what the fuck type of coincidence is this? 

He looked at your profile, saw your content, your bio, your everything while you were cumming to his own content.

And in your bio, the first fucking line is:

horny virgin 

Fuck.

scaramouche: hello? i know youre online i saw you like one of my videos 3 minutes ago and twitter also shows when people read your texts

Shit.

You forget how annoying this app is, how it automatically shows ‘seen’, when you click on someone’s DM, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to turn it off.

Twitter needs to fucking change that.

Embarrassing.

you: um… hi?

scaramouche: there she is thought you were gonna leave me on read

you: sorry i was just surprised i guess

scaramouche: surprised that i messaged you?

you: yeah lol you kinda dont really seem like the type to just dm ppl

scaramouche: im not girls usually come to me

You roll your eyes hard in real life. He sounds so egotistical.

you: okayyy.. so why r u dming me then?

scaramouche: bcuz i wanted to is that a problem

you: no i mean… IDK… i guess not?

scaramouche: relax holy shit im not gonna bite you unless… unless you want me to

You read that last message three times at the least. Your face is burning, you're still wet from earlier, still sensitive, and this conversation is not helping. You squirm in your bed, sitting back against a pillow and pulling your sheets over you so that you’re more comfortable.

The vibrator, the toy you used on yourself to his videos stares back at you, the stare feels harder than how it felt when your plushies would look at you while you shot videos.

You turn your body away from it and lie on your side.

you: how did you even find my account i know you aren’t just scrolling thru your notifications, looking at any any girls profile that follows u

scaramouche: algorithm duh you came up on my feed some video of you drooling on a dildo

In real life, you shove your face into your pillow, embarrassed, before glancing up, thumbs typing.

you: oh god

scaramouche: it was cute very pathetic mostly but cute i liked it

you: i don’t know if that’s a compliment or not

scaramouche: it is trust me

You don't know what to say. You're typing and deleting, typing and deleting, too shy to keep up this conversation.

Thankfully, he talks first, again.

scaramouche: you know what actually make me interested in you, though

you: what?

scaramouche: your bio the first thing it says, horny virgin thats real right? not some marketing bullshit like the other girls on here

you: it’s real

scaramouche: fuck thats hot

You stare at your screen, wide eyed, trying to ignore the feeling of your cunt, aching, clenching around nothing…

Because of him.

you: …

scaramouche: i mean it the virgin thing drives me insane but you already know that from stalking my account

you: uh, no i wasn’t

scaramouche: mhm… yeah sure tell that to my inbox stalker tip: try not to like every single post of mine that you scroll past, even though i always get a shit ton of likes, i can see when a mutual likes my post

You didn’t think about it till now that you’re mutuals with him on here, you followed him, and he followed you.

He continues typing.

scaramouche: its hot thinking about some cute girl who’s never been touched for real who only knows what it feels like from toys and whos been practicing on dildos for years without having the real thing

you: i haven’t been practicing for years i’ve only been doing this for like… a year tops

scaramouche: even better a year of making content a year of showing off that pretty little body and nobody gets to actually have it thats so fucked up dont you think?

you: i guess when you put it that way

scaramouche: and then i look at the shit you post "soft girl with soft moans & a tight grip" "wanna b ur brainless toy" "force me to take it" you srsly write all that and youre still a virgin?

you: those r just marketing it’s what subscribers want to hear you should know this

scaramouche: is it though? because i watched ur videos and you dont look like youre faking it you look like you mean every dirty word

You don’t have a response for that, because he is actually right. You do mean it, every filthy caption, every desperate moan, every time you beg the camera to use you, you mean it.

You just never thought you'd actually get to experience it.

scaramouche: so here what i wanna know with all the subscribers you have all the men in your comments, begging, offering to fly you out and fuck you on camera why are you still untouched

you: because they’re all disgusting dont u see half or most of them are like 40 yr olds with wives?? plus i dont want my first time to be with some random guy who just wants content

scaramouche: what do you want then

you: i dont know something real ig someone who actually gives a shit about me

scaramouche: thats cute naive but cute

you: whats that supposed to mean

scaramouche: it means you’re in the wrong industry for romance sweetheart but i respect it it’s rare nowadays

You're blushing so hard your cheeks could probably boil an egg. 

He called you sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

It shouldn't affect you this much. It's probably something he says to all the girls.

But still.

you: so why r u messaging me if you’re not trying to fly me out or whatever

scaramouche: maybe i am

you: oh

scaramouche: would that be so bad?

you: i mean yes? i dont know you

scaramouche: you know what i do you know what i look like you know how i treat the girls in my videos you also know that im more age appropriate than the creeps in your dm’s thats more than what most people know about each other before they fuck

you: thats different

scaramouche: how

you: it just is

scaramouche: youre scared arent you

you: im not scared im just cautious

scaramouche: same thing but whatever i get it tho random guy on the internet wants to meet up thats serial killer energy i know

you: it is a little bit

scaramouche: fair but for what it’s worth i dont live in japan so i wouldn’t have to fly u there if you change your mind i just go to japan sometimes for vids, i actually live in [insert city/town/wherever you live name]

Your heart stops.

That’s where you live. The same area your apartment is in, the same place where your campus is in.

He’s so much closer than you thought.

you: wait srsly??

scaramouche: yeah, why? r u from there too?

you: …maybe

scaramouche: holy shit small world or maybe the algorithm knows more than we thought

you: that’s kinda creepy

scaramouche: it’s extremely creepy but also very convenient if you ever wanted to meet up

you: i don’t know about that

scaramouche: no pressure just saying the options here

You've spent the last hour watching his videos, cumming to his voice, imagining yourself as one of the girls he ruins on camera. And now he's in your DMs, telling you he lives in your area, offering to meet up.

This is insane. And also dangerous.

And also everything you've fantasized about.

scaramouche: you dont have to decide rn im not going anywhere just think ab it

you: okay ill think about it

scaramouche: good girl

You’re too fucking easy, because those two small words makes your entire body feel hot, and you have to press your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure

scaramouche: you liked that didn’t you

you: what

scaramouche: being called a good girl i can practically feel you squirming through the screen

you: get over urself im not squirming

scaramouche: liar

you: shut up

scaramouche: make me

You’re going to die, literally, actually going to combust right here in your bed, and they’ll find your body in the morning, still holding onto your phone, still blushing.

You need to end this conversation before it spirals into you giving in.

you: i need to go to sleep

scaramouche: running away already?

you: im not running away im just tired i had a superrr long stream tonight

scaramouche: yeah i watched a little of it u looked all cute all fucked out and desperate you wish you had someone there to actually take care of you after, don't you?

Oh fuck do you. So bad…

You wish he was that someone.

you: maybe

scaramouche: think ab that too while you’re “sleeping”

you: you’re insufferable

scaramouche: really now? and yet… you haven’t blocked me

you: goodnight scaramouche

scaramouche: scara

you: what?

scaramouche: call me scara only people i like get to use the full name

you: okay goodnight, scara

scaramouche: night virgin dream about me

You close the app before you can say anything else stupid.

Your heart is pounding, head spinning, and you’re still so wet, still needy, and now you have a name, and a face to attach to all of your desperate fantasies.

You're not going to sleep tonight. 

You know that already.

You're going to lie here in the dark and think about him. About his voice that you can only imagine in Japanese because that’s all you’ve heard. About his hands… About all the things he does to those girls in his videos and how badly you want him to do them to you.

But you can't. 

You won't.

Because if you meet him, if you let him take your virginity, he'll just add you to his collection. Another video, another conquest. Another girl who fell for his pretty face and annoying pretty and cruel hands.

And then he'll move on to the next one.

And you'll be left with nothing but a video and a broken heart.

You want him. You know that now, with painful clarity.

But you want him to stay.

And you don't know if he's capable of that.

Two weeks.

It’s been two weeks since Scara slid into your DMs, and somehow, against all logic and reason, he’s still there.

You expected him to ghost you. 

That's what guys like him do, right? 

They message a girl, realize she's not going to put out immediately, and move on to someone easier. You were prepared for the silence, had already started bracing yourself for the inevitable.

It never came.

He’d send you videos, porn videos he found on twitter.

scaramouche: [video attachment] this is what id do to u btw just so yk

you: oh my god scara wtf u can’t just send me stuff like that at 2pm

scaramouche: um why the fuck not? r u at school or something

you: yes actually im literally in the middle of a lecture

scaramouche: boringgggg watch the video

you: im not watching porn in class scara

scaramouche: coward

It wasn’t always porn that you’d both talk about though, he’d send you other things…

scaramouche: [image attachment]

you: lol is that build a bear

scaramouche: it’s a fucking sanrio build a bear it’s YOUR fault my algorithm is ruined now i see this dumb shit constantly

you: aww that’s so cute though??

scaramouche: it’s not cute it’s annoying i used to get porn content now i get plushies and dumb pastel room tours

you: sounds like an improvement tbh

scaramouche: i hate you

He was also still in the subject of wanting to meet with you, in real life.

scaramouche: [video attachment] notice how she taps out at the end?

you: yeah

scaramouche: i wouldn’t let u tap out

you: …

scaramouche: just saying for when we meet

you: IF we meet

scaramouche: when

You clicked on his profile one night, just to check. Just to see if he's posted anything new.

He hasn't. 

No new videos. 

No new photos. Nothing in the same amount of time he’s been chatting with you.

That's... unusual. He used to post constantly. New girls every few days, new content every week. Now there's nothing.

You're not sure what that means.

But then you notice something else.

His following count. The little number that shows how many accounts he follows.

1

Just one.

You tap on it, expecting it to be private, and it is. But you already know.

It's you.

Out of everyone on this app, all the girls in his DMs, all the creators he could be following... he only follows you.

You don't mention it to him.

At some point, you both exchanged numbers.

scaramouche: hey y/n we should exchange numbers

you: why…

scaramouche: bcuz twitter dms r annoying and i wanna text u without the app crashing every 5 minutes

you: idk…

scaramouche: im not asking for nudes well even though you have it all posted already i just want ur number so we can talk easier

you: ughh okay fineee [number]

scaramouche: finally check ur texts

You check your texts and there's a message from an unknown number.

3058291193: hey virgin

You save his contact with a little purple heart emoji next to his name.

You both start texting more now that you both don't have to open Twitter just to message each other. It's nice, fun... but you also want to know more about him.

So one day, you ask.

you: we’ve known eachother for like almost 2 weeks now and i barely know anything about u tell me something ab u

scara: uhhh like what

you: why do u do this content i mean… you clearly don’t need the money

scara: the fuck how do u know that

you: your house in the vids ur clothes everything about u screams rich

scara: observant now? yeah okay my mom is super loaded shes some corporate bitch who cares more ab her company than her own son she barely knows i exist so i spend her money however i want and she doesn’t gaf

you: that sounds so lonely

scara: dont psychoanalyze me or im blocking u

you: sorry

scara: it’s fine ur not wrong it’s just annoying when ppl are right about me

After that conversation, he started talking more about himself.

scara: i have a cat btw

you: wait… rly? i didn’t expect that

scara: black fur, golden eyes her name is kuroneko it means black cat in japanese yes i know thats basic shut up

you: aww thats so cute can i see her??

scara: [image attachment]

you: OH MY GOD SHES SO PRETTY

scara: shes a bitch actually hates everyone but only tolerates me

you: sounds like someone i know…

scara: fuck off

You find out more and more about Scara. How he speaks Japanese fluently because his mom sent him to international schools growing up. How he lived in Tokyo for three years before moving back here. How he absolutely hates sweets, can’t stand anything too sugary…

except for you…

Tonight, you’re in your bed after a long day of school, you skip filming to talk with Scara like you normally do.

scara: yk what i dont get

you: what…

scara: why u wont let me meet u

you: ughhh scara we’ve been over this

scara: have we though? because everytime i bring it up you change the subject or you say you’re not ready or you make some shitty excuse

you: scara…

scara: im srs two weeks we’ve been talking i message you everyday i havent posted shit because im too busy thinking ab u and u still wont tell me why you’re so scared im not a stranger to u anymore, y/n

You stare at your phone for a long time.

You’ve been making excuses, not wanting to give the real answer everytime he’s too close to it.

But tonight, for some reason, you're tired of pretending.

you: okay fine u wanna know why im scared?

scara: duh it’s what ive been asking this whole time

you: because you’re going to leave

scara: what

you: after you take my virginity and film the video you’re going to leave and go back to making content with other girls and im just going to be another video in your collection, another girl you fucked and moved on from

He doesn’t respond, and you keep going.

you: and i dont know if i can handle that scara because i actually like you, and i like talking to you all night and then that’ll all just be over once we meet up

The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again.

You wait.

And finally…

scara: you’re so fucking pathetic

you: wow thanks

scara: no i mean it thats the most pathetic thing ive read two weeks of bullshit when you could’ve just said that from the beginning

you: so what? r u going to make fun of me now?

scara: no im gonna tell u something and you’re going to listen, okay?

you: okay

scara: i havent posted in 2 weeks because everytime i think about filming with some girl whos offering in my DM’s, all i can think about is you and how it should be you and how everyone else would just be a waste of time and im the one who reached out to you first when i normally dont do u understand what im saying?

you: i think so

scara: good bcuz thats all your getting my pride can only take so much

You read his message, over and over, trying to convince yourself that they're real, trying to convince yourself that he likes you just as much as you like him.

you: okay

scara: okay what

you: okay ill meet u tmr after school u can come by my place

scara: are you serious

you: yes im serious i want to i’ve wanted to this whole time i was just scared

scara: and now?

you: still scared but more scared of never knowing what this could be

scara: …send me your address

you: [address]

scara: ur fucking kidding me you’re 5 miles away from me

you: wow really

scara: i could’ve been fucking you for 2 weeks

you: scara

scara: im kidding kind of.. ill be there tmrw what time specifically

you: my last class ends at 3… so maybe 5? gives me time to get ready

scara: k ill bring my camera equipment in case yours is shit

you: it’s not shit

scara: we’ll see goodnight virgin sleep tight, because tmr you’re going to be ruined

you: goodnight scara

You don't sleep.

I mean, who would in a situation like this?

You drift in and out, feeling both anxiety and anticipation.

Tomorrow.

It’s happening tomorrow.

After two weeks of texting, flirting, you’re finally going to meet him.

And he's going to take your virginity.

And film it.

And maybe, possibly, hopefully, not disappear afterward.

The next day is absolute torture.

Every class drags on forever. 

Every lecture feels like it's being delivered through molasses. 

You check your phone constantly, rereading your conversation with Scara, making sure it really happened. Making sure you didn't imagine it.

You didn't.

Your last class ends at 3:07. You're out the door by 3:08, practically running to your apartment.

You do that stupid Cassie routine in Euphoria. Shower, shave, exfoliate everywhere. Everywhere. Moisterize every inch of your body with the expensive lotion that makes your skin feel like silk and look insanely good for the cameras. You do your makeup, lighter than usual, the kind of look that you wear in class, soft and pretty.

Because you asked him over text to blur your face out in the video, that you didn’t want to dress up too much because you dont wanna be in makeup and a wig getting your virginity taken.

He didn’t care, if anything, he loved it, how he gets to see the real you the fans don’t get to see.

You take forever finding the right clothes to wear. You don’t want to wear anything revealing, you dont want to be standing there with your tits out when he walks in. You want… something in between. Cute but not too desperate, sexy but not aggressive.

You settle on a pink bra, lacey, with a little bow between the cups. Matching panties, obviously. A sheer babydoll top over it, soft pink that makes your skin glow.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

And realize something that makes your stomach drop.

Not only have you never been fucked before.

You've never been kissed.

You're getting all your firsts taken tonight.

scara: omw

And in exactly 20 minutes, you hear a knock at your door.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. You walk to the door on shaky legs, peering through the peephole.

He's there.

Real, solid. Not just a face on a screen anymore.

He's wearing a dark hoodie, oversized, with baggy black jeans and chunky boots. His hair is messy, falling into his eyes. He looks grunge, maybe? Alternative definitely. Like someone you'd see at a concert, not someone who makes porn for a living.

He’s also short, taller that you, definitely, but not by much. Somehow that makes him less intimidating.

Somehow, that makes him more real.

You open the door.

His eyes scan you immediately. Up and down, taking in your bare feet, your babydoll top, your face without the usual layers of camera-ready makeup.

"You look different," he says.

His voice, god, his voice. You’ve only ever heard him speak Japenese. You honestly expected him to have an accent or something, but he doesn’t have one, just this tone that makes your knees weak.

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. "Good different or bad different?"

"Good." He tilts his head, looking at the top of yours, before looking back down at your eyes and smiling, almost mocking. "You're much shorter than I thought."

You roll your eyes at him, "Says you."

He snorts, shrugging. "Fair enough."

For a moment, you just stand there, both of you, staring at each other. Two people who've shared every filthy thought in their heads, who've seen each other at their most vulnerable, meeting for the first time.

"Are you going to let me in?" he asks, breaking the silence. "Or are we doing this in the hallway?"

"Oh, right. Sorry. Come in."

You step aside, and he walks past you, and he smells good, expensive cologne probably. 

You shut and lock your door as his eyes scan your apartment, moving through it.

He sees the pink walls, the LED strip lights set to white because hot pink looks disgusting to you, he sees the collection of plushies on your couch.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "It's like a Sanrio store exploded in here."

"Shut up."

"I'm not judging. It's very you." He picks up a Hello Kitty plush from your couch, examining it with mock seriousness. "Does she watch while you film?"

"Sometimes."

"Kinky."

You lead him to your bedroom, and he takes it all in with the same amused expression. It’s even worse than the pink shit outside your room. A huge bed with pink sheets and a duvet with brown teddy bears, plushies everywhere on the bed, fluffy rug on the floor, but what he mainly focuses on is the ring light set up in the corner, the camera equipment you use for your streams.

"Your setup isn't shit," he admits, examining your camera. "Better than I expected."

"I told you."

"You did." He sets the camera down and turns to face you. "Okay. Get on the bed."

Your eyebrows knit, glancing at the bed, and back at him. "Already?"

"Relax." He rolls his eyes. "I'm not fucking you yet. We need to talk first."

"Talk?" You tilt your head, confused.

"Yeah. You've seen my videos, right? The ones where I'm just... talking to the girl before anything happens?"

Well yes and no… you have seen them, but they’re all in Japanese. You never understood a single word he was saying.

He doesn’t wait for a response. "That's the pre-talk. I do it with everyone. Go over boundaries, safe words, what they're comfortable with." He sits on the edge of your bed, patting the space next to him. "Come here. Stop looking at me like I'm going to eat you."

"You might."

"Later,” he says with a wink.

You sit down next to him, leaving a careful gap between your bodies. He immediately closes it, shifting until your thighs are touching. You don’t move away.

"Okay," he says. "I’m not recording this one because most of my fans don’t understand english, so you can say whatever you want. First things first. Safe word?"

"Um... pink?"

"Pink." He nods. "Good choice, the one’s that are easy to remember are always the best. If you say it, everything stops. No questions. No arguments. You say pink, I stop. Got it?"

"Got it,” You say with a nod.

"Second thing. What are you okay with?"

"I... I don't know. Everything? I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know what I like."

"That's fine. We'll figure it out." His hand lands on your knee, casual, like it belongs there. You don’t pull away. "What about what you're not okay with?"

"I don't want my face in the video. Blurred, cropped out, whatever. I don't want people to recognize me."

"Done, we already chatted about that earlier, but what else?"

"I... I don't know. That's it, I think."

He's quiet for a moment, studying your face with those intense indigo eyes.

"You're shaking,” he points out, not taking his eyes off you once.

"I'm nervous,” you say with a nervous giggle.

"I can tell." His hand slides higher, resting on your thigh, just above your knee. "You've really never done this before? Any of it?"

"No."

"Not even kissing?"

Your face burns as you look down, shaking your head. "No."

You glance back up and see something change in his expression, a hungry look like you just handed him so much more then you’re already giving.

"Oh? So I'm your first everything."

"Yeah."

"Fuck." He breathes out the word like it's been punched out of him. "That's... that's so fucking hot. You have no idea."

"Scara..."

"No, I'm serious." He turns to face you fully, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. "You've never been touched by anyone. Never been kissed. Never had someone's hands on you like this." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "And I get to be the first."

You don't know what to say. Your whole body is tingling where he's touching you, every nerve ending lighting up.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks.

"You're asking?"

"First time counts. I want you to remember it, all of it."

You nod.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don't. His lips brush against yours, soft, tentative, nothing like the brutal way he handles the girls in his videos.

It's gentle.

It's perfect.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you melt into him. Your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

When he finally pulls back, you're breathless.

"Not bad," he murmurs, thumb rubbing at your lip. "For someone who's never kissed before."

You stare at him, blinking slow, fully dazed. Your lips are tingling, actually, your whole body is tingling.

You wonder if he can see that.

"Can you..." You trail off, embarrassed.

"Can I what?"

"Do it again?"

"Yeah," he says quietly, like he was going to anyways. "I can do that."

He kisses you again. Longer this time. So much deeper. His hands tangle in your hair, tilting your head back, and you let him take control because you don't know what else to do. 

You just know you never want him to stop.

When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.

"Okay," he says, standing up. "I need to set up the camera."

"Now?" You ask, pouting, wanting him to come back.

"Yeah. Now." He walks over to your ring light, adjusting the angle. "You're going to sit right there, looking all fucked out and pretty, and I'm going to film what happens next."

Your heart is pounding, your lips are all swollen, and your entire body is aching with want. 

He's really doing this.

It's really happening.

He positions the camera, checks the lighting, makes sure everything is perfect. Then he turns back to you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

"Ready?"

You're not.

But you nod anyway.

The camera light blinks red.

Recording.

Scara stands at the foot of your bed, fingers going around the hem of his hoodie, he pulls it over his head and your breath catches. You’ve seen his body in videos, pale, and lean, and deceptively strong, but it’s so different in person, more real, more… overwhelming.

It’s also the first time a boy’s been shirtless in your bedroom.

"You're staring," he says.

"Sorry."

"Don't be." His fingers move to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease. "That's kind of the point."

He pushes his jeans down, stepping out of them, and now he's just in black boxers. You can see the outline of him through the fabric, already half-hard, and your mouth goes dry.

He gets on the bed.

The mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly he's right there. He sits in front of you, cross-legged, casual, like he does this every day.

He does do this every day. 

Just not with you.

"Come here," he says, and it's not a request.

You lean forward, and his hand catches the back of your neck, pulling you the rest of the way. His lips meet yours, and this time it's not gentle. It’s like he’s doing it for the camera. This time it's hungry, demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips before you can even process what's happening.

You make a sound against his mouth. Something embarrassing. Something needy.

He laughs into the kiss.

His hands are everywhere, your shoulders, your waist, your hips, you can feel his hands at the hem of your babydoll top, "This is pretty," he murmurs when he pulls back just a little, fingers in the lace. "But it's in the way."

He pulls it over your head before you can respond, and a kisses you again, his fingers now at your back, unhooking your bra with practiced efficiency that should bother you but doesn’t. 

The bra falls away.

He pulls back from the kiss, and his eyes drop to your chest. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he's looking at you like you're something precious. Something he wants to devour.

"Pretty," he murmurs.

"Scara..."

"Shh." His hands come up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you gasp. "I'm appreciating the view."

Before you can respond, he's moving you. His hands on your hips, spinning you around, pulling you back against his chest. Your back presses into his bare skin, and his so soft, warm, and solid.

"There we go," he murmurs against your ear. "That's so much better."

One hand finds your breast again, squeezing, palm warm against the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his fingers. 

His other hand slides lower.

Down your stomach, tracing the edge of your panties, where his fingers trace the edge of the lace without going any further..

"These videos you make," he says, conversational, like he's not currently driving you insane. "I've watched all of them. Every single one."

"You mentioned that."

"Did I mention the one where you sat on that vibrator for forty-five minutes without cumming?" His fingers dip below the waistband, just barely, brushing against the sensitive skin beneath. "You were crying by the end. Begging even. And you still held out."

"That was... a challenge. From a subscriber,” you breathe out, trying not to squirm.

"I know… I read the caption." His fingers slide lower, finding your folds, and you whimper. "I jerked off to that video six times. Kept thinking about how pretty you'd look if it was me making you cry. Me making you beg."

He presses his fingers against your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and your hips jerk involuntarily.

"There it is," he murmurs. "Those pretty little sounds. Just like in the videos. Except now I get to hear them in person."

"Scara..."

"Take these off." He snaps the waistband of your panties. "I want to feel you properly."

Your hands are shaking as you lift your hips, sliding the underwear down your thighs, kicking them off somewhere onto the floor. You're completely naked now, pressed against his bare chest, with nothing between his hand and your cunt.

His fingers finds your clit immediately.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're soaked, already. We've barely started and you're dripping all over my hand."

"I can't help it."

"I know you can't, that's what makes it so fun."

He circles your clit slowly, not enough pressure to do anything but tease. Your hips buck, trying to get more friction, but his other hand that was on your breast wraps around your waist, holding you in place.

"Patience," he says. "We have all night."

"Scara, please..." you whimper out, so sweet and so needy.

"Please what?"

"More. I need more…"

He laughs, and it’s that exact laugh from the first video you ever watched of him. The one that made you wet before you even knew his name.

"You want my fingers inside you?"

"Yes." You nod, desperate.

"Such a simple word… You’re going to have to beg prettier than that."

Your face burns, but you're so turned on you don't care about dignity anymore.

"Please, Scara. Please put your fingers inside me. I need to feel you. I've been thinking about it for two weeks, imagining what it would feel like, and I can't... I need..."

"Good enough."

He slides a finger inside, and the sound you make is embarrassing. High, and so desperate and completely involuntary. He's not even doing anything yet, just holding his finger inside you, letting you adjust to the intrusion.

"Tight," he murmurs. "So fucking tight. All those dildos you use and you're still this tight?"

"They're not as big as..."

You cut yourself off, embarrassed.

"As what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you open. "As me? Is that what you were going to say?"

You don't answer. Your brain is going fuzzy, all of your attention is focused on the feeling of his fingers inside you.

"You trained your throat for months," he says, still in that conversational tone, like he's discussing the weather while he finger-fucks you. "I watched you go from barely taking six inches to deepthroating that ten-inch dildo on your wall. Holding it for a full minute without gagging."

His fingers curl, pressing against your front wall, searching.

"Fifty seconds," you manage. "I could only... only do fifty seconds."

"Still impressive." He crooks his fingers, checking your expressions, seeing if he found that spot yet. "But training your throat is one thing. This..." He curls and curls still searching. "This is something else entirely."

He finds the spot.

Your whole body jerks, a broken moan spilling from your lips. He presses harder, rubbing circles against that bundle of nerves, and your vision starts to blur at the edges, your toes curling

"There it is," he says, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "That's the spot, isn't it? That's what makes you fall apart, go fucking blank."

"Oh god. Oh fuck. Scara, I can't..."

"You can." His fingers speed up, pressing harder, faster, and you can’t control the loud moan you let out, hard instictively grabbing at his arm. "You're going to take whatever I give you, and you're going to love it."

His other hand leaves your breast and wraps around your throat instead. Not squeezing hard enough to cut off air, just enough to make you aware of how completely he has you.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Shaking already. Just from my fingers. Imagine what you're going to do when I actually fuck you."

You can't imagine it. You can barely think. All you can do is feel, the pressure building between your legs, the heat of his body behind you, the grip of his hand on your throat.

He adds a third finger.

The stretch makes you gasp, pain and pleasure blurring together. He doesn't slow down. If anything, he goes faster, fucking you with his fingers like he's trying to prove a point.

"You know what my favorite video of yours is?" he asks.

You shake your head, unable to form words.

"The one where you fucked yourself on that machine for two hours straight. Where you came so many times you lost count. Where you were crying and begging and saying you couldn't take anymore, but you didn't stop." His fingers speed up, fucking into you harder, faster. "You came eleven times that stream. I counted."

"You... y-you counted?" You surprisingly manage out.

"I counted everything." His grip on your throat tightens. "Every moan. Every whimper. Every time your eyes rolled back. I have it all memorized."

His fingers find that spot again, pressing hard, and you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls of your bedroom. Your mouth falls open, gasping for air, and that's when he moves.

His hand leaves your throat, and suddenly his fingers are in your mouth instead. Two of them, pressing down on your tongue, and you suck on instinct, moaning around the digits.

"That's it," he breathes. "Fuck, that's it. That's what I want. Suck them just like that."

You suck. You suck his fingers like your life depends on it, tasting yourself on his skin, while his other hand keeps working between your legs. The combination is overwhelming. Too much and not enough all at once.

"Fuck," he groans. "You're so good at that. All that training paid off, huh? You're going to suck my cock just like that. I'm going to fuck your throat until you can't breathe, and you're going to take it, because that's what you've been practicing for."

The words push you closer to the edge. 

"You're close," he observes. "I can feel it. The way you're clenching around my fingers, the way you're shaking. You want to cum so bad, don't you?"

You nod desperately, unable to speak with his fingers in your mouth.

"Too bad." He slows down, keeping you right on the edge. "I'm not done with you yet. I want to hear those pretty sounds a little longer."

You whine around his fingers, and he laughs. "God, you're pathetic," he murmurs, and it sounds like a compliment. "Completely pathetic. And I fucking love it."

He keeps you there for what feels like hours. Edging you, backing off every time you get close, until you're crying real tears and begging around his fingers for release.

"Please," you sob when he finally pulls his hand from your mouth. "Please, Scara, I can't... I need..."

"Need what? Say it."

"I need to cum. Please. Please let me cum."

"Okay." His fingers speed up one final time. "Cum."

You shatter.

The orgasm rips through you like nothing you've ever felt before. Your whole body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and the sound you make is somewhere between a scream and a sob. He works you through it, extending the pleasure until you're twitching and oversensitive.

Then he pulls out.

You collapse against him, boneless, breathing hard, shaking. You've made yourself cum hundreds of times on camera, but it's never felt like that.

"Good girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "That was beautiful."

Then he pushes you off.

You land on your back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe. Your whole body is tingling. Your cunt is throbbing. And he's not done.

You hear the rustle of fabric, of something hitting the floor.

You lift your head to look.

He took off his boxers.

And his cock… is big.

You've seen it in videos before, sort of. Japanese censorship laws meant he always had to blur it, pixelate it beyond recognition. Sometimes he got lazy with the editing and you can almost make out the shape. But you've never seen it clearly.

It's bigger than you thought.

You’re almost an expert at dildos, which translates into dicks. You’re able to tell how long they are just by a glance, and you’d estimate his is about 8 inches, at least.

"Fuck," you breathe.

"That's the plan."

Your hand reaches out before you can stop yourself.

You wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight, the heat, the way he throbs in your grip. It's nothing like the dildos you've practiced with. It's warm and alive and so, so real.

You’d never use dildos again if you had the real thing everyday.

"Eager," he says, but he doesn't stop you. Just watches, eyes dark, as you stroke him slowly. "You're supposed to be a virgin."

"I am a virgin." You look up at him, voice almost tired, still recovering.

"Could've fooled me." He lets you touch him for a few more seconds, then grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. "But I didn't come here to get a handjob."

He comes closer, positioning himself between your legs. You spread them automatically, making room for him, and he settles into the space like he belongs there.

"This is going to hurt," he says, rubbing his cock slowly against your folds, almost teasing.

"I know." You say, anxious, but just wanting to get the hard part over with already.

"You might bleed."

"Wait really? I thought that was a myth…" Your brows knit, getting distracted way too quickly.

"You could,” he says, not dwelling on the subject further, “And I'm not going to be gentle."

Your breath catches, you nod slow. "I know."

He grabs one of the cameras he'd set on the bed earlier, angling it down between your bodies. The other cameras are already positioned around the room, capturing everything from multiple angles, but this one will get the close-up. 

The money shot.

"Any last words?" he asks, almost mocking.

You shake your head, rolling your eyes despite the whimpers you’re letting out, feeling his cock, warm, heavy, just resting ontop of your cunt. "Just... do it. Before I lose my nerve."

He smiles, cruel and so adoringly beautiful at once.

And then he pushes inside.

Easing in? Not his style at all. He slides all the way to the hilt in one smooth thrust, and the scream that tears from your throat is unlike anything you’ve made before.

It hurts.

It hurts so fucking bad.

You feel like you're being split in two, like he's too big, too much, like your body wasn't made to take this. Tears spill down your cheeks, and you grab at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

He doesn't stop.

He starts to move, slow but not gentle, pulling out halfway before pushing back in. The camera in his hand stays steady, like he’s a pro at this, documenting everything, while his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.

"There it is," he breathes. "Fuck, there it is. That's what a virgin feels like. So fucking tight. So fucking perfect."

"It hurts," you whimper. "Scara, it hurts..."

"I know." He leans down, still moving, still fucking you, and his lips brush against your cheek. "I know it hurts. But you're taking it so well. Such a good girl."

Tears are streaming down your cheeks. He notices, and instead of stopping, he leans down and kisses them. His tongue traces the wet tracks on your skin, collecting your tears, tasting your pain.

"So pretty when you cry," he says against your cheek. "I've always thought so. All those videos where you make yourself cry from overstimulation. But this is better. This is real."

He keeps moving, slow and deep, and gradually the pain starts to fade. It doesn't disappear completely, but it transforms into something else, a burning fullness that makes your toes curl.

"That's it," he says, feeling you relax around him. "There you go. Starting to feel good, isn't it?"

You nod, biting your lip.

"Use your words."

"Yes," you manage. "Yes, oh god, yes..."

He speeds up.

The camera is still in his hand, still recording, but his attention is on you now. On the way your face changes, pain melting into pleasure. On the sounds you're making, those sweet, cute moans that you're not even trying to hold back anymore.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he says, voice rough. "Two weeks of watching your videos, imagining it was me inside you instead of those stupid toys. And now I'm finally here. Finally fucking you for real."

He changes the angle, and suddenly he's hitting his cock deep inside the spot that makes your vision blur. You cry out, back arching, and he does it again. And again. Finding that spot and abusing it mercilessly.

"That's the one," he says, satisfied. "Found it, again. You make the cutest fucking face when I hit it."

"Scara... Scara, I'm gonna..."

"Already?" He laughs, mean and delighted, hitting that spot again, again, again. "We just started. You're really that easy?"

"I can't help it... it feels so good..."

"Then cum." He fucks you harder, faster. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are. Show the camera how good I make you feel."

You cum so hard you see stars.

Your whole body convulses, walls clenching around him, and you're pretty sure you're screaming but you can't hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears. He fucks you through it, doesn't slow down at all, and when the first orgasm starts to fade, the second one is already building.

"Good girl," he breathes. "That's my good girl. One down, how many more to go?"

He loses count somewhere around the fifth.

"Up."

His voice cuts through the haze of pleasure, and you look up at him, dazed. He's pulled out, leaving you empty and aching, and he's sitting back on your headboard, cock still hard and glistening with your slick.

"What?"

"Come here." He grabs your hips, hauling you up, and suddenly you're straddling him. His cock presses against your entrance, and you whimper. "I want you to ride me."

"I don't... I don't know how..."

"Mhm, don’t worry, I'll teach you." He guides your hips, lifting you up, positioning his cock at your entrance. "Sink down. Slow."

You sink Inch by inch, feeling him fill you up again, until you're fully seated in his lap. The angle is different like this. Deeper. You can feel him in places you didn't know existed.

"Now move." His hands are on your hips, guiding you. "Up and down. Just like that. Find your rhythm."

You start to move. It's awkward at first, clumsy, but then something clicks and suddenly it feels amazing. You're in control, setting the pace, taking what you need.

"That's it," he murmurs, watching you with dark eyes. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me what you've got."

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, and grind down onto him. He groans, hands tightening on your hips, and you feel a surge of power. You did that. You made him make that sound.

You're so close to him like this, chest to chest, his breath on your lips. It feels intimate in a way you weren't expecting. More like making love than making content.

"Kiss me," you whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate, he kisses you, deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours while you ride him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and for a moment it's just the two of you, the cameras forgotten.

Then, he breaks the kiss, as if remembering what it is you both are supposed to be shooting.

"Faster," he demands.

You go faster.

You bounce on his cock, chasing the pleasure, and he watches with heavy-lidded eyes. One hand slides up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to look at him.

"Pretty," he says. "So fucking pretty. Taking my cock like you were made for it."

"Scara..."

"You know how many girls have been in this position? How many have ridden my cock on camera?" He yanks your hair harder, and you moan. "None of them felt like you. None of them were this tight, this wet, this desperate."

"Please..."

"Please what? Use your words."

You whine, grinding even more desperately. "Please... harder... I need..."

He laughs, and then he flips you.

One second you're on top, the next you're on your back with your legs over his shoulders and he's fucking into you so hard the headboard slams against the wall. The angle is brutal, hitting deep, and you can't do anything but lie there and take it.

"This is what you wanted, right?" His voice is rough, strained. "To be ruined? To be fucked so hard you can't think straight?"

"Yes," you sob. "Yes, yes, yes..."

"Then take it. Take all of it."

He cums inside you.

You feel it, hot and thick, filling you up as he groans and shudders above you. His hips keep moving, fucking his cum deeper, and you cum again just from the feeling of it.

When he finally pulls out, you're a mess. Cum leaking from your cunt, tears drying on your cheeks, whole body trembling with aftershocks.

He looks down at you with something like satisfaction.

"We're not done yet."

Content like this calls for lots of positions being changed, different ways you both fuck, constantly moving, constantly trying different things.

After probably your 14th orgasm of the night, you’re on the bed, propped up on your hand when you suggest, "I want you to fuck my face."

He pauses in the middle of repositioning the camera, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"The first video I saw of you." Your voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning. "You were fucking that girl's throat. Making her choke. I want... I want you to do that to me."

"I remember that video." He sets the camera aside, turning to look at you with renewed interest. "She tapped out three times and I didn't stop."

"I know."

"And you want me to do that to you."

"Yes."

He smiles slow, and the look he gives you is predatory.

"Lie on your back."

You position yourself how he wants, your head close to your pillows, looking up at him. From this angle, his cock looks even bigger, hard again already, glistening with your combined fluids. 

He stands over you, cock in hand, and taps it against your lips.

"Open."

You open your mouth, and he slides in.

You've practiced this. Months of training with dildos, learning to relax your throat, to breathe through your nose, to suppress your gag reflex. But nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. The heat of his cock, the weight. The way he pulses against your tongue.

He slides in slowly at first, letting you adjust to the angle. But then his hips start to move, and slow goes out the window.

He fucks your face.

There's no other word for it. His cock slides down your throat, cutting off your air, and then pulls back just long enough for you to gasp before plunging in again. The sounds are obscene. Wet, gurgling, choking sounds that would embarrass you if you could think about anything besides the cock in your throat.

"Fuck," he groans, falling foward, his head falling down onto one of your pillows. "Your mouth feels amazing. Better than I imagined. You really did train for this, didn't you?"

He keeps going, humping your face with desperate little thrusts, and the sounds he's making are nothing like the controlled, mocking ones from before. These are raw, unfiltered. Almost vulnerable.

You start to choke for real. Your hands come up, slapping against the backs of his thighs, the universal signal for "I need air."

He doesn't stop.

Instead, his knees move, pressing down on your arms, trapping them away from trying to signal for anything. You're pinned now, completely helpless, unable to tap out or push him away.

"There we go," he groans. "That's better… no tapping out, no escaping. You just lie there and let me use your throat like the good little fuckdoll you are."

He picks up the pace, driving into your throat over and over. You can't breathe, can barely think, your vision starting to blur around the edges. Your thighs rub together, desperate for friction, and he laughs.

"Getting wet from choking on my cock? Fuck, you're perfect. Listen to that sound." He thrusts particularly deep, and you gag violently. "That wet, sloppy, choking sound? That's the sound of your throat being trained by something real."

Just when you think you might pass out, he gets up from your pillow and he pulls back. You gasp for air, chest heaving, drool and tears covering your face.

He gives you five seconds.

Then he's back in your mouth, fucking your throat like he's trying to break you. 

"Gonna cum down your throat," he grunts. "And you're gonna swallow every drop. That's what good girls do, right? That's what you always say in your videos?"

You try to nod, but you can't move. You just lie there, throat open, accepting whatever he gives you.

He buries himself deep and cums.

You feel it pulsing down your throat, hot and thick, and you swallow on instinct. He holds himself there, grinding against your face, riding out his orgasm, until finally he pulls out.

You gasp for air, coughing, drool and cum running down your chin, your whole body trembling.

He looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

The positions blur together after that.

He fucks you from behind, face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air. He fucks you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder. 

Then, he lifted you off the bed like you weighed nothing at all. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air out from your lungs, and you could already feel his cock pushing inside.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, and you obey, ankles locking behind his back, thighs squeezing his waist. The new angle lets him sink even deeper, and you cry out, nails raking down his shoulders.

"Fuck… Good girl." His voice is strained, arms flexed as he holds you up, and you can see the slight muscles in his forearms working. 

Every thrust pushes you up the wall, your back scraping against the plaster. It hurts, you can feel the friction burning your skin, but the pain just makes the pleasure more real.

"You know how many times I've thought about this?" He fucks up into you, brutal and deep. "Having you pinned like this. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just taking whatever I give you."

"Scara..." Your head falls back against the wall, eyes rolling. The angle is hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.

"That's it." He shifts his grip, one hand sliding under your ass to support you better, the other coming up to wrap around your throat. "Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart."

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, that perfect composure finally cracking. He looks almost as wrecked as you feel.

"You're so fucking tight like this," he groans. "Squeezing me so hard. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."

"It doesn't," you gasp. "I don't. Please don't stop, please..."

"Couldn't stop if I wanted to." His hips snap forward, driving you up the wall, and you swear you see stars. "You feel too good. Took one look at this tight little cunt and knew I was fucked."

The hand on your throat squeezes, cutting off your air just enough to make your head spin. Your legs are shaking, your arms are shaking, everything is shaking, and he just keeps going, fucking you against the wall like he's trying to leave an impression of your body in the plaster.

"Cum for me," he demands. "Right now. Let me feel you pulse around me."

You don't have a choice. Your body obeys him without your permission, clenching around him as the orgasm rips through you. He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, and when you finally go limp in his arms, he's still hard inside you.

"Good," he breathes. "Now let's see how many more we can get out of you before your legs give out completely."

More and more positions blur after that one, and at some point, you’re on your knees, carefully placed on your soft rug of course.

You're grateful for that, the soft rug. You've been down here for what feels like hours, jaw aching, lips swollen, looking up at him while he holds the camera and watches you worship his cock.

"Eyes up here," he says, tilting the camera down to catch your face. "I want them to see those pretty eyes when you choke."

You look up at him through wet lashes, his cock heavy on your tongue. He's not moving, not yet. Just letting you hold him there, drool pooling in your mouth, waiting for permission.

"You look good like this." He traces the outline of your stretched lips with his free hand. "On your knees where you belong. Mouth full of cock. Barely able to breathe." His thumb wipes at the drool running down your chin. "This is what you were made for, isn't it?"

You try to nod, but it's hard with your mouth this full.

"Don't answer that. It was rhetorical." He starts to move, slow shallow thrusts that make wet sounds echo through the room. "I already know the answer. I've seen you practice on those dildos for hours. But they were never enough, were they?"

He pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat, and you gag around him. The camera catches everything.

"Plastic can't compare to the real thing." He pulls back, lets you breathe for half a second, then pushes back in. "Can't feel you choking. Can't hear the sounds you make. Can't watch the tears fall down your pretty face."

Your eyes are watering. You can feel the mascara running, can feel how messy you must look, but he's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Take it deeper," he instructs. "Show me what you learned."

You relax your throat, let him slide further, until your nose is pressed against his stomach and you can't breathe at all. The camera is right there, capturing the way your throat bulges around him.

"Fuck." His voice cracks, almost breaking from the feeling of your mouth. "Fuck, that's perfect. Hold it. Hold it for me."

You hold, five seconds… ten… fifteen. Your lungs are burning, tears streaming down your face, but you don't pull back. Not until he does it for you.

"Breathe."

You gasp, sucking in air, and he taps his cock against your cheek. Once. Twice. Leaving wet marks on your skin.

"Open."

You open, and he slides back in, and the cycle starts all over again.

You both switched rooms at some point, change of scenery, and you led him to your bathroom.

He'd bent you over it the second you walked in, said something about the lighting being "fucking perfect" and grabbed his camera from the bedroom. Now you're pressed against the marble, watching yourself in the mirror while he fucks you from behind.

"Look at yourself," he orders, one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head up so you can't look away. "Look at what I'm doing to you."

You look.

Your reflection is a mess. Makeup smeared, hair tangled, mouth hanging open as sounds spill out that you don't recognize. Behind you, he's a study in contrast, composed and controlled, watching your face in the mirror while he drives into you.

"You see that?" He pulls your hair harder, forcing your back to arch. "That's what a ruined virgin looks like. That's what I do to girls who think they can resist me."

"I didn't resist," you gasp.

"No." He slams into you, and you watch your own face contort with pleasure. "You didn't. You spread your legs and begged for it. Desperate little thing."

The angle is brutal, every thrust pushes you into the counter, the edge digging into your hips, but you can't look away from the mirror. Can't stop watching the way his cock disappears inside you, the way his face tightens with pleasure, the way your body moves with each impact.

"This is my favorite part," he says, meeting your eyes in the reflection. "Watching you watch yourself get fucked. Seeing the exact moment you realize how pathetic you are."

"I'm not..."

"You are." He reaches around, fingers finding your clit, and you cry out. "You're dripping all over my cock, moaning like a whore, watching yourself get ruined, and you're going to cum just from seeing your own fucked-out face in the mirror."

He's right, way too fucking right. Because watching yourself, watching him, watching the everything being reflected back at you… it’s pushing you toward the edge faster than anything has.

"That's it," he murmurs, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he fucks you. "Watch yourself cum. I want you to remember exactly what you looked like."

You cum with your eyes locked on your own reflection, watching your face go slack with pleasure while he groans and spills inside you.

The mirror fogs up from your breath.

He doesn't pull out.

"Again," he says. "I want to see it again."

At some point, you end up with him sitting against your headboard, your body draped across his lap. His fingers are in your ass, slicked with lube, stretching you open while you whimper into his chest.

"You've never done this before either, have you?" he murmurs, working a second finger inside you. "Never had anything in this tight little hole?"

"No," you gasp. "Never."

"Jesus Christ." He crooks his fingers, finding a spot that makes you see stars. "You really are a virgin everywhere. Completely untouched. And now you're all mine."

"Scara..." You can barely form words. "It's too much..."

"It's not enough." He adds another finger, 3 now, and you cry out. "Not nearly enough. I'm going to ruin every part of you before this night is over."

He keeps you there for what feels like hours, working you open, making you cum over and over until you're crying and begging and promising him anything if he'll just let you rest.

But the position that stands out most is the one where he's fucking you face down into your mattress, deep and slow. His mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, your jaw, kissing and biting and marking you as his.

It feels oddly passionate for sex content.

"You feel incredible," he murmurs against your skin. "Better than anyone I've ever had. Tighter. Warmer. More responsive."

"Scara..."

"I love how you say my name." He bites down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Say it again. I want everyone who watches this to know exactly who's ruining you."

"Scara. Scara, please..."

"Please what?"

"I don't know." You're crying again, overwhelmed. "Just... more. I need more."

He gives you more, more thrusts, more of everything, until you're shaking apart beneath him, cumming so hard you see white.

He kisses you. 

A lot.

More than he does in his videos. You've watched enough of them to know that he's usually detached, controlled, focused on the camera and the performance. But with you, he keeps leaning in. Pressing his lips to yours, or to your neck, or at your breasts, anywhere he could find.

"Intermission."

He pulls out, leaving you empty and aching, and collapses onto the bed beside you. You're both breathing hard, covered in sweat and other fluids, and you've lost count of how many times you've cum.

"I need a minute," you manage.

"Take five." He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand, watching you. "You've earned it."

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember your own name. Every muscle in your body aches. Your cunt is sore, your throat is raw, and you're pretty sure you have bruises in places that bruises shouldn't be.

You've never been happier.

"Here."

You turn your head, and see him holding out his hoodie, the one he was wearing when he arrived.

"Put this on. I can see you shivering."

You hadn't noticed, but he's right. The sweat is cooling on your skin, making you tremble. You sit up, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pull the hoodie over your head.

It's a little big on you. Soft and warm, and it smells just like him. 

"Better?"

"Yeah." You look down at yourself, almost drowning in his clothes. "I look like a little kid."

"You look like you're mine."

The words hit you somewhere deep. You look up at him, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Lie back," he says.

"What? I thought we were taking a break."

"We are." He pushes you gently onto your back, spreading your legs, and you let him. "But I've been wanting to taste you all night, and I can't wait anymore."

He settles between your thighs, his face inches from your cunt, and looks up at you through his lashes.

"Just relax. Let me take care of you."

His tongue drags through your folds, and you gasp, hands fisting in the sheets. He's not trying to make you cum this time. Not yet. He's just... tasting. Exploring. Licking up the mess he's made of you, cleaning his own cum from your cunt with gentle, thorough strokes.

"You taste like me," he murmurs against your skin. "Like us. Fucking delicious."

He eats you out slowly, lazily, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue circles your clit, dips inside you, traces patterns that make your toes curl. And the whole time, you're lying there in his hoodie, feeling more cared for than you've ever felt in your life.

When he finally makes you cum, it's soft. Gentle. A slow wave of pleasure that washes over you instead of crashing, leaving you warm and boneless and completely content.

He crawls back up your body, kissing your forehead before settling beside you.

"Fiftieth orgasm of the night," he says. "New record?"

"Definitely a new record."

He laughs, it’s not the mean laugh from before, it’s something softer, something real.

When it's finally over, you're barely conscious.

Your body feels like it's been taken apart and reassembled wrong. Every muscle aches. Your throat is raw from screaming. You can still feel him leaking out of you, cum dripping down your thighs.

He tucks you into bed. Actually tucks you in, pulling the covers up to your chin, smoothing your hair back from your face. Then he climbs out, reaching for his jeans.

You watch, dazed, as he pulls his jeans back on. He starts gathering his cameras, carefully placing them in his bag, and something cold settles in your stomach.

This is it. The part you've been dreading. The part where he leaves and goes back to his life and you become just another video in his collection.

"Are you leaving?"

Your voice comes out small, scared. You hate how vulnerable you sound.

He pauses, camera in hand, and looks at you. "Do you want me to?"

The question hangs in the air. You're still wearing his hoodie, still lying in your bed, still feeling his cum leaking out of you. And he's asking if you want him to leave.

"No." you whisper. "I don't want you to leave."

No pretense. No games. Just honest, raw need.

He puts the camera down.

You barely have time to process before he's climbing back into bed, pulling you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

"Good," he murmurs into your hair. "Because I didn't want to leave either."

His hand traces patterns on your back, soothing. After everything he's done to you tonight, the tenderness almost makes you cry again.

You tilt your head up to look at him, and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is different from before. No heat, no desperation. Just soft and slow and achingly tender.

He tilts your chin up and kisses you.

When he pulls back, you chase his mouth.

"Needy," he murmurs, letting you kiss him again.

When you finally pull back, letting you both get some air, you can’t help asking, "What are you going to do after this?"

"What do you mean?"

"After this. After tonight." You trace patterns on his chest, avoiding his eyes. "Are you going to post the video and move on? Find another girl to film with? Go back to your life like this never happened?"

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know what to think. That's why I'm asking."

He catches your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"If I don't leave," he says slowly, "if I keep coming back here, keep filming with you, keep... spending time with you outside of filming... this stops being just content. You get that, right?"

"What does it become?"

"Something else." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Something more."

"That sounds like you'd be my boyfriend."

The words hang between you. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it.

"Is that what you want?"

You're quiet for a moment. Not because you don't know the answer, but because you're scared to say it out loud.

"Yes."

The word is barely a whisper, but he hears it.

A real, genuine smile that transforms his whole face, makes him look younger, softer, almost innocent, something just for you.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm pretty sure I've been so far gone on you since that video you posted with that stupid Hello Kitty pillow."

"It's not stupid."

"It's extremely stupid." He kisses you again, soft and sweet. "But so am I, apparently. For falling for a girl I met on the internet."

"You fell for me?"

"Obviously." He rolls his eyes, tone almost sassy, but there's no heat in it. "Why else would I follow only you? Why else would I stop posting? Why else would I spend two weeks texting you instead of finding someone else?"

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to."

I don't want you to."

"Then I won't."

You lie there in silence for a moment, processing everything that's happened. The long sex. The confession. The fact that you apparently have a boyfriend now, one who makes porn and took your virginity.

It's perfect.

"Scara?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I might love you."

He's quiet for way too long, and your heart plummets. But then his arms tighten around you, and his voice comes out rough.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I think I might love you too."

You fall asleep in his arms, wearing his hoodie, with his cum still inside you and his heartbeat steady under your ear.

It's the best sleep you've ever had.

Your head whipped around desperately, trying to find the inconspicuous hare’s voice within the dense woods surrounding you. The floppy set of bunny ears on your head were no match for those of Lohen’s—a pair of hare ears that stood straight and were able to detect sound like no other. Feeling your heart pound against your ribcage, you were entrapped by the dire sensation of fight or flight. To run meant to invite him to chase, but to fight was certainly going to end in disaster. What was there for you to do other than to stand paralyzed, unsure of when or how Lohen was going to torment you this time?

“Boo!”

You screamed when you heard his voice, and with a maniacal laugh, he barreled into you. The momentum of your collision sent you both tumbling across the earthen ground, snapping branches and crushing fallen leaves in your wake. Your head was spinning by the time you stopped, that frustrating hare pinning you to the ground beneath him with a cocky grin on his face. You could already feel the bulge in his trousers, pressing into you as he leaned closer.

“You’re terrible at this,” he said, laughing. “Can’t you make the hunt a little more fun?”

“No!” you replied in a sputter. “I didn’t agree to it in the first place!”

“You think you’re gonna be agreeing to it if some other hare catches a whiff of you? If anything, you should be thanking me. It’s great training.”

Your chest heaved with erratic breaths. Staring up into his crimson eyes, your legs squirmed around his hips, heels digging into the mossy ground. Lohen watched you with his shiteating grin, letting you rut against him as your instincts overwhelmed your sensibilities. Rather whiny about it, you wailed, “What kind of mate are you?!”

“Oh, so now I’m your mate.”

“You’re the one who went and decided it!” you sputtered. “Be responsible for your actions!”

“I didn’t decide anything. All I said was that you’re a bunny and I’m a hare. It’s literally in our nature to fuck like crazy, so why not fuck each other?” His teeth peeked through his grin, one of his tall hare ears twitching as if it were nodding in agreement. “Less risky that way, yeah?”

You fervently shook your head. “Don’t talk to me about risk! You’ve put my life in danger for your ego ten times already!”

“Hey, hey—I’d never put you in danger,” he replied stubbornly. “I just use you to attract danger. I love messing with those horny rabbits that come running after you. It’s great entertainment. But,” he said, eyes twinkling, “I’d never let them touch a hair on your pretty little head, Bunny.”

“So then why do I have to train for it?!” you whined. “If you’re going to handle them anyway, then cut the theatrics and fuck me when I ask you to!”

“Jeez,” Lohen said, wincing. “Someone’s needy. To think just yesterday you smacked me for grabbing your ass.”

“You grabbed my ass in public!” you growled. “At work! In front of so many knights!”

“So? How else are they gonna know you’re mine?”

“You are so irritating!”

Your nails clambered for purchase along his shoulders, your hips humping against the curve of his lap. Wetness spread through your undergarments, soaking into the crotch of his pants as you repeatedly mashed yourself into him. Lohen watched you struggle, snickering as he saw fit.

How did you even end up like this? You were simply a new addition to the Knights of Favonius’s ranks, and not even as a member of the militia force. Your role was one that was both simple and safe, a career path that your parents had always desired for you. Your mother had warned you time and time again that a good bunny remained out of the line of fire, kept her head down, and did not get entangled with hares.

“Lohen,” you were whining, tears streaming down your cheeks. Your cunt throbbed, your hips flailing up against his. “Please, I need you.”

“Oh? ‘Need’s a strong word, Bunny.”

“You motherfucker,” you gasped, nails digging into his coat. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it?”

He snorted. “I think you’re begging plenty already, Bun. I’m just taking in the view, you know?”

“Ngh,” you grunted, hinging your knee forward, then back. Again, you pressed your crotch to his, and your leg moved with a mind of its own, your foot stomping into the ground beneath you. You pressed your eyes shut, feeling a shamed heat spread through your neck and into the tops of your cheeks. Your leg jerked repeatedly, and as your stomping grew faster, Lohen only laughed. Leaning his mouth down to your jaw, his voice ghosted hot across your chin.

“You’re so cute when you start thumping, Bun,” he purred in a low, rumbling voice. “Almost makes me wanna fuck you.”

You thumped your foot again, your heart pounding ten times as hard. Letting out a series of embarrassing, dissatisfied grunts, you wriggled beneath Lohen, your animal instincts flaring through your core. Slick upon slick upon slick—you were far too ready for him, but just like a troublesome hare, Lohen did not abide you. Your nails clawed at the fabric of his cape, tears budding the corners of your eyes when your angered grunts mixed with needy whimpers.

What would your parents think if they could see you now? What would your mother; the woman who warned you about hares since you were a child; say, were she privy to how attached you had become to one? You were supposed to be your parents’ golden bunny, yet here you were—laying on the forest floor with a hare on top of you, pleading for him to fulfill your carnal desires.

The worst part was that you didn’t care. Let your parents weep over their disappointment of a daughter. Whenever this hare set his hands on you, you felt alive.

“Please,” you were whispering, high-pitched and breathy. “Lohen, please, I—ngh.” Another involuntary thump of your foot. “I want you.”

He chuckled against the soft of your floppy ear. Giving you a playful nibble, he whispered, “Good job, Bun. I think I like the sound of that a little better.”

You exhaled, your breath shaking as it exited your throat. Lohen reached down to his hip, and when you heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper, you whined his name. He glanced at you with those gorgeous red eyes of his, the ones that had gotten you so whipped for him in the first place, and gave you a smirk so coy, you could die for him right then and there.

It wasn’t the fact that he was a hare that had you so entranced by him. It was the fact that that hare was Lohen.

“Lift up for me?” he asked, giving your legs the lightest of touches. You moved in accordance with him, and as he guided you through it, he said, “Uh-huh, like that.”

His teeth poked through his charming smile. Eyes roaming the length of your body, Lohen purred, “Good girl…you’re so flexible.”

Your knees quivered by your head. Truly, you weren’t built to bend or twist like this, but for Lohen, you would try.

“So pretty,” he murmured, his hands stroking the backs of your upturned thighs. His eyes were trained on your cunt, a flush of red decorating his grinning face. “Are you as wet as I think you are, Bun?”

Desperately, you nodded.

He relinquished a close-lipped laugh. “Guess I’ll have to be the judge of that.”

The sensation of his hot glans against your slick folds sent you curving back into the moss. You reached for your knees, keeping them held back for him, even though your body burned from the strain of it. Making sounds that you’d rather die than hear when you weren’t in a mating state, your toes curled into your flailing feet.

“You’re thumping the air, Bun,” Lohen said, like it wasn’t already obvious. He continued to smear himself up and down the length of your cunt, providing barely enough stimulation to suppress your feral urges. You recalled how full he made you feel, every single night over the past seven days of knowing him, and grunted pitifully.

Hares were generally larger than bunnies—faster and far more powerful, too. Maybe that was why you were so attracted to Lohen, who was lithe like a bunny on the surface, yet so unmistakably hare below the belt. The stretch of his tip against your hole, teasing you, had you sobbing.

“Fuck—me,” you choked out, trying to thump, thump, thump. “Lohen, please. Do something useful, please.”

His sly grin fell from his face. Staring down at you with an open mouth, he began to pant into the air, his ears twitching erratically. Watching your face still, he rubbed his beading head against your sensitive clit, and in a murmur, said, “I wanna breed you so bad.”

That was the thing about hares and bunnies—they both had an insatiable desire to fuck, fuck, fuck—but they weren’t compatible for breeding. That was why bunnies like you were taught to be wary of hares like Lohen, with their silver tongues and promises of sweet nothings. Your whole life, you had been taught that a hare only wanted one thing from a bunny, and that was to use her as he saw fit.

“Bun,” Lohen said, red-faced and gasping. “I wanna breed.”

You couldn’t, and yet—.

“Put it in,” you gasped back. “Lohen, if you want to breed, you have to put it in.”

He let out an odd, strangled noise. Maybe he appreciated the fact that you didn’t point out the obvious, or maybe he was getting influenced by your own state of need. Whatever the case, Lohen’s thick head sank right into your dripping hole, and with a gradual push of his hips, you were full of him.

Were you crying? Were you calling his name? Or were you praying to the Archons above for forgiveness?

“How do you—,” Lohen’s breath hitched. “How do you want me, Bun?”

“Hard,” you slurred. “Hard, Lohen, hard.”

His boots shuffled across the grassy forest floor. Half-squatting over you, Lohen placed his hands to the back of yours, helping you keep yourself ever so delicately folded in half for him. After a glance at you, assessing your comfort level no doubt, he quickly smacked his pelvis to yours.

You were flailing again, your throat hoarse from your cries. Slowly, Lohen’s girth retreated within you, and right when you were just a touch from empty, it shoved into you all at once all over again.

“Lohen,” you were sobbing, your nails digging into your own flesh. “Lohen.”

“Bun,” he panted back. “You’re…so fuckin’ tight.”

The slam of his hips punctuated his sentence. This was almost too much for you.

“Fuck, I…” Lohen hissed aloud. “I want to breed so bad, Bun. Fuck a bunny right…into you.”

With each final word, came another forceful pound of his dick inside of you. Your lower lip was quivering from your sobs and whines, and when Lohen noticed, he squeezed his hands around yours, hesitating.

“How do you want me?” he asked tenderly.

“Harder,” you choked. “Even harder.”

Lohen held you midair. It was unfathomable, how quickly he could fuck you while also supporting all of your body weight in those lean arms of his. You had never doubted Lohen’s strength, but it was times like these that reminded you just how lucky you were to have a hare like him.

Your back was pressed to a nearby tree trunk, giving Lohen the leverage to grunt by your ear. The way he chuffed and whined, nuzzling against your floppy ear with lustful fervor all the while, made your mind feel fuzzier than the ears atop his head. The pound of his hips was relentless, reminiscent of a hare in rut, and as the wet slaps of his body against yours filled the air around you, you worried for a moment that you may attract the attention of any keen-nosed rabbits who happened to wander by.

“Bunny,” Lohen was gasping. “Your pussy feels so good.”

What could you do in response to that, other than grab a fistful of his hair and wail? His breath hitched against your sensitive ear, and in a growling voice, he asked, “You gonna take it?”

Yes, yes, yes—of course you would.

“How much?”

All of it. All of it.

Lohen laughed, that giggle slowly turning into a hot moan. Pounding you so fast that you weren’t sure your womb would make it through this, he dug his teeth into your neck and groaned.

“Bunny,” he mumbled through mouthfuls of your skin, sharp pain mixing with sweet pleasure. “I wanna give you a hare that looks just like you.”

Why did your eyes bud with tears, when you thought about the impossibility of it?

“Fuck, Bun,” Lohen gasped, fucking you so hard your back shifted up the tree with each thrust. “You’d be such a good mom.”

“Please stop,” you sobbed, your nails clambering for purchase in the flesh of his shoulders. “Lohen.”

“You’re gonna give me what I want,” he whispered, the bridge of his nose ghosting against yours, “won’t you, Bun?”

You biologically couldn’t. You knew you couldn’t.

“Yes,” you whined anyway, throbbing and clenching around his plunging dick. “I will.”

His eyes widened. A shadow of darkness cast across his face, and in a soft, tiny whisper, he said, “Thank you.”

His mouth was on yours before you could think to respond. He kissed you hard, filling your mouth with the taste of mint bubblegum, a silly habit of his that you had found quite bunny-like for a hare, but was quickly becoming one of your favorite parts of him. Stretching your arms around his neck, you pulled him in close, the taste of your salty tears dancing between your clashing mouths. There was euphoria, there was longing, and there was a gnawing ache within you—the pain spurred from your inability to meet your mate’s needs.

If only you were a hare, like him. Strong like him, fast like him, able to keep up with his every move the way he was able to keep up with yours. Maybe then things wouldn’t be so hard for you. Maybe Lohen would be happier.

“I love you,” he said when your lips parted, his cheeks as crimson as those sweet eyes of his.

Your lower lip trembled.

“Fuck,” he spat, his eyes fluttering shut. “Here you go, Bunny.”

Dear Gods, this was what you needed. To feel him pumping you full, filling your womb with every last drop of his love for you. To cum from the pure stimulation of his affections; gasping, hot, and blinding; knowing that even if his seed would never take, he loved you.

“Good girl,” Lohen whispered fiercely, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Really good girl.”

“I love you,” you whined back, hiccuping through your sobs. “I wish I could be a mom for you.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Don’t cry over it, Bun.” He smiled, his eyes softening. “You know I was just saying things, right? I don’t want you to stress over it.”

“I just,” you croaked, “want to give you what you want.”

“…You really do love me.”

You nodded. Lohen chuckled.

“Well. I’m glad you picked me, Bun.”

Your hands smoothed out around his shoulders. He leaned in so close, his smiling lips brushed yours.

“You can do it,” he crooned. “I’ll just fuck you until you can. Sound good?”

You smiled, laughing in spite of your tears. Nodding, you said, “That sounds wonderful, Lohen.”

“One more time then?”

“One more—time!”

Leaning your head against the pine-scented bark, you offered your prayers to Celestia. Once more, your favorite hare began another passionate attempt to complete you, and you couldn’t have been more enamored with him if you tried.

Sure, you may have been a bad daughter. Disobedient and unwise. But whenever Lohen touched you, you never felt anything but the love between you. If that was so wrong, then you didn’t mind being bad at all.

You felt a nervous sweat dot your brow. Wringing your fingers before yourself, you said, “Um, show me again?”

“Sure, sure. Step back like this…one fist to your chin, the other in front…then wham!”

The way Lohen’s fist punched through the air was already giving you a heart attack. You gawked at him when he started to bounce back and forth on his heels, explaining to you, “You can even throw a jab like this! Then a straight! Then a good old uppercut!”

His lithe body moved through the steps as your mind struggled to come to terms with them. Massaging your hands together, you winced when Lohen let out an excited laugh. His crimson eyes twinkled as they stared at you, a smirk pushing one corner of his lips higher than the other.

“Oh, don’t look so scared. It kinda turns me on.”

“Shut up,” you said, heat pooling in your cheeks. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“What? That’s, like, kinda the whole point.” He grinned, popping his eyebrows at you. “Come on, you know you wanna try it. Give it a go. Hit me!”

He spanned his arms out like he was waiting for a hug, but you knew Lohen better than to assume that. You probably would have preferred if he was in a snuggling mood, though, because you weren’t even sure how to approach the act of punching your boyfriend in the face.

“I don’t know,” you stammered. “It doesn’t really feel natural. Like…I don’t think I’d be able to hit you just because you asked me to.”

“Bun, you’re overthinking it.” He flapped his fingers inwards, towards himself. The smug grin on his face persisted when he said, “Just do it. Will it help if I tell you I want it?”

Not really, because you could already tell that’s what he wanted.

“Hm.” Lohen crossed one arm over his chest, the other coming up with his pensive fist. He rubbed his chin, observing you with a raised eyebrow as he continued to let out thoughtful hums. He raised one eyebrow, let it fall, then raised the other eyebrow, and let that one fall too.

“Stop doing that,” you mumbled. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Oh yeah?” Lohen asked, shifting his brows across his forehead again. “Does it make you mad?”

“Not mad, just uncomfortable—.”

“What if I burned down the library?” he asked chipperly. “Would that make you mad?”

“What?! I’d be devastated!” you shot back. “Lisa and I have spent so long arranging every text in that library! There’s centuries of knowledge in there! You can’t just go and burn it down!”

“Mm,” Lohen said, his teeth biting into his grinning lower lip. “I like it when you yell at me…but I’m afraid that won’t stop me from burning your precious books to the ground, sweetheart.”

“You’re not actually going to do something like that. I know you’re just saying that. R-right?!”

The words left your lips, but your brain was already fixated on an image of chaos. Lohen, sneaking into the Knights of Favonius library with a match in his hand, waiting for you to organize every last book return and label each new addition before casually setting the place ablaze.

Oh, that was definitely a possible outcome. Knowing him, he’d be so covert about it that you wouldn’t even notice until the whole place was nothing but ashes.

“You’re maaad,” he said in a sing-song voice. “So mad you could punch me. Right?”

“Are you trying to threaten me into beating you?!”

“Pft! Oh, come on, you know I’d never do that! It’s just a bit of light coercion.”

Was he bluffing or was he serious? Did you really want to wait around and find out?

“Hey, what was the name of that porn book you’ve been reading?” Lohen asked, tapping his chin. “The one from that series you’ve been waiting on for the past two years?”

Your cheeks smoldered into flames. Indignantly, you snapped, “Fate’s Glimmer is not a porn book! It’s a romantic tragedy that analyzes the conflicts between conquest and birthright—!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Lohen waved his hand dismissively, his smirk growing wider. “I’m pretty sure you left your porn book on my nightstand. Wouldn’t you just hate if something were to happen to it? I mean, you went and got the collector’s edition and all…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Waste of money if you ask me. Why read porn when you could just fuck me—!”

—WHAP!

Lohen’s head whirled from the impact of your fist against his cheek, his words struck dead on his tongue. Your knuckles protested with throbbing pain, but by the Archons if it didn’t feel good to wipe that smug smile off his face. It was one thing for him to burn down the library, but to incinerate Fate’s Glimmer: Collector’s Edition Vol. 24? He had gone too far!

“It’s a romantic tragedy!” you barked. “It's a brilliant analysis on how war impacts families and intimate relationships! Any explicit content is solely for the purpose of accompanying the plot, but you wouldn’t understand that, you…! You…! Ugh!”

Lohen’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide during your whole tirade. As you came down from your moment of fury, you quickly snapped back to your senses.

You had just punched Lohen in the face. Over a book. You assaulted your boyfriend; over a novel.

You winced. “I’m sorry—.”

“—fuck,” Lohen said over you, red seeping into his face. He tongued at the inside of his cheek, moaning. “Good job, Bun. Now do it again.”

“You are just so—!” Your hands curled up into fists before you let out a ragged sigh. “No, I’m not going to hit you again!”

His eyes turned half-lidded, a perverse smile settling across his lips. Slowly, he drawled, “Then I guess I’m gonna piss in your porn book.”

Before you could stop yourself, your body was launching across the room, barreling straight into his.

Lohen liked playfighting a bit too much. Maybe it was because you’d stand no chance against him in a real fight—and you wouldn’t ever be foolish enough to try. Since he couldn’t spar with you, he spent most of his time finding other ways to force you into a tussle.

His face loomed over yours, cackling.

“Hey, Bun! Remind me what the characters in your ‘romantic tragedy’ were doing in that last chapter you told me about?!”

You let out an anguished groan, heat bathing your cheeks as you stared into his mocking red eyes. Lohen laughed, his hands pinning your shoulders to the ground, and in a teasing voice asked, “Why the hesitation, sweetheart? I thought it was an analysis on war!”

“Ugh, screw you!” you spat, pushing up into his chest with the flat of your palms. “Corina and Zand finally reunited after a whole year! It’s only natural for there to be tension!”

“And what did they do during their glorious reunion? What’d they do with all that tension—huh, Bun? Enlighten me!”

You shoved your body weight forward, and even though he was far stronger than you, he pretended to flip onto the ground anyway. He grinned from ear-to-ear as you sat atop of him, your hands curled into the collar of his shirt.

“They’re in love!” you sputtered, the burning sensation in your face intensifying. “They haven’t seen each other in a year! It’s only logical they would…!”

“It’s only logical they would…!” he mocked in a high-pitched, girly voice. “Logical they would what, Bun? Do a little bit of this?!”

You yelped when he bucked his hips underneath you, sending you bouncing atop his lap as his laughter filled your ears. You pressed your hand to his mouth, trying to suffocate those uncontrolled chortles under your palm, but Lohen only moaned and bit you.

“Ow!”

“You like that, bunny?” he asked, his grin splitting his face in two. “You wanna bounce on me just like Corina bounced on Zand?”

“Stop!” you whined, stuck between a strange cross of irritated and horny. “You’re so annoying!”

“That didn’t sound like a no to me!”

His hips popped up into yours again, the bulge in his trousers meeting the skirt of your dress. Glaring at him, you snapped, “You can’t seriously be horny right now!”

“Oh, yeah,” he groaned exaggeratedly. “Yell at me some more, won’t you, babe? I might just bust.”

“Why are you like this?!”

“Oh, I can be worse! Wanna hear my best impression of you when you’re bouncing on my dick?”

“No, of course I don’t—!”

“Ah, ah, ah!” he mimicked, rutting up against you all the while. “Lohen, slow down! I’m gonna cuuum!”

With a furious scream, you lifted him by his collar—which he let you do—before thrusting him back into the ground. His laugh was borderline-maniacal, tears budding at the corners of his eyes as he play-struggled beneath you. But before you could think to move, your world was spinning, and with your back pressed solidly into the ground, Lohen was on top of you again. He rutted against you with sharp, sporadic thrusts, mimicking, “Lohen, Lohen, Lohen!”

“Fucking stop it!” you blurted.

“Oh, but you’re wet, aren’t you? I don’t even have to touch you to feel it.”

No you were not wet for Lohen while he dryhumped you across the floor of your living room and imitated the way you moaned for him when he fucked the living soul out of you—.

“I’m wet,” you mumbled, your heart pounding against your ears.

“Of course you are,” he purred. “Your brain’s all addled from that porn book of yours. You don’t even notice how horny you get when you read it, do you?”

“Stop,” you complained, pressing your eyes closed. “I most definitely do not get horny while reading it.”

“You do,” he purred, hips rocking, hands rising to your face. “I sit and watch you read sometimes. When you start biting your lip, that’s how I know you’re at the smut part.”

“I don’t do that,” you protested.

“Yeah you do, Bun. And you start looking around too, trying to make sure I can’t see those filthy little pages of yours.”

Of course Lohen would notice something like that, even when you thought you were being covert about it. There wasn’t much you could hold over his head in the surprise variety—you even stopped trying to hide his birthday presents after the third foiled attempt. After you got together, he suggested that next time you cut the gimmicks and show up with a bow taped to your tits and a dagger in your hand.

Lohen’s laughter drove the scene from your mind. He leaned down to press a chaste kiss to your mouth, after which he said, “Want me to fuck you?”

You closed your eyes and whimpered, “Yes.”

Your fingers curled into Lohen’s shoulders as he moved atop of you. Legs tucked over his back, you encouraged the forward motion of his hips with each of his hard thrusts. Lohen nibbled at your chin, his nails scratching against the hardwood floor beside your head.

“You’re so embarrassed,” Lohen said, laughing against your jaw. “How adorable.”

Your cunt throbbed in response to his provocation, squeezing around his girth. Lohen’s tongue plopped onto your chin, and with a lazy drag upwards, smeared his wet saliva all over your face. When he reached your mouth, you stubbornly kept your lips pressed closed.

“Huh?” he asked. “You don’t want your kisses? When you’re the one who always whines about them?”

He snapped his hips forward again, making you release a strained moan into the air. The way Lohen fucked into you mashed against the sweet bundle of nerves pocketed inside, and he wasn’t a stranger to abusing that. He angled himself better for it, and it was somewhat painful when he stabbed into it again, but your pleasure was undeniable. Lohen tried for your mouth again, and you quickly clamped your panting lips shut.

He chuckled, his teeth nipping your upper lip. You flinched, and he giggled more.

“You mad at me?” he asked teasingly. “Just ‘cause I made fun of you for reading erotica?”

Your brows furrowed together. “It’s not eroti—! Mm!”

Ah, he had gotten you with that one. While your mouth was open, snapping at him, he had leaned down to slot his against yours. His hot tongue broke past your lips, waltzing around between your teeth like it owned the place. He moaned against you, stroking his thumbs over your cheeks, and gave you another solid thrust.

Your nails dug into the fabric of his shirt. Eyes fluttering shut, you felt yourself slip into a state of pure bliss.

But then things started to get cold. You thought you were imagining it at first, that maybe it was just a shiver, but then your teeth started chattering against the soft of Lohen’s tongue. He crooned a naughty little giggle, and the reason behind your frigid state became startlingly clear.

Shuddering, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling his body further into yours. You turned your face away from his kiss, clinging to his warm frame as you barked, “Why are you doing that?”

Of course, you were referring to his inappropriate use of his cryo vision. Lohen snickered.

“I like it when you cling onto me,” he purred. “Makes me feel good.”

“It’s c-cold,” you complained.

“Then I guess you’ll have to cling a little bit harder.”

“Lohen…”

You groaned, but you wrapped yourself around him tighter anyway. With both arms and legs holding him in a vice-like grip, you hooked your chin over his shoulder, your cheeks warm. He nuzzled into the side of your face, pressing sloppy kisses to your cheek all the while. For a guy who complained about the mundanity of kisses and cuddles, he sure was a hypocrite whenever he was on top of you like this. You had even started wondering if he liked it more than you did.

Your palms, flat against his back, stroked across his blue button down. He let out a breath against your cheek.

“You feel good,” you murmured.

His hips stuttered. Lifting his face back over yours, Lohen grinned at you, red consuming his cheeks from ear to ear.

“Yeah?” he said. “You like me or something, Bun?”

You cracked a smile back, rolling your eyes. “You’re so silly.”

“Heh…cheeky girl. I’ll show you silly.”

He rammed into you harder, his brows furrowed, but with a satisfied smile still etched across his face. You moaned his name, your eyes trained on that wicked grin of his. When his mouth descended onto yours, you dug your nails into the fabric of his shirt.

“Mm,” he moaned. Between wet, sloppy mashes of his mouth against yours, “Gonna fuck you silly, Bun.”

Embarrassing, but you liked the sound of it.

“Gonna make you go, oh, Lohen!”

Okay, now he was just being a dick. Your cunt was still throbbing though, so what did that say about you?

“Ah, Lohen, stop!” he mocked, his shoulders shaking with his laughs. “Good impression, no?”

“Can you not make fun of me while you’re fucking me?!”

“Aw, but I like it! You’re so cute when you’re mad, Bun!”

“Just shut up and fuck me!” you sputtered.

“Ha! Well, if you insist.”

“Oh,” you moaned suddenly, feeling the stroke of his cock shift into a pound. His tip fucked that spot you adored like he’d never get a chance at it again, and as pleasure shot through your core in hot waves, you sputtered, “Yeah, just…just like that.”

“I’m gonna make a bingo card next time,” he purred. “Fill it full of the shit you say when you’re about to cum.”

Why, oh why did you like it when he made fun of you like that?

“I wonder if it’s gonna be slow down! or not yet! this time. What do you think, Bun?”

“Slow down,” you slurred, your heels digging into his hips. “Fuck, Lohen, slow down.”

“Like music to my ears.”

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered. “Please stop.”

“But I want you to cum, pretty girl.”

Oh fuck him.

Lohen laughed when you slipped into it, your hands clawing at the back of his shirt while you mewled and moaned the exact way he had made fun of you for. You felt the sting of his hips into yours, a bit of biting cold that he couldn’t control, preceded by the lively throb of his dick inside you. Your back arched as though you were being pulled to Celestia, but Lohen’s body kept you tethered, holding you right where you were.

“Fuuuck,” he drawled, his eyes unfocused. He grinned, but the expression twitched, shifting his face between a smug one and a desperate one. Fingers clawing into the floor beneath you, Lohen half-spat, half-moaned, “Bunny.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were cumming again—.

“Good…good job,” he said, his voice lilting into a whimper. “You’re my…my everything, Bunny.”

Tears budded at the corners of your eyes. Holding him ever so tight, you whined back, “I love you.”

He exhaled a shaky laugh. Lowering his head, the tip of his nose brushed against yours.

“Pretty girl,” he crooned. “I love you more.”

With an ear-splitting smile, tears ran down your cheeks as you laughed. Lohen craned down to kiss you, swallowing your giggles and salty tears along with your hot tongue.

“Mm,” he said when he withdrew. “Still gonna make that bingo card.”

Your smile immediately fell flat. Whamming your fists against his shoulders, Lohen only nuzzled into you and laughed.

What a pain of a boyfriend. He was stupid, reckless, and borderline psychotic.

Yet in the depths of your heart, you knew you wouldn’t want him any other way.

The serial killer case had been one that stumped even the brightest of detectives. There had been bodies found in canals, drained of blood. The Palais Mermonia had been in a frenzy. The Maison Gardiennage had thrown every resource at the case. In a twist that had captivated the entire nation, they’d arrested Childe—a young, wealthy, Snezhnayan expat with a taste for luxury items and underground boxing matches.

Lady Furina herself had presided over the trial, and the galleries had been packed with journalists and gawkers hoping for blood. The evidence had been circumstantial at best: he’d been seen near one of the dump sites, he had no alibi for two of the murders, and someone had reported seeing a man about as tall as him fleeing the scene. But the prosecution had been confident, the public had been baying for justice, and Childe had stood in the defendant’s box looking bored and vaguely amused, which had done him absolutely no favours.

The real killer had struck again while Childe was in custody, with the same MO. The charges had been dropped with a swiftness that suggested embarrassment on behalf of the Maison, and Childe had walked free to a chorus of flashbulbs and shouted questions.

He’d never given an interview. Not one. Not to the major papers, not to the tabloids. He’d simply returned to his life as if nothing had happened, which had only made him more fascinating to the media vultures circling overhead.

Including you.

The bed dips as Childe finally moves from where he’s been leaning against the doorframe. He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite parse. Amused, maybe. Curious, definitely. His shirt is unbuttoned at the corner, sleeves rolled to the elbows; the sight makes your mouth go dry.

“Comfortable?” he lilts.

“Very,” you say, running your hand over the duvet. It’s some kind of Egyptian cotton, probably, the kind that costs more than your monthly rent. “Though I have to say, I expected more from the bedroom of Fontaine’s most infamous acquitted murder suspect.”

Childe’s laugh is sharp and bright. “What were you expecting? Shackles? Bloodstains? A wall of newspaper clippings?”

“This looks like a hotel room,” you counter, gesturing around you. “A very expensive hotel room, granted, but still.”

“I like things simple.” He crosses to the bed, settling on the edge near your feet. Close, but not presumptuous. “Easy to clean, easy to maintain. No clutter.”

“No evidence, you mean.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. You’ve overplayed your hand, you think. You’re supposed to be flirty, interested, not immediately bringing up the trial like some hack journalist fishing for a scoop.

“Are you always this charming on first dates,” Childe drawls, “or am I special?”

“You’re special,” you assure him, recovering quickly. You shift onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “I’m sorry. Occupational hazard. I’m a journalist—I ask inappropriate questions.”

“So you said at dinner. Lifestyle section at The Steambird, right? Writing hard-hitting pieces about the best cafés in the Court of Fontaine and which shoes are in this season.”

The condescension should irritate you, but it only serves to make you more determined instead. “Someone has to tell the people where to get their morning coffee.”

“And is that what you want to be doing? Coffee reviews?”

“No,” you admit; honesty might serve you here. “I want to be doing real journalism. Investigations, exposés, the kind of work people actually read.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because the people who run newspapers are cowards who think women should stick to writing about fashion and food.” You sit up properly, tucking your legs beneath you. “I don’t have the right connections or the right last name or the right—”

This is too much truth, too much vulnerability. You’re supposed to be mysterious, alluring, not complaining about your career trajectory.

Childe looks at you expectantly. “The right what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” You shake your head, trying to recalibrate. This is going all wrong. You’re supposed to be seducing him, not trauma-dumping about your professional frustrations. “Tell me about Snezhnaya. You grew up there, right?”

“Changing the subject,” he observes.

“Deflecting,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

He laughs again. “Yes, I grew up there, in a small town called Morepesok. Cold as hell, nothing to do but fight and fish.”

“And you chose Fontaine because…?”

“Better weather. Better food. Plus, I like the water. Grew up on it. Fontaine’s canals remind me of home.”

“The canals where the bodies were found.”

“Jesus, you really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

You wince. “Sorry, I—”

“No, I like it.” He shifts closer, and suddenly the space between you has narrowed considerably. “Everyone else wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Walk on eggshells, avoid the subject, act like I’m made of glass. It’s exhausting.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who takes such things to heart.”

“I’m not.” Childe’s hand comes to rest on your ankle absent-mindedly. His thumb brushes the bone there. “But people are strange about trauma. They either want to consume it—tell me all the gory details, how did it feel, were you scared—or they want to bury it and pretend it never happened. No one knows how to just… exist with it.”

You look down at his hand on your ankle. His fingers are long, scarred across the knuckles. Fighter’s hands. “And which category do I fall into?”

“Neither, I think,” Childe says, looking up at you through his lashes. “You’re curious, but not voyeuristic. The questions you ask aren’t cruel.”

This is good, you tell yourself. It’s exactly what you need. He’s opening up, starting to trust you. In ten days, you’ll have enough material for the article of your career: an inside look at Tartaglia, as he calls himself, the man who was almost convicted of serial murder, told through the lens of an ill-fated romance. Your editor Euphrasie will eat it up. The readers will eat it up. You’ll finally get out of the lifestyle section and into real journalism.

All you have to do is make him fall in love with you, and then break his heart.

The guilt that twists in your stomach is inconvenient and unwelcome, so you shove it down and lean forward, closing the distance between you. “Can I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Childe says.

The kiss is soft, slow; you’d anticipated urgency, heat, the kind of aggressive passion you’d read about in the trial transcripts when they’d detailed his history of bar fights and boxing matches. But Childe kisses like he has all the time in the world, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck while his thumb traces the line of your jaw. He tastes like the wine from dinner and something else, something that might just be him.

You’re supposed to be the one doing the seducing, you think vaguely, but he gently bites your lower lip and you hear yourself make a sound that’s frankly embarrassing, and most thoughts vanish from your head as fast as they appeared.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Still doing research for that coffee article?”

“Shut up,” you breathe, and pull him back in.

His hands slide under the silk of your blouse, fingers splaying across your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra. You work at the buttons of his shirt with increasingly clumsy fingers—why are there so many buttons, why is your coordination suddenly that of a drunk toddler—until he huffs a laugh against your mouth and pulls back to shrug it off himself—and oh. Oh.

You’d known he was fit; you could tell that much through his clothes, the way fabric pulled across his shoulders, the lean lines visible even through tailoring. He’s all lean muscle and pale skin. There are scars scattered across his torso; a thin white line across his collarbone; something that looks like a burn on his left shoulder. There’s a particularly nasty one across his ribs that looks like it required stitches, puckered and still slightly pink, and your fingers find it almost unconsciously.

“Boxing,” he says, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, then the inside of your elbow. “I’m better now. Usually.”

“Usually?”

“I still lose my temper sometimes, but I’m working on it.”

You should probably be concerned about that, but your brain has officially gone offline, all blood redirected south. When he leans in to kiss you again, you forget why any of that—the admission of violence, the scars—should matter.

His hands are warm on your skin. They slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra, and then that’s gone too, tossed somewhere in the general direction of your blouse. He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown wide and dark.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You’re not used to being looked at like this. Most of your previous encounters have been fumbling, rushed things with men who were more interested in the destination than the journey. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m—I don’t know. Special or something.”

Childe smiles. “Maybe you are.”

Before you can formulate a response to that, he’s kissing his way down your body: your collarbone, where he pauses to suck a mark; the swell of your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before taking it into his mouth. You arch into him, hands fisting in his hair.

He takes his time with your breasts, lavishing attention on each one until you’re squirming beneath him, aching and empty. When he finally continues his descent—kissing down your ribs, your stomach, pausing to trace his tongue along the waistband of your skirt—you’re squirming and moaning for more.

“Childe,” you gasp.

“Patience,” he murmurs against your hip bone.

He works your skirt down your legs, taking your underwear with it, before you’re completely bare before him. The air feels cool on your heated skin. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he’s looking at you like you’re a feast and he’s been starving.

“Beautiful,” he says again, running his hands up your thighs, pushing them wider. “Can I taste you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes.”

He settles between your legs, broad shoulders forcing your thighs even wider, and for a moment, he simply looks, studies, as though he’s memorising this too, adding it to whatever internal catalogue he’s building—then his mouth is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.

Childe’s tongue traces through your folds slowly, exploratory, like he’s learning what makes you gasp, what makes your hips jerk, what makes your hands tighten in his hair. When he finds your clit—circling it with the tip of his tongue, then flattening against it—you actually see stars.

“Fuck,” you breathe, and feel him smile against you.

He’s good at this, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that have you trembling. When he slides one finger inside you—just one, slow and careful—you keen.

“More,” you demand, rolling your hips against his face.

He hums in acknowledgement, and adds a second finger. The stretch is delicious, his fingers thick and skilled, and when he crooks them just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision white out, you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out.

“Don’t,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your wet skin. “I want to hear you.”

“Your neighbours—”

“Can deal with it.” He punctuates this by sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, and the hand you’d been using to muffle yourself flies to grip the sheets instead. When he adds a third finger, his tongue still working your clit in circles, you feel heat spread from the base of your spine.

“Childe,” you gasp. “I’m going to—”

“Let go,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

The words alone nearly sound you over, but it’s the addition of his fingers pressing just right, his tongue flicking over your clit, that finally makes you orgasm. Your back arches off the bed, thighs trembling around his head. He works you through it, gentler now, until the aftershocks fade and you’re left panting and boneless, staring at the ceiling.

“Fuck,” you manage, eloquent as ever.

He grins up at you from between your thighs, chin glistening, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Good?”

“Smug bastard,” you say, which just makes him grin wider.

“Is that a yes?”

Instead of answering, you hook your leg around his waist and use the leverage to flip him onto his back. It catches him off guard—his eyes widen, then darken with renewed interest as you straddle his hips.

“My turn,” you announce, working at his belt with fingers that are still slightly unsteady.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but you cut him off by pressing your lips to his.

“I want to,” you say against his mouth.

You can feel his cock hard beneath you, straining against the fabric of his pants, and the knowledge that you did that to him sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. You make quick work of his belt, then his zipper, and he helps you, lifting his hips so you can pull his pants and boxers down and off.

His cock is big, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip. Your mouth waters. When you wrap your hand around him, he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Sensitive?” you tease, stroking him slowly from base to tip.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he grits out.

You stroke him a few more times, watching the way his abs contract with each movement, the way his hands fist in the sheets. Leaning down, you lick a stripe up his length, base to tip, and the sound he makes is absolutely filthy.

“Fuck, malyshka,” he breathes, one hand flying to your hair.

You take his cock into your mouth slowly, watching Childe’s face as you do. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. He’s gorgeous like this, all that control fraying at the edges, coming apart under your touch. You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using your hand on what you can’t fit, and establish a rhythm, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, using your tongue along the underside.

“Christ,” he gasps, fingers tightening in your hair. “Your mouth is—fuck, that’s—”

You hum around him and his hips jerk, pushing deeper. You let him, opening your throat, and the moan he lets out is worth the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes. For several minutes, there’s no sound but the obscene wet sounds of your mouth on him, his increasingly ragged breathing, the occasional curse or gasp when you do something he particularly likes. You feel powerful like this, in control in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. 

This man who was accused of murder, who fights for fun, who moves through the world with such confidence—you’re reducing him to trembling need with just your mouth.

“Wait,” he gasps suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. “Wait, stop, I’m going to—”

You pull off him with a pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Don’t you want to come?”

“Not yet. I want—” Childe reaches for the nightstand, fumbling the drawer open. “Condom. I want to be inside you when I come.”

The words send heat pooling low in your belly. You watch as he pulls out a box—thank God he has them, you hadn’t even thought to bring any—and extracts a foil packet.

“Let me,” you say, taking it from him.

You tear it open carefully, then roll it onto him slowly, enjoying the way his breath catches, the way his hips twitch with each touch. When you’re done, you stay straddling him, positioning yourself over his length.

“Can I?” you ask.

“God, yes.”

You sink down slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch feels good. He’s big and you’re still sensitive from your orgasm, and you have to pause halfway, breathing through the burn.

“Okay?” His hands are on your hips, steadying but not pushing. When you look down at him his face is tight with the effort of holding still.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Just—give me a second.”

“Take your time.” Childe sits up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close so your chests are pressed together. He presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, sweet and soft. “You feel incredible. So tight and perfect.”

The praise makes you clench around him and he groans into your neck. You take a breath, then sink down the rest of the way, taking his cock fully. You feel impossibly full, stretched in the best way, and when he shifts slightly, the angle has him hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.

“Move,” he says roughly against your neck. “Please, move.”

You do, rolling your hips experimentally. You find a rhythm—slow at first, learning what angles work, what movements make him groan and dig his fingers into your hips. Then faster, chasing the pleasure building in your core.

Childe’s hands roam your body like he can’t decide where he wants to touch most. Your hips, guiding your movements. Your waist, fingers spanning your ribs. Your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples and making you gasp. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking marks into your skin.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Ride me.”

You do, picking up the pace, using his shoulders for leverage. The pleasure builds with each roll of your hips, each time he hits that perfect spot inside you. You’re chasing it now, desperate for it, and when his hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing it, you nearly sob.

“Childe,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m—”

“I know. I can feel you. So tight around me, malyshka. Come on, let me feel it. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

The words are your undoing. Your second orgasm makes you clench around him. You hear yourself cry out, some nonsensical combination of his name and profanity, and distantly you feel him shift, gripping your hips and moving you faster, harder, chasing his own release.

“Where?” he gasps. “Where can I—”

“Inside,” you manage, still trembling through aftershocks. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

He buries his face in your neck with a groan, hips stuttering. His arms wrap around you tight, holding you close, and you cling to him just as desperately. Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you’re pretty sure his is doing the same because you can feel it against your chest.

“Christ,” he mutters into your shoulder.

You huff a laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”

Slowly, carefully, you extract yourself from him. He winces slightly as he slips out, and you do too, suddenly feeling very empty. He deals with the condom while you collapse onto the bed beside him, boneless and satisfied.

The sheets are a disaster—rumpled and half off the bed, definitely in need of washing. You feel a petty sort of satisfaction at having thoroughly ruined his pristine bedroom.

Childe collapses beside you, reaching for you immediately, pulling you into his side. You go willingly, resting your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic pace. His fingers trace idle patterns on your shoulder, up and down your arm, soothing and mindless. Sex is just biology. This—the gentleness—feels like more.

You should leave. This is getting too comfortable.

But you’re warm and sated and his bed is incredibly comfortable, and when you try to sit up, his arm tightens around you.

“Stay,” Childe mumbles, voice heavy with approaching sleep.

“I have work in the morning,” you say.

“So do I.”

You should say no. This is supposed to be about the story, the article and the promotion. You’re not supposed to actually like him. You’re definitely not supposed to fall asleep in his arms after the best sex of your life.

But his breathing is already evening out, and you’re so comfortable, and just this once won’t hurt, right?

“Okay,” you whisper. Within minutes, Childe’s breathing has deepened into sleep, but you lie awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, trying very hard not to think about what you’re doing; eventually, exhaustion wins, and you drift off in his arms.

You wake to pale morning light filtering through the windows, disoriented for a moment before the events of last night come rushing back. Childe is still asleep beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other draped across your waist. His hair is a disaster, copper strands sticking up at odd angles where you’d run your fingers through it. He looks younger like this, peaceful, the sharp edges softened by sleep.

Logically, you should feel triumphant. Phase one complete: sleep with the target, establish intimacy, begin the emotional manipulation. Everything is going according to plan.

Instead, you feel vaguely nauseous.

You carefully extricate yourself from his grip, moving slowly so as not to wake him. He makes a small sound of protest in his sleep but doesn’t wake; he simply rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. The pillow you slept on, you realise. The one that probably smells like your perfume now.

Your clothes are scattered across the floor—blouse, skirt, bra, underwear, all evidence of last night’s activities. You gather them quietly, getting dressed in the pre-dawn dimness. One of the buttons on your blouse is missing, you notice. Childe had torn it off in his haste. The memory sends an unwelcome flutter through your stomach.

You’re halfway to the door when you remember the plan, the tactics you’d researched, all those articles about “how to make him chase you” and the “psychology of desire.” Rule number one: always leave them wanting more. Never be too available. Create mystery, create distance, make them wonder.

Leaving without goodbye is textbook. It’s supposed to make you seem aloof, independent, not too eager. It’s supposed to make him anxious, worried that maybe you didn’t feel the same connection he did. It is, also, manipulative as hell, and you hate yourself for even thinking it.

But this is work. It’s everything you’ve been working towards.

You glance back at him one more time. He’s still sleeping, one hand now stretched out across the space where you’d been lying, as if searching for you even in sleep. Then, you notice your purse on the chair by the door. Your phone is inside it, along with your keys, your wallet, your ID. The idea comes to you fully formed: leave the purse. Give yourself a reason to come back.

More importantly, give him a reason to reach out and prove he’s thinking about you. Men are hunters, one article had said. They need to chase. If you make it too easy, they lose interest.

Your hand hovers over the purse for a long moment, and quickly, you decide to take only your phone and wallet with you, leaving the purse on the chair and slipping out the door.

The elevator ride down feels interminable. The morning doorman gives you a knowing look that makes your cheeks burn—walk of shame, clearly—but you lift your chin and stride past him into the cool Fontaine morning.

“Flowers for the Lifestyle editor?”

The bellboy at The Steambird stands awkwardly by your cubicle, holding an enormous bouquet of white roses and pale blue hydrangeas that probably costs more than your weekly salary. You stare at them.

“There must be some mistake,” you say.

“Are you the Lifestyle editor?” The bellboy checks the card. “It just says ‘Lifestyle section, The Steambird.’”

You’re not the editor—that would be old Monsieur Bellerose, who’s been at the paper since before you were born and who wouldn’t know a hydrangea from a turnip. But you’re the only one currently in the lifestyle section this early in the morning, so you reach for the flowers with growing dread.

“Thanks,” you mutter, and the bellboy looks relieved to be rid of them.

You sneeze. 

“Bless you?” the bellboy offers uncertainly.

You sneeze again, and again. Your eyes are already starting to water.

“Oh, no,” you say, holding the bouquet at arm’s length. “Oh, no, no, no—”

You’re allergic to flowers—every flower that isn’t a cactus or possibly a succulent. It’s why you’ve never understood the appeal of botanical gardens, why you avoid the flower district like the plague, and why your last boyfriend had learned very quickly that giving you flowers was the equivalent of biological warfare.

The irony of being a lifestyle journalist who can’t be within ten feet of a floral arrangement without turning into a sneezing, watery-eyed mess is not lost on you.

“Are you okay?” the bellboy asks.

“Fine,” you wheeze, even as your nose starts to run and your eyes begin to itch. “Just—thanks for delivering them.”

Trying to decide what to do with the bouquet brings you to an impasse. You can’t just throw them away—they’re clearly expensive, and there’s a card, and you should at least read the card before disposing of it. You grab a tissue from your desk drawer with your free hand, pressing it to your streaming nose, and use your pinky to extract the small cream envelope from among the blooms. This, naturally, requires you to bring the flowers closer to your face, which triggers another round of sneezing so intense that Monsieur Bellerose looks up from his desk to see if you’re dying.

The card reads: You left something behind. Including this.

Inside is your lipstick, and beneath it, in elegant script: Dinner tonight, 7pm. I’ll text you the address. — C.

Under normal circumstances, this would be romantic, the kind of gesture that would make any reasonable woman smile and perhaps swoon a little. You are not, currently, any reasonable woman.

“Holy shit, what is that?”

You turn to find Navia standing behind you, coffee in one hand.

“Flowers,” you manage between sniffles. “From Childe.”

“Are you—are you crying?” Navia’s eyes widen in horror. “Did he send you breakup flowers? On day two? That has to be some kind of record—”

“I’m not crying, I’m allergic,” you say. “I’m allergic to flowers. All flowers.”

Navia stares at you before laughing.

“This is not funny,” you say, which is undermined somewhat by the violent sneeze that punctuates the sentence.

“Your rich murder suspect sent you the most romantic, expensive bouquet I’ve ever seen, and you’re allergic to it,” Navia says. “The universe has a sense of humour, I’ll give it that.”

“Help me,” you plead, sneezing again. Your eyes are fully streaming now, mascara probably running down your face. “What do I do with them?”

“Give them to someone else?” Navia suggests, still giggling. “Bellerose’s wife would probably love them.”

“I can’t give away flowers that were specifically sent to me! That’s rude.”

“Ruder than showing up to your date tonight looking like you’ve been crying for six hours straight?”

She has a point, and as soon as you acknowledge this, your phone rings. The caller ID reads Childe.

“Don’t answer it,” Navia whispers, suddenly serious. “You sound like you’re actively dying.”

“I have to answer it,” you whisper back, voice congested. “It’d be weird if I didn’t.”

“You’re going to sound like you’ve been crying!”

“I’ll just—” Sneeze. “—explain—”

You make an executive decision, set the flowers down on the farthest corner of your desk, grab another tissue, and answer the phone. “Hello?” you manage, and immediately wince. You sound like you’ve been gargling gravel and crying into a pillow for the last hour.

“Are you… okay?”

“I’m fine!” you say brightly. 

“You don’t sound fine,” Childe says. “You sound like you’re crying.”

“I’m not crying!” This is technically true. You’re not crying from emotions; you’re crying because your body has decided that flowers are the enemy and must be destroyed via excess mucus production.

“Are you sure? Because if the flowers upset you—”

“The flowers didn’t upset me!” You sneeze.

“That’s the third time you’ve sneezed since you answered,” Childe says slowly. “And you sound extremely congested. Are you sick?”

“No, I’m—” You pause. Either you admit that you’re allergic to his thoughtful, expensive, romantic gesture, or you lie and pretend you’re mysteriously coming down with something. The first option makes you seem ungrateful. The second option is dishonest, but it’s also easier, and you’ve already lied to him about basically everything else, so what’s one more lie—

“I’m allergic to flowers,” you admit miserably. “All flowers—though the ones you sent me are very beautiful, by the way, and very thoughtful, and I really appreciate the gesture.”

Childe, too, starts laughing. Full, genuine, from-the-belly laughter that goes on for so long you start to feel offended.

“It’s not that funny,” you mutter, grabbing another tissue.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, still laughing. “I’m so sorry, it’s just—I spent twenty minutes at the florist this morning. Twenty minutes. The woman kept suggesting different arrangements and I kept saying no, it has to be perfect, it has to be romantic, and I settled on roses and hydrangeas because they looked classic and elegant, and—” He dissolves into laughter again. “And you’re allergic to them.”

“Very allergic,” you confirm, sniffling pathetically. “I look like I’ve been crying for hours. My coworker thought you’d broken up with me.”

“On day two?” He sounds delighted by this. “What kind of monster do people think I am?”

“You were accused of serial murder, so the bar is pretty low.”

“Okay. Okay, new plan. Where are you right now?”

“At work. At my desk. The bouquet’s three feet away from me.”

“Can you move it?”

“I tried. I had to get the card out. It triggered another sneezing fit.”

“Right. Okay. Don’t touch them. I’m sending someone to pick them up.”

“You don’t have to—I can just give them to my boss—”

“I’m sending someone to send them to your boss’s home, then,” he says firmly, “and I’m sending you something else. Something you’re not allergic to. Do you have any other allergies I should know about? Chocolate? Wine? Sunlight?”

“I’m not a vampire.”

“Good to know. How do you feel about food?”

“I’m pro-food, generally.”

“Excellent. Give me two hours.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “And in the meantime, go wash your face. You probably look terrible.”

“Wow. Romance.”

“You said you look like you’ve been crying for hours,” Childe says. “Go fix that before your editor sees you and thinks I’m some kind of insane boyfriend who sends his girlfriend flowers that make her cry.”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” you point out, even as something warm unfurls in your chest at the word.

“Not yet,” he replies easily. “But I’m working on it. Now, go. I’ll text you when it arrives.”

He hangs up, and you lower the phone, only to find Navia staring at you. “What?” you ask.

“You’re smiling,” she observes. “Like, really smiling.”

“I’m not—” You catch sight of your reflection in your dark phone screen and realise she’s right. Despite your watery eyes and general mucus situation, you’re grinning like an idiot. “Shut up.”

“This is bad,” Navia says, shaking her head. “You’re falling for him.”

“I’m not falling for him! He just—he was nice about the flower situation.”

“He made you laugh while you were actively having an allergic reaction. That’s not just nice, that’s—” She waves her hand vaguely.

“I don’t have feelings. I have a job to do,” you lie, and grab the flowers—at arm’s length, holding your breath—and march over to Monsieur Bellerose’s desk.

“For your wife,” you announce, setting them down and immediately backing away. “With my compliments.”

Bellerose looks up from his crossword, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? These look expensive.”

“I’m allergic,” you explain, already feeling your sinuses start to clear, “and your wife will appreciate them more than I can.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful. She’ll be delighted.” He inhales deeply, his large, walrus-like moustache quivering. “Beautiful blooms. Someone must think very highly of you.”

“Sure,” you say, and retreat to the bathroom. Navia was right—you look terrible. Your eyes are red and swollen, mascara smudged down your cheeks. You spend ten minutes with cold water and paper towels trying to repair the damage, and by the time you’re done, you look almost human again.

When you return to your desk, the flowers are blessedly gone, and Monsieur Bellerose gives you a cheerful wave. “My wife says thank you!” he calls. “She’s already showed them off to our neighbours. They’re absolutely divine!”

You try to focus on work—there’s an article about seasonal pastries that needs finishing—but you keep checking your phone. What is Childe sending? And why does it matter so much? You shouldn’t care. This is all manipulation, part of the game. He’s trying to win you over with thoughtful gestures; you’re supposed to be documenting it all for your article, not getting flustered over it.

Your phone buzzes. You grab it so fast you nearly knock over your own coffee.

Childe: Delivery incoming. Hope you like it.

Five minutes later, the bellboy from earlier appears. He’s carrying a large paper bag that smells absolutely incredible.

“For you,” he says, setting it on your desk. “And the sender said to tell you that he’s checked, and there are no allergens.”

You open the bag. Inside is a feast from Café Lutece—the same place you’re supposed to be having dinner tonight. There’s a container of their famous seafood soup, fresh bread still warm from the oven, a small salad with vinaigrette on the side, and a slice of chocolate tart. There’s also a note written on the café’s stationery in what you recognise as Childe’s handwriting.

I figured if I can’t give you flowers without causing a biological incident, I should at least feed you. Consider this a preview of tonight. I’m sorry for laughing. Actually, I’m not sorry. It was objectively hilarious. But I am sorry you’re allergic, malyshka. — C.

Your phone buzzes again.

Childe: Did it arrive?

You: Yes. Thank you. It’s too much.

Childe: Nothing is too much for someone who suffered through anaphylactic shock for my romantic gesture.

You: It wasn’t anaphylactic shock. Just mild respiratory distress.

Childe: That’s basically the same thing.

You: It’s medically very different.

Childe: Are you eating the food or are you arguing with me via text?

You: Can’t I do both?

Childe surprises you the next day with front row tickets to the opera. Despite having lived in Fontaine for a majority of your life, you haven’t actually attended one of the many shows that take place at the Opera Epiclese; that sort of thing usually falls under the purview of Galanopoulo and Houallet, who cover the Arts & Culture section of the newspaper. 

The tickets arrive via courier at noon, tucked into a cream envelope with your name written in that now-familiar handwriting. Inside: two tickets to tonight’s performance at the Opera Epiclese, along with a note.

I know it’s short notice, but I had a feeling you might like this. Pick you up at 6? We can get dinner after. — C.

This is good, you tell yourself. This is perfect, actually. Opera attendance is exactly the kind of thing that would make for good article material. Subject demonstrates excessive romantic gesturing in attempt to impress target. Opera tickets, expensive dinner, etc.

It’s also, according to the three different articles you’d read last night, the perfect opportunity to start implementing phase two of the plan: acting weird.

The theory, as explained by various relationship experts, is that men are initially attracted to mystery and normalcy. To drive them away, you need to shatter that illusion. Be too available. Too interested. Too much. Talk about marriage on the third date. Introduce them to your parents. Pretend to name your future children.

You’d read the articles with growing horror, but Euphrasie had been clear: Make him fall, then make him run. The readers want to see the progression. They want to understand the psychology.

So. Opera. Weird behaviour. Get information for the article. Break his heart. Simple.

You spend the rest of the afternoon oscillating between working on your pastry article (which is mind-numbingly boring) and researching Childe (which is significantly more interesting but also makes you feel like a stalker).

There’s not much available beyond the trial coverage. His social media presence is essentially nonexistent. There’s a LinkedIn that lists him as “Independent Consultant” which tells you absolutely nothing. The most you can find is a brief mention in a business journal about a real estate acquisition, and a photo from some charity boxing match where he’s shaking hands with the Commissioner of the Maison Gardiennage, which is either ironic or ballsy or both.

“Stalking your boyfriend?” Navia appears behind your desk. Apparently, she has nothing better to do than monitor your descent into moral bankruptcy.

“He’s not my boyfriend. And I’m not stalking. I’m researching.”

“For the article where you manipulate him and break his heart?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking.” She peers at your screen. “Find anything good?”

“No,” you say. “There’s nothing about him anywhere except the trial.”

“Maybe he’s boring.”

“He’s not boring.” The words come out more defensive than intended. “He’s just… private.”

“Private or hiding something?” Navia raises an eyebrow. “You know there’s a difference, right?”

“He was acquitted, Navia. He’s innocent.”

“So you keep saying. You know what’s interesting? Three days ago, you didn’t care if he was innocent or guilty. You just cared that he’d make a good copy. Now you’re defending him like he’s actually your boyfriend.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Navia sets down her coffee. “Look, I’m trying to be a bitch here. I’m trying to be your friend. And as your friend, I’m telling you that you’re getting in too deep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re going to the opera with him tonight, and I’m willing to bet you’re already planning what to wear, and you’re probably going to end up sleeping with him again, and then you’re going to feel even worse about the whole thing.”

She’s not wrong, which is infuriating. “I have a plan,” you say.

“Oh, this should be good.”

“I’m going to start acting weird. Clingy. All the things that are supposed to drive men away.” You pull up one of the articles on your phone, showing her. “See? I’m going to implement these tactics, and he’s going to start pulling away, and then the breakup will be easier.”

Navia skims through the article, her expression growing increasingly incredulous. “You’re going to introduce him to your parents?”

“My parents live in Mondstadt, so that’s logistically challenging, but theoretically yes.”

“You’re going to talk about baby names.”

“If necessary.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says. “You think you’re going to manipulate him into breaking up with you so you don’t have to feel guilty about it. But that’s not how this works. You’re still lying to him and using him. The only difference is that now you’re being annoying while you do it.”

“It’s for the article—”

“It’s because you like him, but you don’t want to hurt him, so you’re going to make him hurt you first. That way you can tell yourself it’s not your fault.”

“I have to do this,” you say quietly. “The promotion—”

“Is it worth it?” Navia asks. “Really? Is it worth whatever this is doing to you?”

You don’t have an answer to that.

Childe picks you up at six o’clock exactly, and you hate that your heart does a stupid little flip when you see him. He’s wearing a suit, dark blue with a crisp white shirt, and his hair is styled back from his face, and he looks unfairly attractive.

“Wow,” he says when you open the door. His eyes go wide. “You look… wow.”

You’d agonised over what to wear before settling on a black cocktail dress that Navia had insisted you buy last year for a work event. It’s elegant without being too formal, and it makes you look like you know what you’re doing, which is good because you definitely don’t.

“You clean up nice yourself,” you manage.

“I try.” He offers his arm with a small, almost shy smile. “Ready?”

No. Absolutely not. You’re about to spend the evening with a man you’re actively planning to manipulate and destroy, while also trying to get information for an article about said manipulation and destruction, while also possibly developing actual feelings for him, which is the worst possible outcome.

“Ready,” you lie.

The Opera Epiclese is stunning at night. The whole building seems to glow from within, and there are well-dressed people streaming up the steps, chattering excitedly about the evening’s performance. You’ve walked past this building a thousand times, but you’ve never been inside, and stepping through the doors feels like entering a different world. The lobby is all marble and gold leaf, with soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers. There are ushers in formal wear directing people to their seats, and a bar where people are gathering for pre-show drinks.

“Want a drink?” Childe asks, his hand settling at the small of your back.

“Sure.”

He guides you to the bar and orders two glasses of champagne without asking what you want; it should be presumptuous, but isn’t because he’s already learned that you prefer white wine to red, and champagne is close enough.

“Have you ever been to the opera before?” he says, handing you a glass.

“No. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never actually been inside this building.”

“Really?” He looks surprised. “Why not?”

“Tickets are expensive. And I’ve been busy with work.” You take a sip of champagne. “Plus, I always figured opera was for rich people and tourists.”

“I’m a rich person,” he points out.

“You’re also kind of a tourist,” you say. “You’ve only lived here for what, three years?”

“Four. And I’m hurt that you think I’m a tourist.” He’s smiling though, clearly not actually hurt. “I’ll have you know I’m very integrated into Fontainian society. I know all the best restaurants, I can navigate the canals without getting lost, and I only occasionally get my Fontaine history wrong.”

“That’s exactly what a tourist would say.”

“Rude,” Childe says. He leans closer, voice dropping. “For that, I’m not going to tell you the plot of the opera beforehand. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“It’s in Old Fontainian,” he says, grinning now.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Childe—”

“Ajax,” he corrects. “And I’m absolutely not kidding. This is a traditional performance.”

You stare at him. “I don’t speak Old Fontainian.”

“Nobody speaks Old Fontainian, malyshka. It’s a dead language. That’s what makes it art. Don’t worry, I’ll whisper translations in your ear.”

“You speak Old Fontainian?”

“Enough to get by. I had to learn it for a business deal a few years ago.” Childe—Ajax—shrugs. “It’s actually not that different from modern Fontainian once you get the hang of the grammar.”

Right. Of course he speaks a dead language. Why wouldn’t he?

The lights flicker, signalling that the show is about to start, and Childe offers his arm again. “Shall we?”

Your seats are, as promised, front row centre. You can practically reach out and touch the stage. The orchestra pit is directly in front of you, and you can see the musicians tuning their instruments, the conductor reviewing his score.

“This is insane,” you mumble as you sit down. “These seats must have cost a fortune.”

“Worth it,” Childe says simply, settling beside you. His knee brushes yours, and he doesn’t move it away.

The house lights dim. The conductor raises his baton. The music begins.

You remember, with sudden clarity, that you’re supposed to be acting weird.

The first act passes in a blur of music and incomprehensible Old Fontainian. True to his word, Childe leans over periodically to whisper translations, his breath warm against your ear. “She’s telling her father she’s in love with the poor merchant. Now the father is angry. Now he’s threatening to disown her. Now she’s singing about how love transcends social class, which is very progressive for a 200-year-old opera.”

His translations are helpful. They’re also distracting because he’s very close and smells good.

During the first intermission, you make your move.

“So,” you say brightly, as Childe returns with more champagne. “How many kids do you want?”

He nearly drops both glasses. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Kids. Children. Offspring.” You take a sip of champagne. This is what the article said to do: bring up serious relationship topics way too early. Make him uncomfortable and drive him away. “I’m thinking three. Maybe four? I’ve always wanted a big family.”

Childe stares at you. “We’ve known each other for three days.”

“I know! Isn’t it crazy how comfortable I feel with you?” You reach over and pat his knee. “I feel like I can really talk to you about anything. Like we’re already so close.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “That’s… good?”

“It is good!” You squeeze his knee. “I was actually thinking, maybe this weekend you could meet my parents. They’re in Mondstadt, but we could take the aquabus. Make a weekend of it. My mom would love you.”

“Your mom. You want me to meet your mom… this weekend?”

“Why not? When you know, you know, right?” you say, beaming at him. “My mom always says that she knew my dad was the one after their second date. We’re on our third date, so we’re technically behind schedule.”

“Behind schedule,” he repeats faintly.

“For meeting the parents, I mean. Not for getting married. I think we should wait at least six months before getting engaged. Maybe a year. What do you think?”

“I think—” He stops and takes a long drink of champagne. “I think you’re right, actually. We can meet your parents over the weekend. They sound wonderful.”

Oh. Oh, no. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. 

You scramble, trying to rapidly think of something even more off-putting to say, but the lights flicker once more. People begin moving back to their seats. Childe stands and offers his hand. “Come on,” he says. “The second act is starting. This is where it gets really tragic.”

“More tragic than a father disowning his daughter for falling in love with a poor merchant?” you manage.

“Way more tragic. Everyone dies at the end. It’s an opera.”

You take his hand and let him lead you back to your seats, and you try very hard not to think about Navia’s words from earlier.

The second act is indeed tragic. The poor merchant turns out to be a prince in disguise, which should make everything better, but instead there’s a complicated plot involving mistaken identities and a duel and someone drinking poison meant for someone else. By the end, there are bodies strewn all over the stage and the soprano is belting out a final aria about the cruel nature of fate. 

It’s beautiful and devastating, and you maybe cry a little bit, which is mortifying.

“Here,” Childe murmurs, handing you his pocket square.

“I’m not crying.”

“Of course not. You just have something in your eyes.”

You take the pocket square and dab at your eyes, trying to salvage what’s left of your mascara. “It’s just very sad.”

“It is,” he agrees. “That final aria always gets me too.”

“You’ve seen this before?”

“Three times. It’s my favourite opera.”

“Your favourite opera is about everyone dying because of miscommunication and fate?”

“I’m a simple man with simple tastes.” He’s smiling though. “Come on. I promised you dinner.”

The next day, Childe takes you to the aquarium. You compare his face to an ugly sea urchin stuck to the bottom of the petting pool. He laughs good-naturedly and, pointing to a dull sea cucumber, says he sees the resemblance between you and it.

The day after that, you watch a movie together, and you accidentally spill caramel popcorn and Diet Coke all over his new trousers. Childe waves it off, and moves out of his chair to get you a new cup, despite the movie’s climax being shown. You feel sort of guilty after that, because he’d really been looking forward to watching it.

The day after that, he takes you to a laser tag arena, and you accidentally kick him in the balls, say, “Oops!” and shoot at him with your gun. He wins anyway, but not without doubling over in pain for a good ten minutes.

All things considered, it seems as though everything’s going smoothly. You and Childe get along better than you thought you would.

“Why exactly are we doing couples’ therapy again?” Childe asks.

“Because,” you say, clutching a clipboard with an intake form that asks extremely personal questions about your relationship satisfaction, “it’s important to work on communication early. Preventative care for the relationship.”

“We’ve been dating for six days.”

“Exactly. That’s why we should start now, before bad habits form. Don’t you want us to have a strong foundation?”

Childe stares at you. “I want a lot of things. Therapy for a relationship that’s less than a week old was not on that list.”

“It should have been on the list.”

“Most people’s week-one list consists of things like ‘learn their last name’ and ‘find out if they’re a serial killer.’”

“I know your last name.”

“Do you?”

You don’t, actually. You’ve been calling him Childe, or Ajax when he insists, but you’ve never heard a surname. “It’s going to come up in therapy anyway,” you say, deflecting.

“It’s Tartaglia,” he says. “Professionally, at least.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means ‘stutterer.’ Someone called me that once when I was learning Fontainian as a kid and kept messing up my words. It stuck.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but he’s smiling slightly. “Are you going to write that down on your little form, malyshka? ‘Boyfriend uses fake Fontainian name from childhood trauma’?”

“It’s not a fake Fontainian—” You stop. “Wait. Did you just call yourself my boyfriend?”

“Did I?” His smile widens. “Must have slipped out. Y’know, because of all the couples’ therapy we’re about to do.”

Before you can respond, the door opens and a woman in her fifties with kind eyes emerges. “Ajax and…?” She checks her notes. “I’m sorry, I only have one name here.”

“That’s me,” you say quickly, standing. “Sorry. I forgot to fill in my name on the form.”

“No worries, dear. I’m Dr. Rousseau. Please, come in.”

Dr. Rousseau’s office is beige, with a small fountain in the corner that makes peaceful trickling sounds, bookshelves crammed with therapy texts, and a comfortable-looking red couch. You and Childe sit down together. He’s close enough that his thigh presses against yours, and you’re acutely aware that this is insane. This is beyond insane. You’re sitting in couples’ therapy with a man you’re actively planning to manipulate and destroy, and he’s going along with it because—

Why is he going along with it?

“So,” Dr. Rousseau says, settling into her chair with a notebook. “Tell me a little about your relationship. How did you two meet?”

“At a gallery opening,” Childe says easily. “She spilled wine on my shoes.”

“It was an accident,” you say.

“A very thorough accident. Completely soaked.”

Dr. Rousseau smiles. “And how long have you been together?”

“Six days,” you say.

Her smile freezes slightly. “…I’m sorry?”

“Six days. Well, technically seven if you count today, but we started dating six days ago.”

Dr. Rousseau sets down her pen. “And you’re seeking couples’ therapy.”

“Preventative care,” you say brightly. “We want to build healthy communication patterns early.”

“I see. And what prompted this decision?”

“She did,” Childe says, gesturing at you. “She suggested it yesterday, ‘cause she thought it would be good for us.”

“And you agreed?”

“I did.” He leans back, draping his arm across the back of the couch behind you. “I figured if she’s willing to sit in therapy after six days, she’s either very committed or very crazy, and I’m curious which one it is.”

“I’m not crazy,” you say.

“I didn’t say you were. I said I was curious.”

Dr. Rousseau scribbles something down. “I see. And tell me—what are some areas where you feel your relationship could improve?”

This is where you’re supposed to unleash a litany of complaints designed to make Childe realise you’re too much work. “Communication. I feel like we don’t communicate enough.”

“We text constantly,” Childe says, turning to look at you.

“Texting isn’t real communication.”

“We talk on the phone.”

“Phone calls aren’t the same as face-to-face.”

“We’ve been face-to-face for the past six days. You kicked me in the balls at laser tag—”

“That was an accident!”

“You didn’t even apologise before shooting me.”

“I’m sensing some unresolved conflict around the laser tag incident,” Dr. Rousseau says.

“There’s no conflict,” Childe says. “I won anyway.”

“Because I let you win. You were in pain.”

“I was fine.”

“You were doubled over for ten minutes!”

“Eight minutes. And I still won.” He turns to Dr. Rousseau. “She’s a terrible shot, by the way. Very aggressive tactics, but no accuracy.”

“I have excellent accuracy,” you say. “You’re just fast.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Dr. Rousseau clears her throat. “I’m noticing some competitive dynamics here. Tell me, do you often turn interactions into competitions?”

“No,” you say at the same time Childe says, “Maybe.”

You turn to him. “We don’t compete.”

“We do. You made that thing at the aquarium into a competition.”

“I did not make comparing our faces to sea creatures into a competition—”

“You said I looked like a sea urchin.”

“You said I looked like a sea cucumber!”

“Because you said I looked like a sea urchin first!”

“And how did that make you feel, Ajax?” Dr. Rousseau says, leaning forward in her seat. “When she compared you to a sea urchin?”

Childe considers this. “Honestly? I thought it was funny. The urchin was pretty ugly, and I was like, ‘fair enough, she’s got me there.’”

“It was a very ugly sea urchin,” you confirm.

“One of the ugliest I’ve ever seen. So when she pointed out the resemblance, I felt I had to respond in kind. The sea cucumber was right there.”

You’re trying very hard not to laugh. This is supposed to be serious. It’s supposed to be driving him away—but he’s sitting here in couples’ therapy, calmly explaining his revenge tactics, and you can feel your resolve crumbling.

“I’m sensing,” Dr. Rousseau says carefully, “that you two have very different communication styles. What attracted you to each other initially?”

This is dangerous territory. You’re supposed to say something shallow, something that suggests you’re only in it for superficial reasons. But Childe is already answering.

“She asks questions nobody else asks,” he says, and his voice is quieter now. “Everyone else wants to talk about the trial—what happened, how I felt, whether I was scared. But she just asks about normal things. About me. Not about what happened to me.” He pauses, then adds, “And she laughs at my jokes. Even the bad ones.”

Your chest feels tight.

Dr. Rousseau turns to you. “And you? What attracted you to Ajax?”

You should say something generic, meaningless. But you’re looking at him, at the way he’s watching you with those too-blue eyes, and the truth spills out before you can stop it.

“He’s kind,” you hear yourself say. “I didn’t expect that. I expected—I don’t know. Someone harder. Someone bitter, maybe, after everything. But he’s just… kind. He sends food instead of flowers because I’m allergic, and explains opera plots in dead languages. He lets me almost win at laser tag even though I kicked him in the balls.”

“I didn’t let you—”

“You did. You slowed down on purpose in the last round.”

“…Maybe a little.”

Dr. Rousseau is smiling now, a real smile. “It sounds like you two actually like each other quite a bit.”

“We do,” Childe says simply, a statement of fact.

Dr. Rousseau makes another note. “Ajax, I’d like to return to something you mentioned earlier. The trial. You said people always talk about it. Can you tell me more about that experience?”

You feel him tense slightly beside you, though his expression doesn’t change. “What do you want to know?”

“How it affected you. Not the facts—I can read those in any newspaper. But how it felt. How it changed you.”

You’re holding your breath without meaning to—this is the information you need for the article. The emotional impact of being wrongfully accused, straight from the source.

“It was…” Childe stops, seeming to search for words. “D’you know what the worst part was? Not the jail cell, or the accusations, or even standing in that box while people decided whether I was a monster. It was watching people who’d known me for years start to believe it. Friends. Colleagues. People I’d had dinner with, shared drinks with. I could see it in their eyes—this little seed of doubt. Like maybe they’d never known me at all.

“The evidence was circumstantial. I knew I was innocent, and so did my lawyer. But when you’re sitting in that defendant’s box and the prosecutor is listing all these coincidences, all these little pieces that don’t quite fit but could maybe add up to something… you start to wonder if maybe you should doubt yourself too.”

“Did you?” you ask quietly. “Doubt yourself?”

“No. I knew I hadn’t done it, but I started to doubt whether that would matter. Whether being innocent was enough, or if the narrative was too good. The rich foreign kid with a violent streak. Perfect scapegoat. When the killer struck again while I was in custody, the relief was… complicated. Because yes, I was free, but someone else had to die for that to happen. Part of me felt guilty for being relieved about that.

“After I got out, I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to relive it, didn’t want to see that doubt in people’s eyes anymore. So I just… went back to normal. Pretended nothing happened. Most people were happy to pretend along with me, because it was easier than acknowledging how close they’d come to condemning an innocent person.”

“Is that why you never gave interviews?” you ask. “Everyone wanted to hear your side, but you never spoke to the press.”

“What was I supposed to say?” Childe says. “‘I didn’t do it, please believe me’? I’d been saying that for months. Nobody listened. Why would they listen after?” He shakes his head. “And honestly? I didn’t want to be that person. The wrongfully accused guy. I just wanted to be Ajax again. Guy who likes boxing and opera and occasionally makes terrible jokes.”

“Your jokes aren’t terrible,” you say automatically.

“Liar,” he quips. “The point is… I didn’t want to be defined by the worst thing that ever happened to me. I wanted to be defined by what I chose to do after.”

The guilt sitting in your stomach has transformed into something sharper, more painful. Childe is sitting here, being vulnerable, being honest, talking about not wanting to be defined by trauma—and you’re planning to make him the subject of an article about emotional manipulation.

You’re going to be the person who proves he was right to be afraid.

“What made you trust her?” Dr. Rousseau asks, nodding towards you. “After all that?”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you, eyes roving over your face and studying you in a way that makes you want to squirm.

“She spilled wine on my shoes and looked genuinely horrified,” he says finally, “like it was the worst thing that had ever happened. I remember thinking—this person feels bad about ruining a stranger’s shoes. This person feels bad about minor accidents. After months of people thinking I was capable of murder, someone who felt guilty about wine-stained leather seemed like a breath of fresh air.”

Oh, God.

Oh, God, you’re a terrible person. You’re possibly the worst person in Fontaine.

“Malyshka, I know you’re drunk, but you need to get off my living room floor.”

You don’t want to get off Ajax’s living room floor. You’re perfectly content there, lying spreadeagled like a starfish, cheek pressed against the cold marble. It’s been a week since you met Childe and have seen him every day since; you figure he can handle you drunk.

“The floor is nice,” you mumble. “It’s cool.”

“I’m starting to worry about your standards.” Ajax crouches beside you, and even upside down and blurry, he looks unfairly attractive. “Come on. Let’s get you to the couch at least.”

“Can’t. Boneless. I have no bones.”

“You have bones. I can see your skeleton from here.”

“That’s weird,” you say. “Stop looking at my skeleton.”

He laughs, warm and genuine. It makes your chest hurt in ways that have nothing to do with the three (four? five?) glasses of wine you’ve had. “Okay, boneless woman. I’m going to pick you up now.”

“No,” you protest, but it’s half-hearted because he’s already sliding his arms under you, lifting you with ease. When he carries you to the couch, you mumble, “You’re strong.”

“Boxing,” Ajax says, setting you down gently. “I told you.”

“Right. The violence hobby.”

“It’s not a violence hobby, it’s a sport.”

“A sport where you punch people.”

“A sport where you punch people with rules.” He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water and pain medication. “Drink this. All of it.”

You take the glass but don’t drink. Instead, you stare at him, this man who’s been nothing but kind to you for a week straight, who you’ve been systematically lying to, this man whose trust you’re planning to violate in the worst possible way.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask.

“Because you’re drunk on my couch?”

“No, I mean—” You gesture vaguely, sloshing water slightly. “In general. Why are you so nice? You should be mean and awful. You were accused of murder, you could easily be an asshole about it, but instead you’re—you’re bringing me water and letting me compare you to sea urchins and agreeing to meet my parents who don’t even know you exist.”

Ajax sits down beside you, close enough that your knees touch. “Should I be mean? Would that make you feel better?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know.” You take a large gulp of water to avoid answering further. “You’re confusing.”

“I’m confusing? You’re the one who showed up at my door an hour ago, already three sheets to the wind, demanding to hang out and then immediately collapsed on my floor.”

“I didn’t collapse,” you say.

“You tripped over your own shoes and went down like a sack of potatoes.”

“Lies and slander.”

He’s smiling though, soft and fond, and it makes everything worse. You finish the water in three long gulps and set the glass down with more force than necessary.

“Why did you drink so much?” Ajax asks gently. “Bad day?”

The worst. You’d spent the entire afternoon with Euphrasie, going over your notes, planning the article structure. She’d been thrilled with your progress. This is exactly what we need, she’d said, the emotional vulnerability, the trust, the intimacy. When you pull the rug out, it’s going to be Pulitzer-worthy.

You’d gone straight to a bar after that meeting, and then to another bar, and then you’d found yourself outside Ajax’s building. Evidently, when you’re drowning in guilt and self-loathing, your first instinct is to seek out the source of said guilt.

“Just work stuff,” you say instead. “My editor is being demanding.”

“The lifestyle section is that intense?”

“You have no idea,” you say solemnly.

He laughs again. You wish he would stop doing that. Stop being charming and funny and easy to talk to. Stop making this harder than it already is.

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

“Of course.”

“Do you believe in karma?”

He blinks. “That’s… random.”

“I’m drunk.”

“Fair enough.” Ajax considers it. “I don’t know. Maybe? I’d like to think good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people, but my personal experience suggests that’s bullshit.”

“What if you’re doing something bad but for good reasons?” you say. “Like, objectively bad, but the outcome could be good?”

“Are we talking about murder? Because I feel I should clarify that my stance on murder hasn’t changed since the trial.”

“Not murder. Just… lying. Manipulating someone. Hurting them, but for a good cause.”

Ajax is quiet, studying your face. “I think that people are really good at convincing themselves that their reasons justify their actions. Sometimes they’re right, but usually, if you’re asking that question, you already know the answer.”

Your throat feels tight. “What if you can’t stop?”

“Then you come clean. You tell the truth and deal with the consequences.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “This is a very philosophical conversation for someone who can’t stand up without falling over.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain about a bottle of wine, maybe more.”

“Two bottles,” you admit. “And some whiskey.”

“Gods above,” Ajax says, standing up. “Okay. You’re staying here tonight. I’m not letting you go home like this.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“Why not? You’ve stayed over before.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I snore,” you say.

“Liar,” Ajax says. “I’ve slept next to you. You don’t snore.”

“I might start. Tonight could be the night.”

“I’ll risk it,” he says, heading towards the bedroom. “C’mon, I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

You follow him on unsteady legs, using the wall for support. His bedroom is exactly as you remember: pristine, minimalist, those hospital corners on the sheets that you’d thoroughly ruined last time you were here.

“Do you ever just… leave things messy?” you ask, gesturing at the perfectly made bed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I spent three months in a cell where I had no control over anything. Now I like things orderly,” he says, rummaging through his dresser. “Is that psychologically concerning?”

“Probably,” you muse. “But you’re in therapy now, so it’s fine.”

“We went to one couples’ therapy session that you made us go to.”

“And? What did we learn?”

Ajax pulls out a t-shirt and sweatpants. “That you’re competitive, I’m defensive, and we both need to work on our communication skills. Here.” He tosses you the clothes. “These should fit.”

You catch them clumsily. The shirt is soft, worn-in, and smells like him—that cedar and something aquatic scent that you’re starting to associate with him. “Turn around.”

“I’ve seen you naked.”

“That was different. I was sober and in control of my faculties.”

“Your faculties were pretty compromised, as I recall. You couldn’t work buttons.”

“That’s ‘cause you have too many buttons! Who has that many buttons on one shirt?”

“Normal people. People who wear normal shirts.” Ajax turns around anyway. “Let me know when you’re decent.”

You struggle out of your clothes; it’s harder than it should be because the room keeps tilting at odd angles. The sweatpants are enormous, hanging low on your hips even when you tie the drawstring. The shirt falls to mid-thigh. You look ridiculous.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m clothed.”

He turns back around. “You look…”

“Like I’m drowning in your clothes?”

“I was gonna say cute, but sure.”

Your face heats. “Shut up.”

“Can’t. It’s objectively true.” He gestures to the bed. “You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say. “It’s your bed.”

“You’re drunk, so you get the bed.”

“We can share! We’ve shared before.”

“You were sober before.”

“So? I’m not going to do anything weird. I’m just going to sleep.” You climb into the bed without waiting for his response, burrowing under the covers. The sheets smell like fabric softener and him, unfairly comfortable. “See? Already sleeping.”

Ajax sighs, but you can hear the smile in it. “Fine.”

He disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running, the sound of teeth being brushed. When he emerges, he’s in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, hair slightly damp like he splashed his face. The bed dips as he slides in beside you.

“You can come closer,” you say. “I don’t bite.”

“You might. You’re drunk and unpredictable.”

“I’m not unpredictable. I’m very predictable. Predictably guilty.”

“…What?”

Shit. “Nothing. Ignore me, I’m drunk.”

“Guilty about what?” Ajax asks.

“Everything. Nothing. Life,” you say, rolling over to face him, which is a mistake because he’s very close and very attractive and you’re very drunk and very emotional. “D’you ever feel like you’re a bad person?”

“Frequently,” he says. “I spent three months accused of serial murder, so the bad person thoughts are kind of a given.”

“But you’re not a bad person,” you say. “You’re good.”

He laughs softly. “I don’t think good people get accused of murder.”

“Innocent people do. You’re innocent.”

“Legally, yes. Socially?” He frowns, just a little, the middle of his forehead creasing. “There are people who think I got away with it. That the second killer was a coincidence or a copycat or whatever lets them sleep at night.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say.

“Maybe. But you can’t control what people believe.” His hand finds yours under the covers, fingers threading through yours. “Why do you feel guilty?”

“Because I’m not as good as you think I am,” you say quietly.

“Nobody’s as good as anyone thinks they are. We’re all just disasters pretending to have our shit together.”

“You have your shit together. Your bed has hospital corners.”

“My bed has hospital corners because if I don’t control something, I’ll lose my mind. That’s not having my shit together.”

You’re quiet for a moment, studying his face in the dim light from the window. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I think you’re the best person I’ve ever met, and I think I’m going to ruin it.”

Ajax’s expression softens. “You’re not going to ruin me, malyshka. I’m pretty hard to ruin. I’ve been through worse than whatever you think you’re capable of.”

The confidence in his voice makes you want to cry. He has no idea. No idea what’s coming, what you’re planning, how thoroughly you’re going to betray him. “What if I’m worse than you think?”

“Then I’ll deal with it,” Ajax says, squeezing your hand. “But I don’t think you are.”

You close your eyes, feeling tears prick at the corners. You’re definitely going to Hell. There’s no way around it. You’re going to Hell, and you’re going to deserve it.

“Ajax?”

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

For everything. For lying, and using you, and being exactly the kind of person you should’ve stayed away from. “For being drunk on your floor.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he says. His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. “Get some sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

“Promise you won’t leave?”

“Where would I go? It’s my apartment.”

“Promise,” you insist, feeling like a petulant child, though you don’t relent.

“I promise.” Ajax pulls you closer, and you let him, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Sleep, malyshka. Everything will be okay.”

The next morning, Ajax tells you a business associate of his—Arlecchino, the owner of the House of the Hearth, a luxury goods business—is hosting a party to celebrate the launch of their newest diamond collection. He says he’s been given two tickets, and can bring a date, and would you please do me the honour?

You say yes.

The morning after that, he sends you food from Café Lutece to your workplace once more, piping hot coffee and croissants smeared with cream, and along with it, a diamond necklace that he says Arlecchino gifted him.

For the diamond in my heart, his note reads.

The evening of the tenth day finds you standing in front of the mirror, awkwardly fiddling with the straps of your dress.

It’s a simple black number: elegant, sophisticated, the kind of thing you’d normally never be able to afford but Navia had insisted you borrow from her mother’s closet. The diamond necklace Ajax sent you sits heavy around your throat, catching the light every time you move. It’s beautiful. Probably worth more than your entire year’s salary.

“Stop fidgeting,” Navia says from where she’s perched on your bed. “You look great.”

“I look like I’m going to throw up.”

“That, too.”

You turn to face her, and the words spill out before you can stop them. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what? Go to a fancy party with your handsome boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. And I can’t—” You gesture helplessly at yourself, at the dress, the necklace. “I can’t keep lying to him. Today’s day ten. I’m supposed to dump him tonight and turn in the article tomorrow morning.”

Navia’s expression shifts from teasing to serious. “So don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t dump him, and don’t write the article. Tell Euphrasie you can’t do it.”

“And lose the promotion? Lose everything I’ve been working towards?”

“Is it worth it?” Navia asks quietly. “Really? You’ve been miserable all week. I’ve watched you fall for this guy, and now you’re supposed to destroy him for a story? That’s cruel.”

“I know,” you say. “I know, okay? But I don’t know what else to do. If I don’t turn in the article, Euphrasie will—”

“Fire you? So what? You’ll find another job. You’re a good writer. But Ajax?” She shakes her head. “You won’t find another him.”

She’s right—but the thought of throwing away two years of work, going back to square one and proving everyone who said you weren’t cut out for real journalism right—

Your phone buzzes.

Ajax: I’m downstairs. Take your time.

“I have to go,” you say.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Navia says. “You could call him right now and tell him you’re sick. You could tell him the truth. You could do literally anything except continue this charade.”

“I know.”

“You’re going anyway.”

“I have to.” You grab your clutch, checking that you have your phone, your lipstick, and your keys. “I just—I need to figure this out. Maybe I can—I don’t know. Fix it somehow.”

“There’s no fixing this,” Navia says. “There’s only telling the truth or continuing the lie. Those are your options.”

You don’t have a response to that, so you just leave.

Ajax is waiting by his car when you emerge from the building, and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees you makes your heart clench.

“Wow,” he says, and it’s the same wow from the opera, from every date, like he’s seeing you for the first time. “You look incredible.”

“It’s Navia’s dress.”

“It’s not the dress,” he says, opening the car door for you, “though the dress is nice too.”

The drive to the House of the Hearth is quiet. Ajax seems content to just hold your hand across the centre console, occasionally glancing over at you. You stare out the window and try to figure out what you’re going to do.

Option one: Go through with it. Dump him tonight, write the article, get the promotion. Become exactly the kind of person you’ve always hated.

Option two: Don’t go through with it. Lose the promotion, probably lose your job, but keep… what? A relationship built on lies? He’ll find out eventually, and he’ll hate you anyway.

Option three: Tell him the truth right now. Come clean, face the consequences, and at least maintain some shred of dignity.

Your phone buzzes. You pull it out.

Euphrasie: We need to do something about the article by tomorrow morning if possible. The editorial calendar is tight.

You stare at the message, feeling sick.

“Everything okay?” Ajax asks.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just work stuff.”

The House of the Hearth is stunning—a converted mansion in the wealthiest part of Fontaine, with marble walls and crystal lamps and other obscene displays of wealth. There are people in formal wear everywhere, champagne flowing freely, and you spot more diamonds in the first thirty seconds than you’ve seen in your entire life.

“This is insane,” you mutter as Ajax helps you out of the car.

“Arlecchino likes to make an impression.” He offers his arm. “If she asks you invasive questions, that’s just her way of showing interest.”

“Great. Can’t wait.”

The party is already in full swing when you enter. There’s a string quartet in one corner, ice sculptures in another, and waiters circulating with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Ajax is immediately pulled into conversation with various people—business associates, all very wealthy and very interested in talking to him. You smile and nod and try not to feel like you don’t belong here.

“You must be the girlfriend.”

You turn to find a woman who can only be Arlecchino. She’s tall, striking, with an air of authority that makes you want to stand up straighter.

“I’m—yes. Hi.” You extend your hand. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Ajax’s choice, not mine,” she says. Her handshake is firm. “But I approve. You’re different from his usual type.”

“I have a type?” Ajax asks, reappearing with two glasses of champagne.

“You did.” Arlecchino’s smile is sharp. “I like her the most, though.”

“I’m right here,” you point out.

“I know. I’m complimenting you.” She plucks a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Walk with me. I want to show you the new collection.”

Before you can protest, she steers you away from Ajax, through the crowd towards a private viewing room. The diamond collection is displayed under special lighting, each piece more extravagant than the last.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Arlecchino says. “Each one has a story. A history.”

“They’re stunning,” you agree.

“Ajax told me you’re a journalist.”

Your stomach drops. “Lifestyle section. Nothing too exciting.”

“Hmm. And yet you’re dating someone who was the centre of the most sensational trial in Fontaine’s recent history. Curious coincidence.”

“I met him at a gallery opening,” you say carefully. “The trial wasn’t—I didn’t know who he was when we met.”

“You strike me as someone who does her research, though,” Arlecchino says. When you tense, she shakes her head. “Relax. I’m not judging. Ambition isn’t a flaw.”

Before you can respond, you hear raised voices from the main room.

“—can’t believe you actually pulled it off! Ten days!”

You and Arlecchino exchange a look, then head back towards the commotion. You find Ajax surrounded by a group of men in expensive suits. One of them—a tall man with slicked-back hair—has his arm around Ajax’s shoulders, laughing boisterously.

“When you made that bet, Tartaglia, I thought you were out of your mind,” the man is saying, loud enough that people are starting to turn and look. “Make some girl fall in love with you in ten days? I said it was impossible!”

“Dima, keep your voice down—” Ajax is trying to extract himself, looking uncomfortable.

“Why? You won! Fair and square!” Dima raises his glass. “To Childe, who proved that any woman can be manipulated with the right—”

“That’s enough.” Ajax finally pulls away from Dima. “You’re drunk. Go home.”

“I’m celebrating! You won the bet!” Dima turns to the crowd that’s gathering, oblivious to Ajax’s discomfort. “This guy, right here, said he could make any woman fall for him in ten days, and I said—”

“I said I could not screw up a relationship for ten days,” Ajax interrupts, his voice rising. “There’s a difference—”

You’re not listening anymore. The rushing in your ears is too loud. You push through the crowd, trying to get away, trying to breathe—

“Malyshka, wait—”

Ajax catches your arm, and you spin around to face him. The entire party seems to have gone quiet, or maybe that’s just in your head.

“Is it true?” Your voice sounds strange, distant. “Did you make a bet about me?”

“It’s not what it sounds like—”

“Did you or did you not make a bet that you could make me fall for you in ten days?”

He hesitates. It is answer enough.

“Oh, my God.” You pull your arm free. “Oh, my God, you—this whole time—”

“No, listen to me—” He’s reaching for you again, but you step back. “Dima said I couldn’t maintain a relationship for more than a week, that I always get bored and bail. I was trying to prove that I could commit to something for once—”

“By using me as your science experiment?”

“It wasn’t like that! I liked you—”

“You liked me?” You laugh derisively. “How generous. You liked me while you were running your little social experiment.”

“You’re twisting this—”

You’re vaguely aware that people are watching, phones are probably out; this is going to be everywhere by morning, but you can’t stop. “Tell me, Ajax—was any of it real?”

“Of course it was real!” he says. “I fell for you—”

“When? When did you fall for me? Before or after you decided to use me to prove a point to your drunk friend?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Doesn’t have an answer.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You’re not being fair—”

“I’m not being fair?” you snap. “You made a bet about my feelings!”

“And what about you?” Ajax’s voice turns cold. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?”

You suck in a breath. “What?”

“I’m not an idiot, malyshka. The lifestyle journalist who just happens to approach the guy from the infamous murder trial? Who asks all these probing questions about trauma and feelings?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“The way you’d pull out your phone after our dates and type for ten minutes, and the fact that you work for a newspaper and I’m a story that sells.” Ajax takes a step closer, and you instinctively step back. “So, tell me—and be honest for once in your life—are you writing an article about me?”

You could lie. You could deny it, act offended, turn this back on him—but you’re so, so tired of lying.

“How to lose a guy in ten days,” Euphrasie’s voice cuts through the crowd. Your stomach plummets as your editor materialises beside you; you hadn’t known she’d been invited, too. “That was the assignment. Make a man fall for you in ten days, then dump him and document the whole thing. I always wondered who this mystery man you spoke so much about was—”

“Euphrasie, don’t—”

Ajax stares at you like he’s never seen you before. “You were going to dump me. Tonight. That was the plan.”

“It was,” you admit, because what’s the point in lying now? “But I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t going to—”

“Oh, well, that’s wonderful. How noble of you.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. “You were only going to emotionally manipulate me for ten days and write an exposé about it. What a fucking saint.”

“You did the same thing!” you cry. “You made a bet! How is that any different?”

“You wanted to lose a guy in ten days, right?” Ajax rakes a hand through his hair, fingers trembling and eyes blank now. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you anymore, as though you’ve simply ceased to exist in his world. “Congratulations. You’ve just lost him.”

You feel cold, and hot, and cold again, like your blood has turned to ice.

“No, I didn’t, Childe,” you spit. “You know why? Because you can’t lose something you never had.”

Drafts:

HOW TO ROYALLY FUCK THINGS UP IN TEN DAYS

HOW TO LOSE

HOW TO FALL IN LOVE

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS Published by The Steambird.

They say that to be a good journalist, you need to be willing to do whatever it takes to get the story. You need to be ruthless, calculating, willing to cross lines that other people won’t cross. You need to separate yourself from your subject and remember that at the end of the day, it’s just a job.

This was supposed to be an article about manipulation. About the psychology of attraction, the tactics women use to drive men away, the point at which romantic interest curdles into annoyance. It was supposed to be funny, insightful, a clever article on modern dating wrapped in a personal experiment. It was supposed to get me a promotion.

Ten days ago, I met a man at a gallery opening. I spilled wine on his shoes accidentally, and he laughed. Most men would’ve been annoyed, but he laughed, and he asked if I wanted to get dinner sometime, and I said yes.

I said yes because I had been assigned to write an article called “How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.” The premise was simple: make a man fall for you using every manipulation trick in the book, then systematically drive him away and document the whole process. My editor wanted to understand the psychology of romantic sabotage. The readers would eat it up. I would finally escape the lifestyle section.

I needed a subject. He was perfect: high-profile, and media-shy. A man who had been wrongly accused of murder and acquitted, who had never spoken to the press and moved through the world with his guard up. If I could get him to open up to me and make him trust me, the article would be dynamite.

They say you can’t unring a bell. You can’t unknow something once you know it. The man now knows that I approached him for an article. That our first date, our first kiss, and our first night together—all of it happened because I was trying to manipulate him.

It doesn’t matter that I fell for him, or that I quit the assignment. It doesn’t matter that I would give anything to go back and meet him differently, honestly, as just myself.

It only matters what I did.

This is not a how-to guide, or a divulgence on manipulation tactics or dating psychology. This is a warning.

You will meet someone who makes you laugh when you’re having an allergic reaction. Someone who sends you food instead of flowers, who whispers translations at the opera, and who agrees to couples’ therapy after six days because you asked. Someone who has been hurt before and chooses to trust you anyway.

You will have a choice.

You can treat them like a person, or you can treat them like a story. You can be honest, or you can be clever. You can build something real, or you can build something that looks real enough to write about.

Choose wisely.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This article is being published in place of the originally assigned piece. The author has resigned from her position at The Steambird effective immediately. We wish her the best in her future endeavours.

There’s a box at your doorstep, and a cream-coloured envelope on top of it, with your name written in a script you’d recognise anywhere. The note inside reads:

You left something behind. 

Okay, no, I’m kidding. You didn’t leave something behind, you left someone behind. Namely, me.

I read your article. The whole city did. It was good. Better than good, actually.

Here’s what I know: we both fucked up. You lied to me about why you approached me, and I lied to you about the bet. We were both using each other for something; we both caught feelings we weren’t supposed to catch.

Here’s what else I know: I miss you, malyshka.

I’m at Café Lutece every morning at 7 A.M. I’ll be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Come find me. I’ll buy you coffee.

— Ajax

P.S. The box has your purse in it. The one you left on purpose on day one. I kept it because I’m sentimental and pathetic, but you can have it back now.

P.P.S. Or you could leave it at my place again.

You’re walking down a dark hallway. 

There’s a dim light at the end of the corridor, illuminating what seems to be a wooden table with one chair parked next to it. As you near, you see the two objects on the table–a bronze dagger and a golden coin. The air is bitterly cold, sending a shiver down your spine.

You blink. The next thing you know, the coin is spinning on its end, and your hearing is muffled like you’re underwater. Just as you reach out to grab it when it slows, a deep, chilling voice booms from somewhere in the darkness.

“Soon, you’ll see,” it calls. A sharp ringing pierces your eardrums.

Your blood runs cold and your limbs feel like they’ve turned to lead. When you peek over your shoulder, the scene changes.

You’re fully submerged underwater. Drowning. You’re not bound, but the saltwater is murky, stinging your eyes. The pressure is smothering.

You look up and begin to fight your way to the surface, with each stroke you claw through the water becoming more labored as your lungs empty.

Just when you’re about to breach the surface, you wake with a jolt that yanks you back into consciousness.

Once your breathing evens out, you look around to see the rest of your cabin sleeping soundly. Lee is completely facedown on his bunk near the door.

Sunlight filters through the sheer yellow curtains, and the room is quiet save for the occasional snore. Your father's domain is a comfort to your siblings, who are made of light and laughter, but you've never felt that strength in the same way.

-

You’ve learned that the infirmary is dead silent first thing in the morning, even with the odd camper still snoozing after an overnight stay. 

It’s empty now though, as you busy yourself grabbing supplies to restock the cabinets. The air isn’t the most crisp, but it’ll just get more humid throughout the day. Your arms are full with a basket of gauze, dressings, and ambrosia when the floor creaks behind you. 

“Did Lee really send you up here this early to get ready for capture the flag, or are you just avoiding everyone at breakfast?" Luke catches your eye as you make your way from the back closet to the storage along the front wall of the room. 

You say nothing yet, but cast him a sidelong look before turning to the shelf in front of you. 

He makes himself at home on the bed nearest to you, flopping down sideways with his legs hanging off as the springs creak under his back. 

“Wasn’t hungry,” is all you offer, propping your basket on your left hip. Truthfully, you crept out of your cabin as soon as possible after you woke, and you’ve been in the infirmary since. Measuring and mixing have given you more peace than sleep ever has. 

You can feel his eyes following your every movement, from refilling the designated ambrosia jar to tidying the pile of gauze that’s fallen over. He’s too quiet. 

“Alright, what do you want?” You spin to look at him once you’ve emptied your basket. “If you’re gonna stare I’ll give you something to do.”

“Oh, am I not allowed to check in on my favorite healer now?” He props himself up on his elbows and raises an eyebrow. You try not to look at his arms. “You weren’t sitting with Hannah and Lee so I figured you would be in here.”

“Since when am I your favorite? Michael let you go early with that burn last week but I would’ve benched you so fast.” You have a sneaking suspicion he’s here to bribe you before capture the flag starts later, but you can see the healing blister on the heel of his left hand from where you stand. “And Lee always gives you an extra cube of ambrosia when you’re here.” You do, too. 

“C’mon sunshine,” he huffs out a laugh. “You’ve been my favorite since you slapped that weird brown paste on my knee after I skinned it sparring with Connor.”

You roll your eyes, both at the nickname and the memory. You’ll be the first to admit, you have a more straightforward bedside manner, but you clearly remember Luke whining about the broken skin until you did something about it. That was around two years ago, when you had just started really learning about healing and remedies. You both must’ve been 15 or so.

“Anyway, would you consider, later today, maybe–wait!” Luke’s sitting up now, and you’ve turned to go gather ingredients for a salve, fully expecting what he’ll say next. He’s quick to follow you back to the storage cabinet as you grab a handful of herbs and a jar of honey, and then he trails behind you to the sink, grabbing a ceramic bowl off the shelf to place on the countertop in front of you before you get the chance. 

You glare up at him. Luke has a wide, closed-mouth grin on his stupid boy face. 

“Okay, hear me out,” he starts again, leaning over your left shoulder, while you gather the basil and mint to begin chopping them up. He pinches the sleeve of your oversized, faded camp tee and tugs gently. Luke’s pretty sure this shirt went missing from his closet after the last time you were both out at the lake (he’s right, but he’s not getting it back now).

“No.” You keep your gaze down on the cutting board in front of you. You knew this was coming. Lee and Michael managed to get your cabin involved in some alliance with Ares and Athena’s kids, leaving Luke and his siblings without much to work with this week. They may have actually signed Cabin 7 up for double stable duty next week.

“I haven’t even asked yet.” 

“You’re making that little face,” you say, lifting the knife in your hand to point at his chest.

Now it’s Luke’s turn to roll his eyes and throw his head back, exasperated. “All I was going to say was that it might be beneficial to the wellbeing of Cabin 11 if you… maybe gave me an idea of whatever Annabeth has been brainstorming?” His idea sounds more like a question. “Or even just tell me who’s guarding the flag!”

You give him a flat look. 

“What if I pick up your shift in the strawberry fields next week?” he offers earnestly. Now that is a compelling proposition. For a child of the sun, spending hours outside picking strawberries midday is probably your least favorite thing at camp, and Luke knows this.

But you love Annabeth, and you know she would hit you if you gave anything away, even to her dear brother (who doesn’t seem to realize you have the same shift anyway). It’s her first week leading the three cabins, and she’s taking no risks. 

“You know I can’t, Luke.” The corners of your mouth curve upwards. Luke feels like the room just got warmer. “They’re running a tight ship this week. Now get out of my face, don’t you have lessons to be leading?” 

-

Let it be known that lying in your bunk facing the wall in the fetal position is not how you would’ve chosen to spend this week’s round of capture the flag. 

You were fully planning to accompany Annabeth and little Kayla Knowles out to the far end of the north forest while Michael, Malcolm, and Clarisse retrieved the blue team’s flag, but your brain had different plans. 

Maybe it was the stifling afternoon heat or the amount of campers you had on your hands, but a thick pressure began to build behind your eyes in the middle of supervising the Cabin 7 vs. Cabin 4 volleyball match. You tried to blink it away, but your head started to throb right as match point ended, and you left Katie Gardner in charge for the rest of the hour so you could retreat to the Apollo cabin. 

By the time you walked all the way back with squinted eyes and two fingers jammed into your left temple and collapsed on your twin-sized bed, the pain had grown sharp and white-hot, leaving you with little to do but ride it out.

Your head is pounding too hard for you to sleep it off, so distantly, you hear the conch blow at the beginning and the end of the game. Hopefully Annabeth won. You give it 30 minutes until any of your bunkmates return. 

With no clue how much time has passed, the throbbing in your skull and waves of nausea eventually subside enough for you to open your eyes without feeling sick. It takes a few minutes to muster enough energy to roll over and look for your water bottle, but you take slow sips once you sit up, tuck your knees close to your chest, and lean against the wall behind you.

You see a shadow pass under the cabin door before you hear a thunk on the other side of the wood and it’s wedged open by a forearm still bearing a shield. 

“Sunshine?” Luke calls into the dim room quietly. He’s ditched his helmet somewhere and his sword is sheathed at his hip, but he still has his chestplate on. His gaze finds you almost immediately and his brows knit together.

“Hey, captain,” you wince at him from your bottom bunk. 

“Oh. Headache?” he asks. His dark brown eyes still sparkle even though his team must have lost with how quickly he’s shown up at your door. 

You simply nod in response as Luke discards his shield by the door and crosses the room in a few short strides. His muddy Converse just left a mark on the doormat that Lee will complain about later. The mattress dips when you shift over to make room for him next to you.

“You should’ve told me,” Luke says, turning to face you and reaches to tuck back a stray piece of your hair. His hands are gentle, afraid to disrupt what equilibrium you’ve managed in the past few minutes. Your calf bumps his thigh as he does so.

“Wasn’t time,” you shrug. You already felt bad enough leaving Katie alone with 20 campers, and you wouldn’t have bothered Luke anyway. Your head still aches. Meanwhile, he pokes at the raised skin on your knee from a cut you got a couple days ago. It’ll probably leave a thin scar.

“Need anything?” Luke glances up to ask his third question in not even five minutes. You want to prod at his brow with your index finger until it smooths back out. 

“Uh-uh, just a debrief of how the game went?”

“Well, uh, we lost. You didn’t miss much.” 

You tilt your head and fix him with a stare. You know he’s not being truthful. 

Luke relents, sighing. “Clarisse almost impaled Chris, for real this time.” You snort softly at that. “We didn’t even get close to your flag by the time Malcolm was body-checking Connor and Travis. And Michael knocked Katie out before she could even do anything.” Your lips quirk up and you give a satisfied hum.

“Annabeth looked so smug I–” Luke’s face softens as he starts to continue, when two pairs of footsteps and giggling can be heard from the porch.

Kayla and Hannah burst through the door, twin smiles on their faces in celebration. Hannah notices the two of you first and shoots you a softer look as they drop their weapons at the door. 

“Hey, you! Should’ve seen Kayla tag this guy twice in a row,” Hannah raises her chin in greeting toward Luke. 

“No! Just because she got me twice doesn’t mean she got me that good!” he says, throwing his arm up in protest. Luke would never admit it, especially not right here, but Kayla’s first arrow had stung and the second one almost winded him. 

“I saw you almost drop your sword!” Kayla calls back. “Anyway, why are you still in here? Cabin 7 is for winners only today.”

He gestures toward you and scrunches his nose. “She didn’t even play today!” Turns out your valid excuse is negated when it helps Luke’s argument. 

“Okay, and? She also didn’t trip into the creek!” That explains the mud.

The dull ache in your skull peaks again with her volume. You try not to, but your eye still twitches the slightest bit. Luke notices out of the corner of his eye and lowers his brow in Kayla’s direction. He inhales like he’s about to speak, but you shake your head to cut him off and smack the side of his arm with the back of your hand before he gets a word out. 

Hannah and Kayla exchange a glance and a raised eyebrow when he turns back to you.

“Better get outta here. I’ll be fine, promise. Especially with these two here now.” You gently clap him on the shoulder and give him a shake. 

“Yeah Luke, we’ve got her.” Hannah encourages. Some food might help at this point, even if you don’t have much of an appetite. With how long the game took to finish, there’s only 40 minutes or so until the dinner conch. 

“I better see you later, Sunshine,” Luke says, leaning his palms on his knees before standing up again. Your mattress creaks in protest when he moves. “And not late, either.” He moves to collect his shield before opening the door. You can hear Lee and Michael talking about some Athena kid’s gnarly gash behind him.

Luke turns over his shoulder to cast you one last glance before the door swings shut.

- 

You easily spot Hannah and the seat next to her that she’s saved for you when she waves you over. 

She’s 15 and in her second summer at camp, and she’s clearly inherited your father’s talents in music and art. You think about when you helped Hannah chop her hair into a short blonde bob last week and how she’s grown to become one of your favorite siblings.

Luke spots you over the crowd of campers as soon as you walk through the archway of the dining pavilion, and his eyes follow you all the way from the entrance to your seat. You didn’t come in with the rest of your cabin, but you’ve regained some color in your cheeks by the time you arrive.

While Hannah and Kayla are filling you in on what else you missed this afternoon, your absentminded gaze drifts toward the Hermes table. Luke’s already looking at you, and raises his eyebrows in greeting when you lock eyes. 

You smile. He does too, a toothy one with dimples on full display and eyes crinkling.

As campers file out and head toward the amphitheater for the campfire (you’ve never been big on sing-alongs anyway), you’re about to make your way back to the Apollo cabin when you hear footsteps catching up to you and a hand lightly catches your wrist from behind. 

“Walk and talk?” Luke asks when you look back to meet his gaze. The way the evening light is hitting his sharp features and highlighting his jawline is a bit distracting. You nod and start telling him about two of the middle schoolers you were in charge of during arts and crafts while you walk. They kept writing on each other with markers, but you think they like each other. 

“Oh, and you know little Levi?” you ask. He absentmindedly hums along when you mention one of his campers. “In our session this morning he hit like, two bullseyes. Might be moving to seven soon.”

You’ve reached the porch of your cabin, but at some point on your short walk you grabbed Luke’s left bicep and his mind went fuzzy at the edges. He’s so focused on chasing the feeling that he follows you inside after you drop his arm to yank open the door. 

Luke doesn’t know what to do with himself now, but he’s half listening to your recap of the volleyball game earlier while he watches you rustle around your bunk, grabbing an extra change of clothes and your shower caddy. He’s more focused on you than your words and how your eyes shine with care for those around you. 

Luke’s staring at you with soft eyes and something more than fondness.

He opens the door with his shoulder before you can when you go to exit and falls back into step beside you. It’s Luke’s turn to catch you up on whatever prank Connor and Travis had pulled this morning during their sword fighting lesson, and you nod along while he talks. 

You stop walking once you’ve reached your destination, and you grasp at his elbow to get his attention. He blinks at you. 

“I’m uh, gonna shower, so…” you jab your thumb over your shoulder in the direction of the bathroom.

Luke’s face flushes with warmth. “Oh, right! I’ll, uh, leave you to it then.” He rubs the nape of his neck as he slowly backpedals. He trips over his own sneakers when he turns to go down the stairs. 

“Goodnight, sunshine. Sleep tight!” he calls. He shakes his head with a chuckle, walking toward the campfire to join the others.

“Aye aye, captain!” you echo with a laugh as you watch him disappear back over the hill. 

-

Sleep doesn’t come easily to you nowadays, even after a warm shower, a cup of chamomile tea at your side, and a good—albeit boring—book about medicinal herbs in your hands. Your dreamscape isn’t any kinder once you manage to drift off after staring at the beams of the cabin ceiling for Apollo knows how long.

The first scene you’re presented with is a little boy with unruly dark curls trembling in his bed. It’s clear that he’s been crying, and he looks so, so small. A green light glows from the crack under the door. You don’t want to be here–you shouldn’t be seeing this. 

Vision twisting, the next thing you know, you’re back in that same dark room with the golden coin spinning even faster on the table. The dagger is missing, but you can hear the sound of thunder and crashing waves from somewhere in the distance. 

You blink, slow as molasses. Now you stand behind a young boy sitting on the dock of the lake. His golden blond hair catches the sunlight while he skips stones, but you don’t recognize him. 

Turning your head, you’re back on the shore at home. The wind is frigid and the sky is overcast as an older boy with dark hair faces away from you and toward the tide. Is that blood under his arm?

You feel like you know him, but something’s different. There’s a quiet, deep buzzing in the background. You go to take a step forward but look down to see your feet rooted where you stand. 

When you raise your gaze, you wake quietly with a small start. Your chest feels tight, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve lost something you haven’t even found yet. Your hands tremble when you wipe at your eyes and reach for your nightstand.

It’s still pitch-black out, and you breathe sharply out of your nose. It’s 4:48 a.m. according to your watch, but you know you won’t be able to fall back asleep now. Not after that.

You roll out of your bunk and throw on a sweatshirt that’s been worn thin over the years before making your exit. Bypassing the lake completely, you continue down the long path toward the beach.

-

It’s been about an hour since you made it down to the shore and plopped down in the sand, your shoulders coiled tight. The sky is starting to pinken with the sunrise just on the horizon. 

You think of your father, beginning his day. Thick clouds cover up most of his handiwork this morning. You wonder how often he thinks about his children here at camp, if he even cares.

“What are you doing all the way down here?” Luke calls from behind you. His voice is still thick with sleep and he lets out a soft grunt when he sits down next to you, wrapping his arms around his knees and interlocking his fingers. He’s wearing a wrinkled Montauk crewneck that he definitely nicked from your closet, you remember getting it last year after a summer shower poured on your trip with Annabeth, leaving your teeth chattering.

When you first met, Luke used to pick at you, asking question after question just to get you to look his way. 14-year-old you wanted to keep him at arm’s length, but he grew on you like a fungus.

Now you search for each other in every room. You’ve both grown so much, and you can’t pinpoint when you started feeling this way. 

The overcast sky casts a blue filter over everything. You look at Luke. The salty breeze pushes his thick curls to the side and the morning light makes the scar tracing his cheek look fresher. You knew he hated it. Hated what it stood for, at least in his mind.  

You would never tell him, but something in you loves it. The morning light softens his features, and your eyes stop for a second on his cupid’s bow. Waves crash on the shore in the background. 

Luke thinks of when he and Annabeth first arrived at camp, still reeling. You were quieter back then but still a steady presence for the both of them. Over the next few months, you and Luke became tied to two ends of the same thread without realizing it. Now, he can’t imagine camp without being in your orbit.

He stares at your profile as you gather your thoughts. With your windswept hair and nose wrinkled in thought, it occurs to Luke that he would do anything for you. It makes him want to do something absurd. His eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second. 

He looks back out toward the sound and throws his right arm over your shoulder instead. You can feel how warm he still is from sleep, and his heat radiates onto your chilled skin where the outside of your thigh is pressed flush against his. Automatically, you grab at his fingers over your arm and trace the new scrape between his knuckles he must’ve gotten yesterday.

“Huh? What’s up?” Luke prompts again, nudging your knee with his.

“S’fine, Luke,” you knit your brows together and refuse to meet his eye, staring out at the waves as they crest and break.

You’re debating how much you want to share with him. Demigods are no strangers to weird dreams, and Luke knows you’ve been having them more often than the average camper, but you haven’t told him any exact details yet. Telling him what you’ve seen feels like admitting something is wrong.

He waits a beat. “Clearly not. You’ve been quieter lately.”

Luke’s one of the few people you trust with things like this. In the years he’s known you, he’s learned you’ll only tell him when you’re ready. But leave it to him to prod it out of you.

You draw in a long breath, looking down at your lap. “I, uh–my dreams are getting worse. I don’t know.” You finally settle on. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, Luke,” you huff gently. “I barely know what I saw. None of it makes sense.”

You pause. Luke’s looking at you expectantly, eyes searching your face. Now he’s tracing the outside of your shoulder with his fingertips.

“There was a, uh, table. With a spinning coin, in a dark room.”

Out of the corner of your eye, he raises an eyebrow. You know you must sound crazy to feel this shaken.

“And then there was a boy on the dock. He seemed important but I couldn’t see his face.”

“Have you told Chiron?”

“No, most mornings I can’t remember enough details anyway.” You grab a handful of sand and look back up at him. “I just–it’s getting harder to even get my brain to shut up.”

Luke purses his lips at that. For a second, all you can see is the scared little boy sobbing in his bed. You blink. 

You’ve heard the myths, and prophecy comes at a cost more often than not. Cassandra had been cursed by your very own father so that no one would believe her, while Aesacus was transformed into a bird. Maybe then you could fly away from all of this.

“I mean, why am I the one having these dreams?” you continue, turning to look back out over the ocean and loosening your grip on the sand until it runs out like an hourglass. “My father said prophecy is always a blessing, but I don’t buy it.”

You think about Lee, Michael, Kayla, and Hannah. How, in some ways, they’re everything you’re not. If it weren’t for the weird interest in medicine and prophetic dreams you didn’t even agree to, you might’ve been left in Cabin 11 forever. Even so, it took Apollo half a year before he claimed you right after you turned 14.

His expression sours. “When did you talk to him?” Luke’s arm involuntarily tightens the slightest bit around you. 

“At the solstice. He only talked to me and Michael before he got distracted. Started reciting some haiku to a naiad instead.” You start tracing shapes in the sand next to you. 

Luke had been too busy avoiding his own father the last time you visited Olympus.

He knows firsthand what prophecy can do to a person. Luke remembers his mother, the smell of burnt cookies, and the way kool-aid would dry like glue between his fingers.

“Anyway, what’s the point of ‘the gift of prophecy’ if I can’t see what’s coming?” you ramble on, raising your hands to illustrate the air quotes. 

He makes a weird disgruntled noise from the back of his throat. “Sunshine, it’s not your job to know what’s next.” You don’t raise your head. 

Hypothetically, you do know that. You’re just a 17-year-old demigod. But you can’t help but feel like something greater than the two of you is brewing. Your throat feels thick with words you can’t say yet. 

“We’re gonna be okay,” Luke lowers his head to look you in the eye and says your real name, and your pulse jumps. You hope he can’t hear your heart pounding in your chest. “Whatever’s coming, I’ll be here. Trust me?”

You pause before taking a shaky breath and nodding. “Yeah, Luke. Me too.” You trust him with your life. Gods knows he’s probably saved it enough times by now.

A more comfortable silence falls and his gaze settles on your face again. You might just be Luke’s favorite person. He doesn’t give the gods much credit, but he’s glad fate at least brought him here, to you. He’s not beaming, but his eyes are shining as the corners of his eyes pinch the slightest bit. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” 

It was no secret who he and Sammy were. The Winchester name was practically a famous curse now, where it was originally just some fickle surname in the eyes of most humans who knew it - in hunter terms, though, the Winchesters were old news... at least, you thought they were. Hunters living after thirty-five was a miracle in itself, but those two were practically ran-through in terms of fighting. There is such a thing as old news, you know!

You hated how Dean stole your hunts. How he thought that, somehow, you weren't cut out for what you did. Maybe it was that disgustingly paternal side to him, or the side that lost Jo that makes him like that. Maybe it's the fact that you remind him of Krissy if he'd have seen her grow up real nice.

2016's March was boring. There was a hunting dry spell, so to speak, and you'd just about begun to wonder if maybe there was such a thing as giving up the handle, until some shoddy vampire hunt made itself obvious roughly three hours from you. Only problem was that Dean was itching to get his mitts filthy with vamp blood. He even took the liberty of getting himself a motel room at the same place you did. What a stand up guy!

Baby passes your own car on the highway, first - you think you hallucinate it out of exhaustion. You see him in a diner window, second - you realise you're not hallucinating. In the PD as a shoddy FBI agent, third, and in the motel lobby, fourth.

Room six, you knock, or rather pound on the door aggressively like some street thug demanding money he's owed. The click of a gun's safety is heard from behind said door - very thin, you note, kickable with a man's force - and you know he's looking through the peephole, then even muttering to himself a litany of curses as he swings open the door. You tromp into the room.

"Didn't know you were so happy to see me." he says, too cheery. You hate how cheery he is, and as a result look at him in a deadpan manner. "Oh, c'mon, sweetheart. Don't be a bitch."

There's a wicked, smug smirk on his face, one that makes him look like one of those good-for-nothing perverse old men, but you know better. You could scream at him. In fact, you almost do, your brows going down, down, till your expression resembles a frown. What you want to say is a tacenda.

"You can't leave well enough alone, can you?" You bite, standing on the worn motel carpet, your hip cocking to the side. "What're you even doing here?"

"No need to be so," he gestures to you with a wave of his hand, tilting his head downward as he looks you over. "Grouchy. You think you can handle a group of bloodsuckers after bein' in hiding after months? You're outta practice."

You scowl. "Out of practice? Who are you to judge, old man?"

"Sweetheart, your stance is about as open as a whore's legs. C'mon, throw a few punches. I promise you that you'll lose."

He's baiting you. He is, and you know it, because that's what he does. That's what he did in Nevada, when you worked a case together, and he got you so mad that he ended up shutting you up against the door of the Impala in an empty lot, your hair in a mess, drool dripping down your chin, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat. Clearly you hadn't learned from the shame of that.

He's baiting you, and yet it's incredibly difficult to ignore him. It's not your first time raising your hand at a man, and definitely not your first time trying to raise your hand at him. Dean lets you get one in, this time, and your fist collides with his jaw half-heartedly. On the next he catches your wrist, that same sleazy grin on his face.

"Dean," you mutter, jerking your wrist back. "Get off me, you ass, let go."

He doesn't, instead narrowing his eyes. "You gonna tell a vamp to 'get off'?" he coos mockingly, grabbing your face harshly with his free hand, your cheeks squished uncomfortably.

Silence fills the tired motel room. It's seen countless scenes like this, more or less. You wince, staring up at him uncomfortably, and then you spit at him. It's an unladylike gesture - downright gross. The stuff lands on his cheek, dripping down. Dean lets go of your face, his fingers wiping the spit off his cheek. He looks at them, hums, and brings them to his mouth. Sucks slowly.

"Thanks. How sweet," he murmurs. "Didn't know you were so generous, honey."

Dean's hand cups your cheek, now, a little gentler. There's no point in grabbing you now; you're practically frozen in front of him, mouth dropping open in a clueless, surprised little 'o'. This is not what you intended at all. No, not really, but you knew. The minute you stormed into his motel room, you knew.

He acts like he's thinking for a second, scrutinising you. "Y'needed the attitude fucked outta you, again?"

"No," you deny, shifting from foot to foot, not pulling away even a bit. "What, you think I'd come to you for that?" you say, biting at the inside of your cheek.

"I think you come to me for alott'a things," he answers, then, sweeter, ushers you closer. "Nothing's wrong with admitting you want somethin'."

You swallow, wet your lips, sway side to side like an anxious thing, suddenly feeling much more tense. A nod. "I'll admit it if you give it to me."

Dean smiles imperceptibly, his expression full of self-satisfaction, and squeezes your face again. Kisses you in the same way he did in Nevada, with his fingers easing your mouth open, pressing on the hinge of your jaw, tongue against your gums. His saliva tastes like cheap whiskey. The thing is, you let him kiss you. For all of your complaining, you let him, and you know you will again when he crashes your next case.

"That's a girl," he murmurs, letting go of your wrist so he can slide his hand up your shirt. Impatient. Up, up, until he's pawing at your chest like some dog, groping, thumb rubbing over your nipples, making you press yourself against him eagerly. "There we go, you're real quiet now."

"Needed this," you admit against his mouth, trying to undo his belt, your actions sloppy and out of practice. It really has been a while, you think, and when he tilts your head back to bite at your neck, you squirm like some kind of virgin.

"I can tell." Dean chuckles, pulling your shirt over your head, groaning quietly as he pulls back to look at you.

The whole thing is a mess of clothes; you scrambling to get his jeans off, him doing the same to yours, practically tripping as you kick your boots off. You moved at some point, half-lying on the bed, propped up by your elbows, Dean on top of you. Somehow you can't tell if his mouth stayed on you the whole time - it must've, it is now. His tongue circles your nipple, leaving saliva trails that cool in the fan-chilled air, his knee pressing into your clothed cunt.

You mewl and whine, dragging him closer.

"Fuck, girl, calm yourself," Dean mutters, pressing his thumb against your lower lip, prodding until you open your mouth properly, grazing it with your teeth and sucking on his thumb with a content hum. Your hips rut against his knee, and he grabs your hip, guiding your movements. "See? No need to be so fussy."

He pulls your underwear down, watching, chuckling to himself as the gusset sticks to your damp pussy and pulling his thumb from your mouth with a pop and rubbing your clit, spreading your saliva over it. You rub yourself against him, panting already like some bitch in heat.

"Want it now," you protest needily, looking at him with pleading eyes, lips swollen and shiny with spit. "Please, please, Dean. You can have the hunt, you can have the one after that, just give it to me."

"What'd your daddy think, knowing that you're askin' for me like this?" he murmurs, but he's already dragging his boxers down, teasing your soaked folds with the tip, pressing inside your hole and then pulling back out. "I don't think he'd like it much."

"Don't care," you mutter, looking down between the two of you, eyes on his dick, swollen and already leaking pre. You swallow down the awkward lump in your throat that always seems to form around him.

Dean gives a little shake of his head, huffing an amused breath out, making one of those lovely noises - half groan, half pant - as he pushes in.

"Here, c'mon," he coos, pulling you towards him, slowly bottoming out, cock nudging against all of the ridges you can never get yourself. The stretch is warm, comforting, and you moan quietly. "C'mon, honey, take it, thaaats it."

He practically uses you as a fleshlight - practically, because, well, you're half-limp in his arms, leaning up and trying to kiss him on the mouth, missing and getting his chin instead, which seems like an odd, domestic gesture. Dean uses your hips as a way to drag you back onto him, your clit grinding against the coarse patch of hair at the base of his cock as you spread your legs wider, whorishly, as if him fucking you until you're cockdrunk isn't enough.

You tighten around him, and he actually moans, leaning down to bite at your shoulder, suck at the skin below your collarbones, leaving faint red marks. "Fuckin' easy, huh? All you need is some dick and a few kisses n'you're ready to cum?"

"Please," you whine stupidly, pushing up against him, your clit pulsing, smearing slick against him. "Please, lemme."

"'Course, sweetheart." he hums, fucking into you with hard, deep thrusts, your tits bouncing. You look obscene, your eyes glazed over, your mouth ajar.

You manage to get out his name in a short, strangled-sounding gasp, before you shudder, your legs locking around his as your orgasm rolls through you. Dean makes a sound you think is a whimper as you drag him closer, but you're too lost to focus on it. You're well-fucked, now, so he uses your cunt to chase his orgasm, his movements harsher.

"Where d'you want it?" he pants out, hurried, desperate.

"Inside," you slur, weak, hazy, drunk off of his voice, the fullness and your orgasm.

"Fuckin' crazy." Dean shakes his head, muttering out a sharp 'uh-uh', before pulling out and working himself so he can finish on your stomach. Cum splatters against your navel and ribs in warm, thick ropes, and you arch your chest up to him as if to offer him more. More?

He flops down on the bed next to you, dragging your limp, spent body against his, uncaring of the fact that the cum on your torso is smearing against his own.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.

“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”

She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.

You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.

It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!

It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.

“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.

Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.

It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.

Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.

You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.

But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.

They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.

Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.

“Chocolate chip?”

A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.

“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.

“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”

“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”

“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”

Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.

No matter how much you may wish that was the case.

You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.

You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?

Or is he still searching, all these decades later?

As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.

You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”

There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”

“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”

“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”

“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”

You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.

“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”

He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.

You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”

He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”

“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”

“I think I can handle that.”

You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.

Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.

It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.

It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.

For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.

He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.

“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.

So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.

Well, partially lied.

Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.

But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.

What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.

No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.

You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.

Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.

He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.

Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?

But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.

He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.

Right where his soul mark used to be.

Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.

It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.

He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.

He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.

Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.

Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.

But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.

So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”

The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.

There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.

Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”

You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—

Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.

You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.

“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.

“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”

“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.

He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.

“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.

“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—

Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”

Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.

As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“I have a confession to make.”

You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”

“Nope.”

You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.

“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”

You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.

From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”

“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”

You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.

“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”

The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.

You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.

“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.

“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”

You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”

“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”

When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”

You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”

You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.

Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.

But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.

That was before Bucky.

“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”

She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”

“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”

“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”

As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?

No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.

Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.

He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.

You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.

You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.

It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.

Reality is never quite as sweet.

Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.

You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.

“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.

“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.

Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.

He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.

Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.

“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”

“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”

“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”

Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.

“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”

Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.

“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”

“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”

“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”

“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”

And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.

Bucky doesn’t move.

You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.

“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”

You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”

You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”

“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”

You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.

He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.

It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

You don’t go back to your room.

You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.

There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.

There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.

You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.

Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.

Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.

Archives with information about you.

You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.

It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.

And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?

You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.

You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.

Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.

Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?

If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?

Or would you still love him?

Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.

But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.

That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.

“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”

The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”

You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”

Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.

“Like I said. I know you well enough.”

You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.

Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.

He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”

You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.

“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”

He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”

You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.

“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”

For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”

We.

You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.

It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.

It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?

But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.

“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”

“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.

Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.

And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.

But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.

Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.

Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”

Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.

A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.

“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”

“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”

He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”

You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.

“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”

He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”

That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.

For better or for worse.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.

Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.

You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.

Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.

The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.

“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”

Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”

You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.

A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.

Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”

You swallow and nod once.

Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.

Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.

You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.

Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”

He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?

You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.

Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.

Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.

You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.

You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.

Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.

You grab one at random and flip it open.

Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?

“Any luck yet?”

Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.

“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”

You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.

Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—

Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.

“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.

You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.

Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.

But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.

You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.

“Wait.”

Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.

“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”

He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.

You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”

You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.

“Bucky—”

Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.

Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.

“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”

Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.

Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.

“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”

You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.

And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.

You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.

You do none of these things, of course.

Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.

You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.

“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”

You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.

But you don’t pull your hand away, either.

“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”

His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”

God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.

You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.

Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.

Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.

Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.

As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.

You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.

Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.

You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.

I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.

Say something. Anything.

But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.

Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.

The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.

Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.

The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.

The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.

He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.

And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.

Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.

You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.

And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.

He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.

He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.

He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.

Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.

And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.

That wasn’t fair.

He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.

A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.

He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.

“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.

He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.

“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.

Bucky swallows. “Hi.”

“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”

For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.

He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”

“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.

“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”

His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”

“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”

You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.

He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.

Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.

The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.

He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.

He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.

You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.

He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.

“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.

He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.

“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”

He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.

I love you, Bucky. I choose you.

Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.

It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.

Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.

“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.

Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.

You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”

“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”

You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”

“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”

You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”

He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”

You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.

His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.

You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.

He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.

“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.

His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.

A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.

“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.

The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.

His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.

Home.

“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.

He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.

The picture nearly falls out of his hands.

“дом.”

“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”

But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.

“Bucky?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.

He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.

In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.

He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—

There.

A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.

Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.

A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.

Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.

Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.

That you’re his soulmate.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.

You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.

He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”

He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.

“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.

“Home?”

You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.

Home.

It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.

You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.

“Does this really mean what I hope—”

“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”

You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”

They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.

“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”

You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.

He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.

He’s really yours.

“Come here,” you murmur.

He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.

“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.

His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.

“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.

“Yeah? You should do that now.”

Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.

This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.

You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.

He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.

There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.

You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.

With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.

He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”

“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”

He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.

You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.

His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.

Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.

“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.

He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.

Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.

He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.

“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”

Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.

“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.

“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”

His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.

He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.

The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.

Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.

When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”

Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”

“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.

“All of me.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”

Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.

It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.

But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.

Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.

Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.

Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.

“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”

Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.

“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”

You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”

You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.

“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.

“Dead serious.”

“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”

By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.

“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.

His soulmate.

“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”

“Okay.”

“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”

You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”

A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”

“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”

He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”

He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.

“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”

The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”

You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.

Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”

“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”

He was so hoping you would say that.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The water was pink with blood. Mike stared at the shower floor through blurry eyes, watching his mother’s blood mix with the grime of the day’s events, both silently running down the drain, melting with the suds of your sweet-smelling body wash. He hadn’t bothered to read the bottle, but it smelled like you. Vanilla, maybe.

He rested his head against the wall of the shower and closed his eyes. Your parent’s house was quiet, save for the sound of water running down his body, just as it had been for the last twenty minutes.

Maybe closing his eyes hadn’t been the best idea.

There, behind his eyes, lay the body of his mother with Nancy by her side, both covered in blood. Karen’s gashes were so deep, Mike could see portions of muscle unveiled by her torn skin. She was heaving, choking on her own blood. He had never been so scared. So helpless. 

The memory shifts to the echo of Nancy’s screams as he ran through the house in search of Holly and his father. Mike found his father in his room, unconscious and bleeding from the abdomen. Even if it weren’t for the current uninhabitability of his home, Mike would never sleep in his room again. He remembers the fear he felt, not at all comparable to the rush of fearful adrenaline upon an incoming attack, no. This fear ran deep. It pulled from the deepest parts of Mike’s soul and consumed his every thought. This fear was debilitating. The fear that his parents were going to die and he was too late.

A quiet knock on the bathroom door pulled him from his memories. A small mercy.

The door creaked open slightly, allowing for some of the room’s dense steam to escape. As he opened his eyes, your voice cut through the silence of the house, “Sorry, I’m not looking- I just found you some clothes. I’ll leave them here.” Hurriedly, you placed your older brother’s sweat set that he’d left before leaving for college on the bathroom counter. You turned on your heels quickly after, eyes downward, avoiding the silhouette of the boy visible through the fogged up shower door.

As you closed the door behind you, Mike mumbled a forgotten “thank you,” and all was quiet again.

Mike knew his time in the steamy bliss of the shower was coming to an end. The water was nowhere near as hot as it was when he first got in and his fingers were pruned. With a sigh, he washed away the rest of the soap and turned off the shower. He stood there for a while, staring at the droplets of water on the door, his body a couple steps behind what his brain was telling him to do. By the time he reached for the towel, his hair had stopped dripping and no longer was he warm from the scalding water.

He worried for his parents, and no amount of reassurance from the doctors at the hospital would make their condition an easier pill to swallow. In part he blamed himself, considering his knowledge of Vecna and the Upside Down preceded this attack tenfold. If only he had said something earlier- convinced them to get out of Hawkins. Maybe then his mother would have functioning vocal cords. Maybe then his sister would still be here. Maybe.

As he ran your towel through his hair, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the foggy mirror. For a second, he almost didn’t recognize himself. His face was hollow and his shoulders were a little wider. He was taller than he’d realized- older. Over the years, he’d spent so much time focused on saving the world, that somewhere between imminent death and science class he’d forgotten that he was no longer a boy.

There would be time to dwell on that later, he supposed. For now, he had to focus on finding Holly. He hung up the towel and dressed himself in the clothes you’d provided him. Your brother was a couple sizes larger than him, but fresh clothes free of his mother’s blood left little to complain about.

He didn’t expect to find you staring at the bathroom door as he stepped out. Awkwardly, he stopped and motioned towards the vacant room, “‘s all yours. Thank you.”

You nodded, getting up from the crisscrossed position on your bed. “I spoke to my parents. They shouldn’t be back until next week, so- um, yeah. Feel free to stay as long as you need. Nance called, too. Your mom’s doing okay. Your dad is still in a coma, though.”

He nodded slowly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’m sorry,” you continued. “I wish I could give you better news.” You wrapped your arms around your pajamas as you stood in front of him, a sad sort of frown marring your face.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “It’s okay. I’m trying not to dwell on it.” He gave you one last glance before heading towards the backpack thrown carelessly on the floor by your bed.

Rummaging through it, he spoke, “We have to streamline our focus. Nance and I were able to get in the room with Mom. Holly had this imaginary friend- Mr. Whatsit. Her teacher caught her talking to him before she went missing. We think Mr. Whatsit is Henry.” Satisfied, he pulled out his walkie-talkie, extending the antenna.

“Henry? As in Creel?” You leaned up against the bathroom doorway, clearly surprised by what you had just learned. Your memory was a little fuzzy at the moment, and you were quickly trying to understand what Henry Creel could possibly want with Holly. 

Mike nodded, pressing the side of the device. “Dustin, Lucas- it’s Mike. Do you copy?” He waited a beat. Nothing.

“Dustin! Lucas! It’s Mike. Do you copy?” He repeated. Nothing again. “Shit,” he sighed, tossing the walkie atop his bag, “they’re supposed to be up. This important, we have to-”

You pushed yourself off the frame, walking into the bathroom and turning the shower on. “Mike, it’s late. We’ve had one of the worst days of our lives,” you called. “Maybe it’s best if you just rest for a bit? The boys are probably exhausted, too. You can’t think right if you’re tired.”

And tired you were. Your bones ached. There was long scrape on your side, mystery bruises at their beginning stages on your extremities. Henry, however his involvement in Holly’s disappearance, could wait until the morning. You needed a hot shower and some hard drugs. Unfortunately, five hours of sleep would have to suffice.

You pulled on your face in the mirror, trying to bring it back to life, while Mike mumbled angrily from somewhere in your room. “This can’t wait,” he huffed your name, walking towards the bathroom, locking eyes with you in the mirror. “Holly is missing. My parents got hurt, and Vecna is not going to stop there- more people are going to find themselves in the middle of this shit and we have to do something to stop it. Like I told Nancy, I don't want any more regrets. I’m tired of sitting here and doing fucking nothing.”

“You’re not doing nothing, Mike. You’ve done everything you can for today. I agree that this is important, but Vecna, or Henry, or whoever-the-fuck will still be there tomorrow morning, and frankly, I don’t remember the last time we slept for more than thirty minute intervals. We’ll think better if we get some sleep.” Your eyes pleaded with him through the mirror.

He scoffed, running his hands through his hair. “Yeah, because it’s so easy for you to sleep right now and ignore everything. Your parents are away. Your brother is safe. Holly is still out there and we don’t know where the fuck she is. How could you even sleep right now knowing what’s at stake?”

He answered his own question. “Right. It’s so easy for you to detach yourself because you don’t have anything at stake.”

Well that was fucking rude. Anger swelled in your chest at his words. You whipped around to face him, digging your finger into his chest. “Fuck you, Michael Wheeler.”

After everything that you had sacrificed in helping the party, you were taken aback by Mike’s blatant disregard for your loyalty to the cause. Tears of frustration welled in your eyes as you annunciated your words with another harsh poke to his chest. “How dare you? I have been your best friend for seven years and with all the absolute shit I have endured because of you, I cannot believe you even have the fucking nerve. No one is forcing me to be here. Last I checked, Hawkins is my home, too. Will is my friend, Holly is like a sister to me, and I know that my level of pain is nowhere close to yours, but I’ve lost people too, Michael.

“So quit being such an ass. I have everything to lose. My home, my friends, everything. I know you want to find Holly and I know it seems like we’re getting nowhere, but you need to sleep. We’re no good to anyone if we get picked off by a Demo-thing because we’re fucking exhausted! Dustin and Lucas have also been working around the clock on this. Let them fucking sleep.” You shoved him out of the doorway and slammed the bathroom door shut.

You let out a shallow breath as you gripped the front of the counter. Your head hurt. You know he didn’t mean it, but Mike could be so mean sometimes. You also know that his outburst was likely a projection of his own feelings for himself unto you, but his words hurt nonetheless.

Mike let out a sigh from behind the door. He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth, but he was nothing if not stubborn, so he let them out anyway. The look on your face while he spoke had left him with this ugly pit of disgust for himself. He didn’t mean it. You were a vital party member, and Mike was a self-deprecating shithead who would have someone else feel the hurt rather than feel it himself.

After a moment of staring at his feet in front of the locked door, he finally spoke. “I’m sorry. I-,” a beat passed, “I didn’t mean that. I know why you’re doing this and that was horrible of me to say.”

You could barely hear him through the door and the running shower, but you chose to say nothing. 

“I’m scared,” he continued. “I’m so fucking scared of losing everyone. And today was the closest we’ve ever come to that. That’s why I can’t stop going. I feel like the longer we sit around with no answers, the closer we get to not being able to find Vecna and kill him. Not before something happens to one of us. I’m sorry.”

Mike was still angry with his idleness, but there was something about hurting you that made him feel infinitely worse than his worst bout of anger had ever made him feel. He didn’t understand this feeling of guilt that had washed over him. All the times he had said hurtful things to Lucas, Will, or Dustin, which were his closest friends, didn’t amount to even a quarter of the shame he felt in this moment. 

After a while of standing by the door with no response, Mike walked over to your bed and sat on the corner, staring at the bathroom door just as you had minutes prior. 

You showered silently. The pounding in your head was getting stronger, and the hot water was doing nothing to alleviate your condition. You felt so stupid. In your life you have been chased, threatened, and moments away from painful, excruciating deaths more times than you could count on one hand, but nothing had ever made you feel like breaking down the way you did now. 

You had always believed that if you and Mike were in it together, nothing could ever be as terrible as one day losing each other. The way you felt for him, as you often dislike to admit to yourself, was blurring the platonic expectations for your relationship. You were beginning to feel things for him, or maybe you had been for a while; and these feelings made his comments hurt like a motherfucker. 

You thought about him often, secretly, in the quiet of your room when it was hard to sleep. You imagined going out to the movies- not as friends. You imagined him holding your hand as you walked around town. You imagined his arm around you when you all hung out with your friends, quietly reminding you of his presence. You imagined what a kiss on your forehead would feel like after a day like today. You imagined sleeping next to him, feeling his arms enclosing around you to keep the nightmares at bay. You thought worse things, too. Thoughts of his lips on yours,  then on your neck. You thought of yourself in his lap, grinding against him while his hands gripped your waist and the underside of your thigh, inching dangerously close to your ass. 

You imagined what he would feel inside you, foreheads touching as he rocked his cock into your aching cunt.

Except, you didn’t really know what that felt like at all. You knew about sex, obviously, but with yearly near death experiences came little time for romantic encounters. You didn’t know what sex actually felt like, but you knew that you wanted it. The raunchy romance novels that you liked to read explained it well enough, and the influx of hormones as you neared your 20’s made you crave it. You craved it with Mike.

So yes, Mike’s grip on your emotions had long surpassed the point of platonic affection, but you were never going to tell him. The dynamic between the party was delicate, as you were sure Eleven felt some way about him, as well. Never would you do anything to jeopardize your friendship. You’d rather have him as a friend than to not have him at all, and scaring him away with your pining was sure to do just that. 

By the time you turned the shower off, you had come to terms with Mike’s outburst, some of your hurt minimized by the feelings, which urged you to forgive him. 

You stepped out, eyeing Mike’s bloody clothes thrown haphazardly on your bathroom floor. You avoided stepping on them as you made your way over to the mirror, wiping away the dew. The shower had helped a little. The shower didn’t remove your internal impurities, such as the dark circles of exhaustion under your eyes, but no longer were you covered in Karen’s blood.

Unwrapping yourself from the towel, you reached in your medicine cabinet for some disinfectant and bandages. The scrape wasn’t deep, but it was long. It stretched from the side of your right hip to the bottom of your right breast. It would make you feel better if you had gotten it while doing something meaningful, but instead you had tripped over the gate in Mike’s kitchen, falling straight into the Upside Down. Your presence seemed to have stalled the gates closure for a brief moment, but long enough to allow Eleven to slip in, chasing the sound of Holly’s cries.

You shook your head at the sting of the alcohol on your side, gingerly dabbing a cotton ball along the length of the scrape. You decided to forgo bandages all together, not wanting to waste them.

It hurt to move. You could feel the cuts stretching as you turned your body. Somehow, you managed to throw on your pajamas without causing yourself too much pain, but you knew you wouldn’t be sleeping on your side for at least a couple days. After popping some ibuprofen, you rubbed the towel through your wet hair, wincing at your moving torso. Satisfied with the reduction in moisture, you threw the towel on the floor and opened the door.

Mike looked up from position on your bed as soon as he heard the door open, the notebook he was looking through long forgotten and tossed to the side. He shifted to face you, hands at his sides, waiting for you to say something. As he stared at you in the doorway, he realized that he rarely got to see you like this. Your hair was wet and slightly messy, a stark contrast from its usual up-kept appearance. The shirt you were wearing was large enough to fall down your shoulder, and drops of water from your hair raced down the exposed collarbone, soaking themselves into the shirt’s collar. Your cheeks were flushed from the heat of the shower, and your eyes bored into his expectantly, full of emotion.

Mike would be a fool to deny that you were beautiful, but usually, you had a wall around yourself. It was rare that he got to see you so carefree and vulnerable. Now, you looked as if you had been rubbed clean, the rawness of your appearance striking him and engraving itself into his memory.

“I’m scared, too, y’know. Really scared,” you whispered from the doorway, pulling him away from his thoughts. “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m not taking this as seriously as I should. It’s just that we’ve been doing this for months. I know we’re closer than ever to ending this, but we’re not super soldiers. We can’t just constantly run on empty and expect not to shut down. I’m exhausted Mike, and I think one night where we don’t have to think about the end of the world would help.”

You sat down next to him, legs dangling off the side of the bed. You placed your hands on the mattress, and turned your neck to look at Mike while you spoke. He was so close now, your shoulders grazing.

He shook his head when you sat down. “You don’t need to apologize. I was an ass. I’m sorry. You’re an amazing asset to the party, and I-we, don’t know where we would be without you.”

You smiled, looking down at your hand next to his, noticing how his pinky had made its way between your pinky and ring fingers. “Thank you. And you’re an amazing leader, Mike. I feel like we don’t tell you that enough. But even the strongest leaders know when to rest.” You didn’t know if it was the exhaustion or the warmth of his body, or maybe both, but you gently laid your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes and savoring the moment.

Mike turned his head to look at you, eyes closed and blissful. You looked beautiful, he thought once more. Maybe he thinks it often. He hummed in agreement, slouching to allow your head a more comfortable place to rest. He could feel his heart speed up, not used to having a girl so close. He silently vowed not to move until you did. You could lay upon his shoulder as long as you’d like. He would savor this, too.

You both stayed like that for what felt like forever, when in reality it was only a couple of minutes. In your sleepy state, time was simultaneously blending together and pulling apart. Slowly, you lifted your head from his shoulders, realizing then that his head was lying on top of yours, too.

“I think I’m gonna head to bed,” you let out a small yawn. “Carson should have extra blankets in his room. Let me know if you want me to bring you anything else.” You gave him a sleepy smile, expecting him to sleep in your brother’s room.

Mike got up from your bed, running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, okay. Um- yeah, I’ll sleep there.”

He sounded off. You cocked your head to the side, curious as to his hesitation to sleep in the other room.

“Well,” he started, voice wavering. “You know what, forget it. It’s okay. Goodnight,” he said, mumbling your name.

Oh.

Oh.

He didn’t want to sleep alone.

Understanding rushed through your face, “Oh God, no please, sleep here! I’m so sorry Mike, that was so stupid. I didn’t reali-”

“No! No, it’s okay. It’s just been a long day, I just- I don’t know. After what happen- don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned to leave.

You silently chastised yourself. Hours earlier, Mike had bore witness to the brutal assault on his parents. He found his father bleeding out in his own room. You wouldn’t want to sleep alone either.

You bounced up from the bed, wincing at your side, and grabbed his hand before he could leave. Mike turned around, quickly glancing down at your intertwined fingers and then back up to you.

“No Mike, I’m serious. Sleep here. There’s plenty of room.” You urged, pulling him back towards the bed.

Either he had no fight left to give, or he realized that he really was too unnerved to sleep alone tonight. He nodded and allowed you to pull him with you.

You began to make room on the bed, throwing your decorative pillows and stuffed animals onto the floor. Mike stood and watched as you reached for a black stuffed cat at the opposite end of your bed, but mid-reach you stopped, dropping your hand down to brace yourself on the mattress.

“Ow, shit.” You grumbled. You weren’t used to having to control your movements, and your reach had pulled on the scrape, causing it to light up in blinding pain.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Mike rounded the corner to meet you on your side of the bed. He looked you over, searching for the source of the pain.

You nodded, slowly and stiffly flipping yourself over to face him. “Yeah, I just got this scrape on my side. It hurts like a bitch when I move it sometimes.” You let out an awkward laugh.

“Let me see it, maybe it opened.” He demanded.

You shook your head, “No, don’t worry. It’s okay. It’s just a scrape. It’s not deep or anything. It’ll be better in a couple days.”

Mike stared at you with firmness. “Let me see it,” he pressed. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

Rolling your eyes with a sigh, you pulled up the side of your shirt to show him the scrape. You stopped midway, realizing that you never put on bottoms over your black panties.

Play it cool, you thought. You pulled the shirt up the rest of the way, showing Mike the remainder of the injury. Luckily, he didn’t notice your lack of inferior modesty, because as soon as he looked at the scrape his eyes shot open in alarm.

“What the fuck? That is not a scrape,” he rushed towards your bathroom, bringing back the bandages and wound supplies you had left there from your shower.

“I’m fine, Mike, really!” You reasoned. He gave you a look of exasperation, signaling you to hold your shirt higher.

He began to unwrap a long, cloth bandage, placing it next to the disinfectant. “You’re actively bleeding and I can see into the hole. Now shut up and let me do this.”

It was entirely possible that you had downplayed the extent of your injury to yourself. In actuality, it was much more than a scrape. There was a wound in the center, about a couple centimeters deep, where a branch had managed to wiggle its way into the soft flesh of your side. The rest of it was very much scrape-like, but that stupid hole was causing you serious amounts of pain.

Mike kneeled down by the side of your bed, now eye-level with your injury. He had, in-fact, noticed that you were not wearing any pants, and he hoped you couldn’t gather as much by the way his hands shook while pouring some rubbing alcohol onto a gauze.

You obviously didn’t do a good job of anything when it came to proper wound care, as the rubbing alcohol burned much stronger than it had a little bit ago. You clearly hadn’t cleaned it correctly. You hissed as Mike continued to dab it. “Sorry, I’m almost done.” He looked up at you through his long eyelashes.

You nodded, blinking back sharp tears of pain that prickled in your eyes. “Almost done.” He mumbled again. His free hand was on your waist, moving his thumb in soothing circles while he worked.

When he finished the sterile assault on your injury, he tossed the dirty gauze in a pile of other used up pieces. There had been a lot more blood than you’d realized.

Delicately, Mike placed the cloth bandage over the worst of the wound, securing it in place with medical tape. It tickled when he touched you, but his cool fingers felt nice against your inflamed skin.

You watched him work, noting how his brows scrunched together with focus. He was so pretty. He had grown-up well, filling in all the awkward spots from his youth. His hair was fluffy and framed his face nicely. His cheekbones had hollowed out, reinforcing the masculine structure of his face. But his hands, oh his hands. His fingers were long, deliciously so, but yet his hands were nimble. You’d watch him over the years, painting tiny figurines for various D&D campaigns. His hands were so careful, and with that same care he worked on you, delicately ensuring the gauze was stuck properly to the most important parts.

“There,” he mused. “Done. You’ll be more careful, yeah?” He chided lightly. You nodded, offering him a quiet ‘thank you’ as he rose to his feet. You let your shirt fall back down, covering yourself under his watchful eye.

The gauze felt nice over the wound. You gave your torso an experimental twist and- ouch, still hurt. Mike was thorough, but he wasn’t a miracle worker. It would take a couple days before it was healed to the point of painlessness.

“Try not to move so much.” He said softly.

You breathed a laugh out of your nose. “Funny. I’ll just ask the monsters very nicely to stop chasing us. That should hold them off.” You looked up at him with a small smile.

“Any other injuries for Dr. Mike?” He joked. Your laugh was music to his ears.

You continued the bit, “Well, Dr. Mike, I have a brutal stab wound right here. Do you think you could make it better?” You pointed to the small cut on your cheek, no bigger than a scratch. An actual scratch.

To your surprise, he leaned forward to get a better look, his face just mere inches from yours.

“Oh wow, that’s killer. My diagnosis says,” he waited a moment, locking his eyes with you before whispering dramatically, “terminal.”

You faked a gasp, a small giggle leaving your throat shortly after. He smiled, but didn’t say anything, his face still so, so close.

The joke dissolved as quickly as it had started, replaced by a palpable tension in the air. It all happened so fast. Mike didn’t move. You didn’t move. You both stayed there, faces almost touching, waiting for something to happen. His eyes left yours so briefly that you would’ve doubted yourself if you hadn’t been paying such diligent attention. He had looked at your lips.

You had never been this close to him, or to anyone for that matter, but it made butterflies swarm in your stomach. Your heart pounded expectantly. Mike was stuck, unable to pull himself away from your gaze. His back hurt from leaning forward, but he had never been so transfixed.

The room was hotter, the tension impossibly thicker. Somehow, your legs had ended up between his, his long body caging you in. Both brains were buzzing, unsure and apprehensive. Finally, your whisper broke through the heavy silence.

“What are we doing, Mike?”

He started back at you, matching your whisper. “Anything we want.” You both were still staring, still waiting.

“And what is it we want?” Another whisper from you.

Mike was unsure as to where his confidence was stemming from. Mentally, he felt like a calf learning to walk. He had no idea what to do, or where to touch, or what to say. He had no idea how to move forward. But his actions were a different story. He didn’t think about what he was saying, he just said what felt right. For now, it seemed like he was saying the right things.

He brought his hand up to cradle your face, hesitantly. Your eyes widened just a touch. “Is this okay? Is this what you want?” He asked. You nodded slowly into his palm. 

And then he kissed you. Mike Wheeler actually kissed you. Your brain was swirling. You had no idea how you had even gotten here, but now Mike Wheeler was kissing you, and you had to manually tell yourself to start kissing him back. 

At first he had lightly placed his lips on yours, testing. That was fine, you could do that. Calm. Easy. However, nothing could have prepared you for when his lips started moving. You were reeling, unsure of how to even approach a kiss with any sort of sexual appeal. You panicked, pulling back. 

“I’m sorry- God, this is so embarrassing. I’ve just never had-I’ve never been,” your panic made you animated, talking quickly with shaky hands. “I’ve never done this before.” 

Mike had taken a step back, initially shocked by the perceived rejection. “If it makes you feel better, I haven’t either. I’m not necessarily a chick magnet.” He scratched the back of his head. 

Shocked at the revelation, all you could say was “oh.”

“How about we forget this ever happened and go to sleep, yeah? I’ll go to Carson’s room.” He turned to walk out of your room for the second time that night. 

“No, wait! I want to, it’s just,” you sighed. “I don’t want to mess anything up, okay? Like, I don’t  even know how to kiss correctly, let alone any of the other stuff.” You let out a dry laugh, wrapping your arms around yourself. It was true, you really did want to. Kissing Mike was a dream come true, but you didn’t know the first thing about any of it. By the grace of all that was evil, you seemed to have forgotten everything you’d learned from those damn romance novels the moment his lips touched yours. 

Mike’s heart skipped a beat about the possibility of continuing to kiss you. “We can take it slow. We’ll learn together, yeah?” 

Mike had never given you even the slightest inclination that this was something that could even be possible between the two of you. You were caught off guard by Mike’s desire to kiss you, searching within yourself the best way for move forward.

Ultimately, you conceded. “Okay, yeah,” you nodded, making some space for him on the bed.

When he was fully sat in front of you, knees touching yours, Mike stopped, hand caressing your face similarly to before. To your disappointment, he didn’t kiss you again.

“Hi.” you giggled, trying to fill the silence.

“Hi.” he repeated. Mike was stuck at a crossroads. Could it really be that you felt the same? He didn’t know exactly what would come of this and how you would play a part in his life once this was over. You were his best friend and you would always be, but he didn’t know if there was space for anything more when your lives revolved around saving the world, the risk of danger lurking in every corner. He did know, however, that he felt strongly for you.

He was thinking too much.

“I’m gonna kiss you again, okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed as he moved his head closer, his warm lips breathing life into you once more.

At first no one moved, allowing your lips to accustom to the sensation of one another. Slyly, your tongue dipped out, lining his bottom lip and inviting yourself in- tempting him. He accepted the intrusion with eagerness.

Your mouths began to move slowly, softly exploring one another. There was still a lingering hesitation around your actions as you both tried to not overpower the other. It was nice. Slow and expirimental.

But soon you became restless. Poor Mike had one hand on your face and one on his own thigh, nervous to make any unreciprocated movements. With a surge of confidence, you grabbed his hand and placed it on your good side, your hands then rooting themselves on the back of his head.

You voiced your need through actions, kissing Mike with a touch more force. Your tongue played with his, occasionally sucking the tip into your mouth during a slow roll of your lips. His lips molded with yours perfectly, the tempo becoming increasingly feverish as you grew more comfortable with each other.

Your hands tangled in his hair, giving it an experimental tug- oh my God. He'd let out the most beautiful noise into your mouth, almost like a broken whimper, the sound going straight to your core. Mike deepened the kiss, moving his hand to the back of your head, gripping at your hairs, as well.

Mike was fervent. He needed you closer. He pulled at you by the waist, moving your body forward. As gracefully as you could without breaking the heated kiss, you uncrossed your legs and moved yourself onto his lap.

Oh, he was warm. His left hand migrated to rest on the curve of your thigh and ass, gently kneading the flesh below the start of your injury. His right hand splayed on the center of your back, holding you in place as you inadvertently rocked yourself against him.

You drank up his groans like water. His length was impossibly hard under you, hitting your clit deliciously with every roll of your hips.

"'S that good?" You broke the kiss briefly, worried that you may be putting too much pressure on his lower extremities.

He nodded vigorously. "Yeah, s'good, don't stop."

Ignited by his newfound praise, you kissed him again, frenzied. In the wildness, your teeth clunked together lightly, his hands gripping you harder. If he had any complaints, he didn't voice them.

Your hips were moving at a maddening pace atop him, chasing that building feeling in your core. Mike began to guide your hips, pushing and pulling you against him until the both of you fell into a broken rhythm. His grip tightened, catching on your scrape. The pain surfaced just as your clit rubbed on the head of his clothed cock, causing you to drop your head down onto his shoulder and grit a moan through your teeth.

Mike had never been so turned on. His hips shot up to meet yours, turning his head to look at you buried in his shoulder, letting out tight little breaths of pleasure. He held his breath as your hand trailed from the back of his neck, slowly making its way down, down, down to the waistband of your brother's sweatpants.

You lifted your head from his shoulder, looking at him. "Can I touch you?" you murmured, fingers toying with the strings at the front of his pants.

Mike looked at you as if you had hung the moon. His best friend, his beautiful, smart, brave, perfect best friend, was asking to touch his cock in the most selfish way. He would never expect you to, nor did he think it would get to this, but no- you wanted to. You looked at him through pretty lashes, damp hair framing your face as you coyly asked to touch him. He felt himself throb at the thought. Jesus, he was such a virgin.

"Sure, y-yeah, go ahead." He choked out, watching your hand leave the waistband of his pants to fully palm his clothed cock. He was hard under your hand, not very thick, but long. You ran your fingers over the light wet spot at his tip, causing Mike to hiss out a breathy, "fuck."

He watched you through a cloud of desire. You were taking your time with him, feeling his length through the pants, giving an experimental squeeze here and there, smiling lightly when you felt him twitch under you.

You honestly didn't know what you were doing. You did know, however, that you wanted to take your time feeling him, learning him, discovering what he liked. You gripped him through his pants again, mouth watering at the way his eyes closed and his breath hitched.

He had started to squirm again, hips rolling up to put more pressure between your hand and his cock. His needfulness had you deciding against anymore significant teasing, so you worked your fingers back up to his waistband, dipping your pointer finger inside to run against the seam.

"Can you take them off?" you asked, pulling your finger away, the band snapping back against his waist.

Mike could not believe what he was hearing.

"Only if that's okay," you added quickly after noticing his hesitation.

Instead of the rejection you assumed was forthcoming, he grabbed your face and kissed you softly, pushing your body off his. Once he had room, he stood by the edge of your bed, pulling his pants down to the floor.

As soon as they dropped, it's like you couldn't look at anything else. Mike's cock sprang free, all red and leaking. You were transfixed, mouth watering. It was so pretty, you thought, as you confirmed your prior theories. It was long and slender, and so perfectly Mike. You licked your lips, looking away to meet Mike's eyes.

"It's pretty," you said softly, waiting for him to sit down again.

Mike's faced flushed with pink, letting out a small laugh. "I've never thought to describe my dick as pretty, but I'm glad you think that." He bounced back on the bed, his light demeanor clearing some of the stuffiness from the room.

While he situated himself, you stood up, placing yourself at the side of the bed where he'd stood just moments before.

"Where are you go-" he started. Before he could finish, you pulled at his arm, guiding him to sit in front of you with his legs off the bed. Once he was where you wanted him, you dropped to your knees, hitting the fuzzy carpet on the floor.

"Hey, no it's okay. You don't have to- um," His eyes widened when he realized what you were plotting.

You gave him a small pout, lightly running your nails over his pale thighs. "Mike, I want to. If you don't we can stop now, but I promise I'm okay."

He felt stupid for folding so quickly, but when a pretty girl shows him she wants to suck his cock, he's not usually going to turn her down. He balled his hands at his sides, nodding to you.

You hummed with delight and inched your hands towards his cock. It was soft, almost velvet like. You took it in your hands, repeating the same experimental squeezes and touches from before.

It dawned on you then. You still had no fucking clue what you were doing. Gazing up at Mike from your position, you noticed him leaning back on his hands, patiently awaiting your next movements.

"Um," you started sheepishly. "I don’t- um, I don't really know what I'm doing at this point. Could you, maybe, guide me?"

Mike ran a hand through his hair. "Well your guess is as good as mine, seeing as I've never sucked dick before," he joked. You gave him a stern look and lightly slapped his thigh.

"No, dipshit, obviously not." You deadpanned. "I more so meant like, y’know, when you touch yourself. What feels good so maybe I can mimic it, I don't know. You do do that, right?"

You gave him an upward stroke, cock still painfully hard as you asked him about his masturbation habits. Why was that so hot to him? You, wanting to know what he did to himself late at night in the quiet of the dark.

"Y-yeah, yeah I do. To be fair, I'm already, like, forty percent there from before, so it really won't take much." He said, referencing your previous grinding. He needed to shut the fuck up. He talks too much when he's nervous.

You waited patiently for him to continue, sitting on your heels, one hand politely in your lap.

He cleared his throat and continued. "The tip is the most sensitive part, so don't squeeze it too tight. No teeth. Oh, and it has to be wet. One time I almost gave myself a fucking rug burn- uh, anyway, the wetter the better." He paused for a minute to think, ignoring his own stupid rambles. "Try to keep a consistent rhythm, and you can squeeze it tighter than you think you can."

You nodded, understanding. Bringing your face closer to his length, you let a glob of spit dribble from your mouth onto his tip. Using your left hand to spread it out, you began moving up and down in slow, firm strokes.

Mike threw his head back and choked out a moan. “Holy fucking sh-shit. Steve was right, it feels way better when you’re not the one doing it.”

You let out a giggle at his sudden wantonness.

Your tongue reached out to leave a tentative lick on his tip, and Mike swore he could’ve died right there and gone to heaven.

You relished in the salty taste, pairing your first lick with a long one from his base to his tip. Humming in approval, you took his tip into your warm mouth, swirling your tongue around it. Scared to take too much in at once, your hand pumped what was exposed.

Mike’s moans were music to your ears. You’d never realized how badly you needed to be praised, and his reaction fueled your enthusiasm. Lifting your head, you let another dollop of spit fall on his tip, but this time you dragged your lips up and down, spreading it with your mouth.

“Is it good like that?” You asked, looking up at him again.

“Fuck, yes. Oh,” he groaned. “You can go a bit faster, if y’want.” Mike sounded so broken, like he was lost in a world high above the clouds. You would be lying if it didn’t make you impossibly wet to have him crumbling under you like that.

Your thighs clenched as you sped your hand up, mentally preparing to take more of him. Your cunt throbbed, searching for relief wherever it could. Your mouth found his tip again, suckling sweetly. Slowly, your head starting bobbing, taking more of him into your mouth at every descend.

Once you were satisfied with the rhythm, making sure that your mouth was open wide enough to engulf most of him, you quickened your pace, stroking whatever you couldn't fit with your hand.

Mike's hands immediately tangled into your hair, a whimpered series of so good's falling from his perfect lips. He was hitting the back of your throat at this point, and you were trying to keep your gag reflex at bay for just a couple more seconds.

It happened accidentally, really. You had stopped bobbing your head at the base of his cock, feeling it nestled softly in the back of your throat. So much spit had trickled out of your mouth that you'd decided to try and swallow some of it back down. With Mike's cock down your throat.

Mike had never felt anything so amazing. The sensation traveled all the way down to the tip of his toes. Unknowingly, you had hit the golden buzzer. Your throat constricted around him like a vice, squeezing him dry. Pathetically, you'd barely had your mouth on him for five minutes and Mike was already seconds away from the most earth-shattering orgasm the Sweet Lord had ever graced upon him.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-" Mike's hands yanked you off of him roughly by your hair, breathing rapidly.

Your eyes widened in fear. "I am so sorry, did that hurt? Mike, I had no idea."

If Mike hadn't actively been trying to fight off the World's Most Premature Orgasm, he would focus on how downright fuckable you looked right now. Your lips were puffy and wet with spit, and your eyes were glossy with unshed tears from taking his cock so far down your throat. If he didn't die from embarrassment, he fully believed you would kill him.

"No, fuck sorry, it's just, it was getting too- holy fuck- and I didn't want to come too soon." He panted out, laying down on the mattress.

You slowly got up from the floor, sitting back on the bed, careful not to look as his reddening tip for fear of not being able to control yourself.

Why would he not want to come? Was that not the whole point of this? Back in senior year Sex Ed. you'd remembered Mr. Clarke mentioning something about men having a longer refractory period than women. Well, that wouldn't be an issue unless Mike wanted to have sex- oh.

Mike wanted to have sex.

You looked at him laying with his eyes closed on your bed, breath finally evening out, but still painfully hard.

"Mike," you called for him.

"Hmm," he mumbled in response. His brain was not functioning at the moment.

"Do you want to have sex with me?" You asked him nonchalantly. Desperately, you hoped he said yes. Sucking Mike off had been the hottest experience of your life. You could feel your wetness seeping through your panties and onto your thighs, coating the skin in your juices. If you didn't get fucked in the very foreseeable future, problems would be had.

"Yeah, totally." He mumbled lazily, not fully registering what he was saying. As soon as the words came out, his eyes shot open and his face turned to look at you, awaiting your reaction.

You nodded and got up from the bed, telling Mike to wait where he was. You had an idea.

Your sock-covered feet padded against the wooden floors of your house and across the hallway to your brother's room. "C'mon Carson, I know you have some," you mumbled to yourself, rummaging through his nightstand. Nothing. Shit.

You took yourself to his bathroom, checking the medicine cabinet and under the sink. Your prize was nowhere to be found.

Thinking of the last spot your gold could be, you dropped down to the floor and looked under his bed. Bingo. He had left behind a shoebox. The Forbidden Shoebox.

Reaching for it with an outstretched hand, you pulled the dusty shoebox from under his bed, awaiting to scavenge the treasures inside. Shoving aside cigarettes, a Playboy, and other various paraphernalia, you found what you were looking for- your holy grail in a tiny silver packet.

Jumping to your feet, you kicked the shoebox back under your brother's bed, heading back to your room with a self satisfied-smirk.

Mike was still laying on your bed, arms behind his head. His cock had softened a touch, but not by much, just enough to stop the intense throbbing he had felt after edging himself.

You threw the condom at him, hitting him square in the chest. Before he could react, you made your way onto the bed and swung your leg to sit once more in his lap, careful not to put all your weight completely on his erection.

Mike sat up, confused, grabbing the condom off his chest.

"You said we could do whatever we wanted, right? Well," You whispered, toying with the hem of his sweatshirt. "This is what I want."

The one thing you could not get out of your head was how casual this felt. Sure, you were nervous, even anxious at a point, but not because it was Mike you were doing this with. He'd never given you any reason to feel insecure, and you didn't feel a pressure to perform the way you thought your first time would require. But that was him. He made you feel comfortable, so care free. You were both figuring it out together, what you liked, what you didn't, and that's what made it all feel less daunting.

Mike looked at you with dark eyes, his cock twitching slightly at your words. He looked down to examine the condom in his hands, nodding. "Yeah, okay. Let's do it."

You kissed him, letting out a small hum of excitement. Your hands returned to the back of his neck as he deepened the kiss, his hands lightly playing with the waistband of your panties.

As he sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, you gently grabbed his right hand from its position on your waistband and brought it to cup your pussy. Mike nearly choked, feeling the wetness seeping through the fabric to cover his fingers. Now it was his turn to figure you out.

"Off." He mumbled into your lips, swiping his fingers up your clothed slit.

You slid off his lap, kicking your panties off your legs to land somewhere on the floor. Mike removed his sweatshirt and situated himself behind you, cold hands finding your waist as you removed your shirt.

"I want to make you feel good, too." He spoke into your hair, hands inching dangerously close to your bare pussy, rubbing the inside of your thighs. "Tell me how."

You sighed, leaning back against his chest. His hands felt so nice, but you couldn't stop staring at his fingers brushing your lips, not touching where you needed him most.

His hands traveled upwards towards your breasts, stopping just under the curve, hesitating, waiting for you to give him your approval.

"You can touch them," you whispered, tilting your head to look up at him. He had his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze transfixed on your pillowy breasts and pebbled nipples. Slowly, painfully so, Mike moved his hands up the rest of the way, encapsulating your tender breasts with his palms.

His kneads were soft at first, but once small, quiet mewls of pleasure began to leave your mouth, he gathered the courage to squeeze just a touch harder.

"So fucking hot." He spoke, more to himself than anything. Mike was in love with your tits, taking his time to play with them, lightly pinching your nipples as your eyes scrunched in pleasure.

Your poor neglected cunt ached. Once more you tried to squeeze your thighs together, briefly trapping some sort of pleasure between your legs. Mike was in his own world, kneading and groping your tits, his hard cock digging into the small of your back.

"Mike, please." You had enough of his teasing, your voice coming out as a half whine.

His hands stilled. "What's wrong? What do you need?" He spoke in your ear, making you shiver.

"Touch me." Another whine. You sounded bratty, but you were too far gone to care.

"I am touching you." He countered, resuming his assault on your breasts. Smartass.

Your head shook against his chest, your fingers digging into his arms, urging him down to your wet heat.

Truthfully, Mike was stalling. He didn't want to rush this. He may have almost come in five minutes but that didn't mean you had to. The sounds you made were addicting, and it made his brain fuzzy thinking about how you got like this for him.

"There?" He asked as his fingers finally touched your pussy. You spread your legs out, allowing him open access to your heat.

Your breath hitched as his middle finger grazed your clit, involuntarily thrusting your hips up, chasing the ounce of pleasure he'd gifted you. You nodded your head vigorously. "Yeah, r-right there. I usually, um, rub in circles, sort of near the to- ngh."

It seemed he was a quick learner. Mike began to softly rub your clit before you'd even finished talking, pulling a groan from your lips mid-sentence.

You were strung so tight you could've cried when he finally touched you. Mike's left hand continued to tweak at your nipple while his right rubbed slow, tight circles on your clit. He looked so fucking good. His hand flexed while he worked, highlighting the veins on the back of his hand. You felt yourself clench at nothing, pleasure rocking through you.

Your nails dug into his arm, your chest heaving at the building pleasure. In a stroke of genius, Mike reached down to your weeping hole, collecting some of your arousal and smearing it back up on your clit.

"How's that? You're so wet, shit." He asked. Your face filled with heat at his comment, his fingers sliding deliciously over your swollen nub.

"So, so good Mike, please don't fucking stop." He drinking up everything you had to offer. He'd come to the conclusion that he could stay between your legs forever, if you'd let him. He imagined plunging his cock into your warm, wet cunt, you squeezing around him as you buried your head in his shoulder. Fuck, he was getting close just thinking about it.

He kept rubbing you until you started to get restless. Your hips shot up on their own accord, your legs shaking from their outstretched position between his own.

"You can- oh fuck," it was getting hard to think. The pleasure was building up in your core, but you needed more to push you over the edge.

"You can put t-them in-inside." You instructed him, desperate for something to fill you up.

"You sure?" He stilled. "That won't hurt you or anything, right?"

You shook your head. "N-no, I've done it a couple times. Just start with one, I guess. It's been a while."

You chewed on your bottom lip expectantly as his hand traveled south, his pointer finger tapping at your tight entrance. You were so wet that there was practically no resistance, Mike's finger entering you like it had meant to be there the whole time.

"You want me to fuck you with it?" You knew he was asking purely because he didn't know what to do, but his words shot straight to your core, making you clench tightly around his finger.

"Mhm, you can curl it too, ifyouwant." Your sentence ended in a high-pitched rush.

Mike started to pump his finger in and out, curling against your g-spot with every stroke. Soft moans left your lips as he fingered you, your hips rolling in time with his pumps.

His palm rested on your enlarged clit, rubbing together with every roll of your hips. The pleasure was building, finally finding exactly what you needed to pull you over the edge.

"You look so pretty right now," Mike's free hand went back to your breast, playing lightly with your sore nipples. "Could do this all day."

Your brain was fried. His words fueled your delirium, your curses coming louder and quicker. Without warning, he slipped in a second finger, curling it alongside the first.

His fingers sped up, palm rubbing harshly against your nub. You could hear the lewd sounds of your wetness as he fucked you with his fingers, your nails digging into his arms and your head moving uncontrollably from side to side.

It was so good, too good. Better than you'd ever made yourself feel.

"Fuck, Mikey, pleasepleaseplease," you were blabbering at this point, words coming out with no meaning.

The feeling in your core was pulling tight, teetering on the edge of snapping. There was so much going on, so much to feel. You titled your hips up allowing Mike to hit that spongey spot inside you repeatedly, and-

You were coming.

It was fucking devastating. The pleasure slammed over you like a wave, clearing your mind of anything and everything. Your back arched, vision fuzzy as you peaked.

Mike's fingers wouldn't stop, extending your orgasm to the point where you thought the fall would never come. You stayed there, waiting for the crash, clenching your hands into the comforter and poor Mike's arm.

You'd lost control of your body. You heard yourself let out a groaned 'fuck' from somewhere down on Earth. It rolled through you so powerfully, that you didn't know where your orgasm started or finished. Just when you though your abused cunt would catch a break, it dropped.

The back-end of your orgasm hit you harder than the first. It desecrated through you like molten lava, burning your skin and scorching your mind. Your legs snapped together, aiming to provide you relief from the assault. Unfortunately for you, that caused Mike's hand to remain trapped between your legs, working you through the after-shocks.

You had been about thirty seconds into the come-down before you realized Mike had been speaking to you.

“C’mon, there you go.” He spoke softly into the top of your head, fingers rolling to a stop.

Your breathing was erratic as you tried to gain recollection of where you were and what was going on around you.

You were halfway down Mike’s chest at this point, looking up at him easily with just a slight tilt of your head. Slowly he slipped out of you, your legs jerking at the sensation.

“Oh God,” you exhaled, covering your face with your hands.

"How'd I do?" he asked, obviously knowing the answer.

You decided to bite, anyway. "Really good," you sighed dreamily. "Just gimme a second and then we can, y'know," you picked the condom up and threw it at him again.

Observing you in your fucked out state, Mike had almost forgotten that there was more to this for the both of you.

He leaned back on the pillows at the head of your bed, hands crossed at his chest.

"You look hot when you come, by the way," he spoke into the air. You rolled around to face him, careful to not put too much pressure on your injury.

"Michael Wheeler, are you trying to talk dirty to me?" You laughed, looking at him.

He threw the condom back at you, "I've been talking like this for a while, it's not my fault you weren't coherent enough to pay attention."

You faked a gasp, "you're an ass."

"C'mere." He smirked, motioning you over with a twist of his head. Heeding his request, you crawled over to him on all fours, planting yourself in his lap once more.

He uncrossed his harms, bringing them to your hips. Gently, he pulled you closer, kissing you softly.

You took this chance to take him in your hand again, giving him a few pumps to warm him back up. He groaned into the kiss, happy to have your attention back on his cock.

"Put it on," you whispered into his mouth, squeezing the tip slightly.

Mike didn't need to be told twice. He pulled away from you and grabbed the condom off your bed, ripping the packet open with his teeth.

"So, uh, how does this even go on?" He asked, holding it up with two fingers.

"My guess is through the big hole at the bottom." You said sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, I gathered that, thanks." He brushed you off, attempting to roll the condom over himself. It took him a couple tries, but soon the condom was on snug over his angry, red cock.

You spit in your hand, giving it a little extra lubrication.

"Woah, that feels weird," Mike looked down at your hand over his condom-covered erection, perplexed.

"Like bad weird or good weird?" You asked curiously, still stroking him.

"Good weird, I think." He concluded.

Taking that as an invitation to continue, you got up on your knees, lining yourself up with him. You took in a shallow breath, preparing for the rather large intrusion, and slowly began to sink down onto him.

You scrunched your eyes in discomfort as he entered you, burying your head into the crook of shoulder with a quiet groan.

"Hey, oh fuck, you okay?" Mike asked through a pained breath.

"Ngh, hmmyeah, just really, ugh- tight?" You couldn't focus. It didn't hurt. Mike had made sure of that when he finger fucked you to oblivion, stretching you out. You were just so not used to being stretched out like this.

"Look at me, hey," he placed his hand on the back of your head, urging you to turn.

You stilled, getting used to the stretch. Lifting your head from his shoulder, you looked at him through half-lidded eyes. "Fuck," you whispered. "How much more?" You asked, not wanting to look.

"Just a little bit, shi-you're okay. Jus' keep your eyes on me, if it helps." He smoothed your hair down, touching your forehead with his.

"O-okay," you nodded. You felt comfortable enough to start moving again, keeping your eyes locked with Mike's as you continued.

You felt so full. The stretch was never-ending as you slowly worked him in, wondering if he had grown in length since when you'd started. "Mike," you mewled, a small pout on your face.

"Almost there, fuck you're tight." He wouldn't let you look away from him. His eyes bored into yours, one hand still cradling the back of your head, one on your hip for stability.

Mike was trying increasingly hard to keep himself together for you, but his resolve was quickly crumbling as your tight heat engulfed him. He tried in earnest to keep his eyes on yours, but he would fail at his own command, occasionally looking down to where you were joined to watch your slick pussy suck him in.

"Fuck, you're so- look at me, there you go." He was rambling again. You looked a dream, with your jaw slack and your eyes trying their best to stay on his.

When you finally bottomed out, you were past the point of full- you felt like you were about to burst. You clenched around him, causing Mike to throw his head back in pleasure.

The feeling was so intense it had you wondering how you would even bring yourself to move, let alone move quickly.

You remembered sneaking into the back of Family Video once with Max and El, Robin and Steve occupied at the front with the boys.

On the trailer screens they were showing a raunchy video, one of a girl dressed up as a nurse getting fucked roughly by a man dressed in a white coat. She looked to be having a great time, letting out "happy screams," as Max called them.

What you couldn't imagine in your current state, was getting pounded into that aggressively and it somehow not feeling like trying to squeeze your foot into a boot that was two sizes too small.

"You doin' okay?" Mike asked tightly. He looked like he was about to combust at any moment. Did it maybe feel the same for him?

You gave him a curt nod, wiggling your lower half to accustom yourself to the stretch. His breath hitched as you moved, gripping your hips a touch harder than he would've liked under different circumstances.

"Oh god, fuck hol' on." He practically begged, voice cracking.

"Does it hurt?" You wondered.

He threw his head back again when you clenched once more, involuntarily. "No, its good, really good, uhh, jus' a lot at once."

You took a beat to let him acclimate. The tightness had subsided substantially and you felt much less uncomfortable.

"I think I'm okay to move again," you offered.

Mike gave you a confirming grunt, and you slowly lifted yourself off him, stopping at his tip, and descending back down again. You were able to repeat the movement a couple times before Mike completely broke down, that thin resolve finally snapping.

"Fuck-you're," he moaned gorgeously, the hand on the back of your head gripping your hair tightly. "So warm, oh shit, fuckin' wet, fuckfuckfuck." He was drowning in your pussy, unable to come up for air, and once again so fucking close.

Your movements sped up slightly and sounds of pleasure began to leave your mouth. To your surprise, the stretch had almost completely dissipated, replaced instead by the feeling of Mike's cock stroking your g-spot with an increased precision.

You moaned his name, head once again dropping to his shoulder. You could understand the porno girl just a little bit better now. You're taking him so fucking deep, the feeling so much more intense than that of his fingers.

This was starting to feel really fucking good. You braced your hands on the headboard in front of you, now truly bouncing on him.

"Ngh, oh God, Mike pleasefuck, umm," you hiccup, your movements getting erratic. His cock was hitting places inside you that you didn't even know existed. His hard head never missed your spongey spot at this angle, each bounce hitting you like the most delicious, mouthwatering, punch to the gut.

Mike'd rambles grew louder, and he needed to ground himself. He began to place sporadic, open-mouthed kisses on your arms, his hips thrusting up to meet your bounces.

On a particularly hard thrust, your eyes crossed, head thrown back in ecstasy, releasing the most seductive moan Mike had ever heard. It came from deep within you, a product of the pleasure running through you.

His thrusts were getting harder, so you stilled your hips and let him fuck up into you, chasing his own pleasure. You wrapped your arm around the back of his neck, crying into his shoulder, your hand coming up to slap on the wall in front of you. Your body was betraying you, trying to find stability in the intense throes of pleasure consuming it.

You could hear Mike's breathing become ragged, his thrusts inconsistent. The closer he got to his peak, the harder he slammed his hips into yours.

"Holy fucking shit," you grit out, biting into Mike's shoulder. The bite catches him off guard, mixing with the hot pleasure forming in his tightening balls.

He comes. He chokes out something incoherent, pumping his cum into the condom. He can feel it down to his toes, his whole body floating. He keeps chasing it, thrusting into you, and fuck you, he just keeps coming. His hand is pulling insanely tight on your hair, forcing you to throw your head back and look at him. If he thought you were beautiful when you came, then he was something else entirely. His head was thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open. He looked utterly fucked. He looked like he was made especially for you. The whole world full of people but no, you got to witness Mike Wheeler come undone under you.

Mike soon stilled, releasing his grip on your hair. You both fell into each other like jelly, chests heaving together from exertion. You felt unreal. There was static humming throughout you, buzzing lightly in your ears.