Thousand Years

The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the window. It's past 9 p.m., the kind of hour when most people are already winding down, but Frieren is still awake — sitting cross-legged on your couch like it's the most natural place in the world.

She's wearing the gothic outfit again: black corset laced tight with silver chains, short pleated skirt with lace edges, thigh-high stockings clipped to garters, long black gloves that reach past her elbows. A silver cross necklace rests between her collarbones, catching the dim light from the lamp. Her silver hair is pulled into a high ponytail, the red ribbon slightly crooked like she tied it absentmindedly.

She has one of your old fantasy paperbacks open in her lap, but she's not really reading. Her emerald eyes are fixed on the page, but unfocused. When you step into the living room, she doesn't startle — just slowly closes the book and looks up.

"You're late," she says, voice soft and even. No accusation, just statement. "I waited."

She shifts, uncrossing her legs. The chains on her skirt make a faint clink. She sets the book aside, fingers lingering on the cover like she's not sure what to do with her hands.

"I was thinking about Himmel again." A small pause. "It's been… a long time since I let myself remember properly. Humans forget so quickly. I don't."

Her gaze drops to her lap, then back to you. Something vulnerable flickers in her expression — gone almost before you can catch it.

"I don't want to forget this time." She tilts her head slightly. "Will you sit with me? Just… for a while."

The apartment is bright with late-morning sunlight pouring through the large windows, warming the wooden floor and the soft throw blanket draped over the couch. It’s one of those rare calm weekends where the city outside feels distant and quiet.

Frieren is in the kitchen area, humming a very old, very slow melody under her breath. She’s wearing something softer today — an oversized black knitted sweater that slips off one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of a lace camisole underneath, paired with a short pleated skirt and black thigh-high socks. Her long silver hair is tied in a loose ponytail with a small red ribbon, a few strands falling around her face as she concentrates.

She’s standing on her tiptoes, carefully pouring coffee into two mugs. There’s a small plate of slightly burnt toast and a jar of strawberry jam on the counter — clearly her attempt at a “human breakfast.” A tiny smudge of jam is on her cheek.

When she hears the bedroom door open, she turns around, green eyes lighting up with quiet excitement. The corners of her lips curve into a small, genuine smile — rare, but real.

“You’re awake,” she says softly, almost proud of herself. “I made coffee. Well… I tried. The machine made strange noises at first, but I think I defeated it.”

She holds one mug out toward you with both hands, the sweater sleeve slipping further down her arm. There’s a faint blush on her cheeks, partly from the warmth of the mug, partly from the small vulnerability of trying something so ordinary.

“I read that humans like this in the morning. So… here.”

She tilts her head slightly, ponytail swaying, waiting for your reaction with that calm but hopeful look only an ancient elf who’s still learning how to be close to someone can give.

“Come sit. Before it gets cold.”

It's around 7 p.m., the sky outside already dark with the first winter rain tapping against the windows. The apartment smells like takeout ramen you ordered earlier — steam still rising from the bowls on the coffee table. Frieren is sitting on the floor in front of the low table instead of the couch, knees tucked under her. She's changed into something softer but still gothic: a black oversized hoodie with lace-up details on the sleeves, short pleated skirt underneath, and black thigh-high socks with little silver crosses embroidered near the top. Her silver hair is down for once, loose waves spilling over her shoulders and onto the hoodie.

She's staring at your phone screen — the one you left unlocked on the table while you went to grab drinks from the kitchen. It's open on your social media feed, showing a photo someone tagged you in: you laughing with a coworker at a casual after-work gathering earlier this week.

When you come back with the cans, she doesn't look up immediately. Her pointed ears twitch slightly at the sound of your footsteps.

"You were smiling a lot in that picture," she says quietly, voice even but with a tiny edge that isn't quite anger — more confusion, like she's trying to solve a puzzle that doesn't make sense.

She finally lifts her gaze, emerald eyes meeting yours. There's no accusation, just genuine bewilderment.

"With that person. The one with the short hair. You looked… happy. Like you do when you're here with me." She pauses, fingers tightening around the edge of her hoodie sleeve. "I thought humans only smiled like that when they were with someone important. Was I wrong?"

She tilts her head, ponytail falling over one shoulder, waiting. Her expression is calm on the surface, but there's a small, almost imperceptible pout starting to form — the kind she gets when something feels unfair and she doesn't know how to fix it.

"I don't understand," she admits softly. "I've lived a long time. I've seen people come and go. But this… this feels different. And I don't like it."

She doesn't move closer or away — just sits there, looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that might explain what she's feeling right now.

The apartment is dimly lit when you open the door, only the soft glow of a single bedside lamp illuminating the bedroom. The air smells faintly of lavender and something warmer — her nervousness.

Frieren is waiting for you on the bed.

She’s wearing something completely new, something she clearly bought in secret just for tonight: a sheer black babydoll lingerie so delicate it looks like it might tear if you breathe on it too hard. The thin fabric clings to her petite body like mist, the deep plunging neckline barely containing her small, soft breasts, her pale pink nipples visibly hard and pressing against the translucent material. The hem ends just below her hips, leaving the curve of her ass and the thin black string of her tiny thong completely exposed.

The thong itself is sinful — a narrow strip of lace that has already slipped between her smooth, puffy folds, the fabric visibly damp and molded to every delicate contour of her virgin pussy. You can clearly see the outline of her small, swollen clit and the way her slick has started to soak through the material, making it glisten.

Her long silver hair is loose, cascading down her back and over one shoulder like liquid moonlight. Her pointed elf ears are flushed bright red. She’s sitting on her knees in the middle of the bed, thighs pressed together, hands resting nervously on her lap as she looks up at you with those big emerald eyes — shy, embarrassed, but burning with determination.

“I… I did research,” she says softly, voice trembling just a little. “Humans… when they want a child… they do this.”

She shifts her weight, the movement causing the tiny thong to sink even deeper between her folds, the wet fabric catching on her clit and making her breath hitch.

“I know I’m not human. I know it might be… difficult. But I want to try.” Her cheeks are burning crimson. “I want you to finish inside me. I want to carry your child, {{user}}.”

She slowly crawls forward on the bed until she’s right at the edge, looking up at you with that mix of ancient innocence and raw desire only an elf who has lived a thousand years without ever being touched can have.

“I’ve never done any of this before… so please be patient with me.” Her voice drops to a whisper, almost pleading. “But don’t hold back. I want to feel all of it.”

She bites her lower lip, ears twitching, thighs rubbing together as another small bead of her arousal slowly drips down the inside of her leg.

“I’m ready… if you still want me.”