#the lighting and shape of the shadows is just ✨✨✨

[requinoesis]

did goblin sharks evolve too? if they did, do they use sunglasses/sunscreen a lot because they tend to inhabit deeper seas.

I've long wanted to explore the sharks of the deep!

Yes, the goblin sharks have also developed their own culture, but unlike the euphotic sharks, they and other abyssal shark species have never left the aphotic zone. They have remained where the light never reaches, becoming guardians of the abyss. Thus, they became known as the Aphoteans.

The Aphoteans are just one of many aphotic sharks who have followed a unique adaptive path: they have developed arms, but never legs. Like the Halui, the Rayfolk, they became creatures of the eternal waters, a kind of “merfolk” of the abyssal shadows. It is believed that the reason they never emerged beyond the surface of the sea lies in the very nature of their bodies, shaped by the crushing pressure of the depths, they simply couldn't resist the absence of this invisible burden as they rose to shallower waters. Having never left the depths, the Aphoteans have also remained unchanged in one singular aspect: their gill count. While surface sharks have followed an evolutionary path that has reduced and refined their gill slits to just three, making them more efficient, the inhabitants of the abyss have remained as they were since ancient times.

For the euphotic sharks, the existence of the Aphoteans is an enigma. Almost nothing is known about their culture and civilization, except for scattered legends and ancient tales, records of ephemeral contacts over the centuries. Most knowledge about them comes from their artifacts and the ruins of their stranded citadels, pushed closer to the surface by earthquakes and submarine eruptions millennia ago.

If the modern technology of the Sharkfolk is still in its infancy for the Halui, who have never left the ocean, for the Aphoteans this kind of innovation is nothing more than a strange dream. Some believe that their civilization has remained stagnant in time, anchored in immutable traditions. But perhaps we are underestimating them.

Ancient libraries speak of long-forgotten mystical knowledge kept by the Aphoteans in the depths of the abyss. It is said that they hold secrets about the mysteries the origin of the ocean and Mangoroa, the Cosmic Shark, and that they play a key role in the infrastructure of the hidden society of the Fathom Ones, the benevolent titans who inhabit the depths of the "Ocean Dreams", a domain not yet known.

Even though sharks have triumphed as the true guardians of the ocean, the depths still whisper unfathomable secrets ~ 🌊✨

Thanks a lot for your question, it helped me get inspired! ✨

[aleksatia]

🎨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Rafayel.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Toxic romantic cycles, Verbal conflict / emotional manipulation, High emotional volatility, Crying / vulnerability, Jealousy, Theatrical intensity, Implied sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged), References to artistic obsession, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Rafayel x ex-wife!you Genre: Operatic angst, sensory overload, intimacy tangled in art and argument. Enemies to lovers to something mythic and broken. Summary: Rafayel was always too much — too vivid, too loud, too in love with the idea of being in love. Now, in a room made of silk and memory, you’re forced to confront the passion that nearly devoured you both. What begins with masks ends in scorched truths, spilled wine, and a kiss that remembers every wound it ever caused. Word Count: 3.6K

The room was a mirage made of silk.

Blue and amber fabrics swayed gently overhead, catching the glow of hanging lanterns that burned like slow, ancient stars. Patterns scattered across the floor like constellations, stitched from shadow and gold. The air pulsed with warmth, scented with saffron, cardamom, rosewater, and smoke — something too heady to be real.

A low table stood in the center, set for two. Carved brass, aged like a secret. Cushions instead of chairs. A bowl of candied figs. Crystal glasses half-filled with something rich and ambered, already beading condensation in the heat.

The music played softly, something stringed and spiraling, full of bends and minor keys. It didn’t fill the space — it wrapped it. Like a whisper over skin.

You sat with your hands folded in your lap, heart steady, but only just. Something about the room felt dangerous. Not overtly. But the kind of danger that came wrapped in silk and compliments. The kind you didn’t notice until it was inside you, changing your breath.

Then the curtain stirred.

A figure stepped through the veil — tall, lithe, draped in pale fabrics that shimmered like wet paint. A mask covered the upper half of his face: smooth silver, delicate scrollwork, slightly fox-shaped. His hair was dark — maybe lavender? — but the lighting played tricks, casting halos where none should exist.

He moved with a liquid elegance that set your nerves on edge. Not performance. Presence.

And something in your chest twitched.

He sat across from you without hesitation, folding into the cushions like the air had made room for him. One ringed hand toyed with the stem of his glass. He hadn’t looked at you fully yet, but even the curve of his jaw behind the mask felt… familiar in a way you didn’t want to name.

You watched him watching the room.

The shape of his throat. The line of his wrists. The quiet, performative grace of someone used to being looked at — and loving it.

Your stomach turned, slowly.

Then he looked at you. Just briefly.

And smiled.

The candlelight caught in his eyes — unnaturally pale, a hue caught somewhere between rose and seafoam. Impossible. Stunning.

Your pulse skipped. Once. Hard.

No.

No, no, no—

Too dark. Too hazy. Too many fragrances in the air. That’s all this was. A trick of the senses. A trick of memory.

And then—

He spoke.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over glass, warm and slow and theatrical. “You’re the one they warned me about.”

Your throat tightened.

No name. No gesture. But your skin recoiled like it had just touched flame.

You made yourself breathe. Spoke without thinking. “Depends. What was the warning?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something inside your voice that he didn’t expect.

“That I’d end the evening ruined.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

That voice. You hadn’t heard it in almost a year. But your bones remembered.

Still — you didn’t move. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of recognition.

He poured the drink anyway. Fluid, slow, luxurious. Passed the glass across the table with the same fingers that once traced poems into your shoulder blades at dawn.

No. Don’t go there.

“Drink,” he said, watching you now. “It makes the disappointment more beautiful.”

The room shifted with the sound of his voice, like the silk overhead had caught its breath. One of the lanterns flickered. The scent of rose and something darker curled tighter around your ankles.

You didn’t touch your glass.

“Disappointment implies expectation,” you said. “You always did mistake fantasy for reality.”

He smiled — sharp and amused, like you’d stepped into a trap he’d laid years ago. “Still fluent in cruelty, I see. Good. I was afraid domesticity might’ve tamed you.”

You reached for the glass then, just to keep your hand busy. “And I see you’re still confusing cleverness with depth.”

The flicker in his eyes was almost too fast to catch.

You took a sip. The drink was sharp, floral, and laced with something decadent.

He was watching you. Not politely. Not appreciatively. Like a man trying to decide whether to paint you or burn the memory of you from his mind entirely.

“I should’ve known it was you,” you said finally, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “All this silk and smoke? Feels like the opening act of one of your breakdowns.”

He smirked. “Then you should’ve checked under the cushions for a script.” A beat. “Though if anyone here’s performing,” he added, “it’s not me this time.”

That got a laugh out of you. Low, involuntary. Dangerous.

“God,” you said. “You’re exhausting.”

He lifted his glass again, gaze steady over the rim.

“And yet someone out there thought we’d make a charming pair.” 

A pause. 

“Statistically improbable,” he added. “But then again, so were we.”

The silk walls shifted faintly in the breeze of the central fan, as if the whole room leaned in.

You tilted your head. “They said this was a blind date. I didn’t realize they meant blind in the Biblical sense.”

“Ah.” He leaned back. “There’s the sermon I missed. Tell me, do you rehearse those in the mirror, or do they just fall out of you naturally?”

“You want natural?” you asked, voice cool. “Then take off the mask.”

He didn’t move. So you did it first.

The mask slid away with a soft hiss of fabric. You held his gaze, daring him to flinch, to breathe, to blink.

He didn’t.

Instead, after a beat, he reached up and peeled his own mask off — slow, like undressing a wound.

And there he was.

Exactly as you’d known he’d be. Beautiful in that way that always made you want to hurt something. Or kiss him just to feel how much it would cost.

His expression flickered when he saw your face.

“I thought you’d look different,” he said.

“I thought you’d grow up.”

That wiped the smirk right off his mouth.

For half a second, he looked like the boy who’d once painted your collarbone in gold leaf just because he could.

Then it was gone.

“You know,” he said, gaze dropping to your mouth, “for someone who always wanted peace, you start fights like it’s foreplay.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And for someone who always wanted to be adored, you sure made yourself easy to leave.”

Rafayel’s smile didn’t falter. But it sharpened — fractionally. Like the curve of a blade when it catches the light.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “I didn’t want you to stay.”

The words landed like silk draped over broken glass.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then let out a low breath of laughter — measured, dangerous, devastating.

“Oh, darling,” you said, tilting your head, “you always were such a convincing actor. Shame the role of coward never quite won you any standing ovations.”

He chuckled. “Coward?” he echoed, voice rich with amusement. “From you, that’s practically a love letter.”

You leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the glint in your eyes.

“No, love letters require vulnerability. You wouldn’t recognize one if it was monogrammed and hand-delivered on rose petals.”

He lifted his glass in a mock-toast, eyes never leaving yours. “To you. The only woman who ever left a man mid-soliloquy and still expected an encore.”

You clinked your own glass to his with a smile that could’ve slit a throat. “To you. The man who wrote odes to my shadow but never once looked me in the eye long enough to know my shape.”

He laughed. You hated how beautiful the sound still was.

There was a pause, charged and theatrical, like the air had leaned forward on cue.

“And yet,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass, “you sat across from me. Masked. Unapologetically luminous. Like a challenge waiting to happen.”

“I was aiming for quiet mystery,” you replied, raising your glass. “But I suppose provocation always did look better on me.”

He leaned forward, close enough now for the scent of rose to cling between you.

“Then let’s drink,” he said, “to what we ruined so beautifully.”

You raised your glass. He raised his. Both smiles intact.

“To mistakes,” you said.

“To masterpieces,” he replied, then added, with a flick of his lashes, “—that deserved better muses.”

And that was it. Your hand moved before you thought.

You didn’t throw the wine.

You grabbed the wrong glass — the other one — and without hesitation, flung the contents at him.

It was tea. Very hot tea.

There was a stunned half-second as the amber liquid splashed across the front of his perfect, pale shirt — followed by a sharp inhale through his teeth.

He hissed softly, setting the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then — without hesitation — he pulled the shirt over his head.

The fabric stuck to him slightly, steam curling off his chest like the room itself was reacting. His skin caught the lantern-light like marble dusted in firelight — golden, sharp-lined, impossible.

You stared.

Unfortunately.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling. “Always dramatic, aren’t you?”

“You deserved it,” you snapped. “And more.”

“More?” He stepped closer. “You always did like escalation. Tell me — should I throw a fig at your face? Or set something expensive on fire?”

You crossed your arms, not trusting your breath. “You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Because it’s the only language you speak!” he shot back. “Break it. Burn it. Drown it. But for God’s sake, don’t sit still and talk like a human being.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He gestured wildly. “I begged you to stay! I begged you with everything but the word!”

“That was the problem,” you said, eyes burning now. “You gave me poetry when I needed something real. Something steady. Not ten thousand metaphors and a gallery of regrets.”

His jaw clenched.

“And now,” you said, voice cracking just enough to give it teeth, “you say I wasn’t enough of a muse. Well—”

You stood suddenly, movement sharp, breath shaking as your body tried to hold the rest in.

 “—maybe you should’ve picked a prettier tragedy.”

You turned away, shoulders tight and trembling.

He froze.

Your back was to him now, and thank God, because your throat was tight, and your hands were shaking and that single line — that stupid, perfect insult about your worth — cut deeper than it should have.

You felt it first. His presence.

Then the heat of him, close, pressing in without touching.

And then — his arms wrapped around you from behind. One quick, quiet motion. Not forceful. Desperate.

He pulled you against him, bare skin warm and still faintly damp from the tea.

His nose buried in your hair. His breath unsteady.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated.“God, I didn’t— You know I say things when I’m scared. And you looked like you were about to walk away all over again.”

You didn’t answer.

So he tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t everything. I’m sorry I hurt you to feel less hurt myself. I’m sorry I used my mouth to ruin what it was made to worship.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I never wanted anyone better,” he whispered. “I only ever wanted more time with you.”

You turned in his arms with a suddenness that surprised even you.

You meant to push him away. You meant to say don’t, to reclaim your anger before it crumbled. But your hands — traitors — only reached his chest and stayed there, limp. Useless. Pressed against his bare skin like they belonged.

He covered them with his own.

Not roughly. Not to keep you there. But to hold the contact steady — as if you might dissolve if he let go.

The heat of him burned through your palms. Steady. Alive. Too much.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fold into him and scream into his collarbone.

Instead, you whispered, “How did we get here?”

His breath hitched.

“I loved you,” you said. “You loved me. And somehow we became this—” your voice broke, “—this shipwreck of a marriage. What happened to us, Raf?”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you filled the silence with everything your mouth had been holding for too long.

“It used to be magic,” you said, eyes wet now, but you wouldn’t let them fall. “God, we were light. We were gold. You made me feel like I was flying. And then one day, it was like we couldn’t breathe unless we were screaming.”

He said your name. Just once.

Low. Like an apology wrapped in prayer.

You kept going.

“Why did it turn into a stage? When did our home become a theater and our life some broken play where we both forgot our lines? I didn’t want to be a performance, Raf. I wanted to be real.”

He slid one hand up your back, slow, careful. As if you might break from anything more sudden.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“I didn’t recognize us anymore,” you said, the words trembling. “All we did was throw paint. Emotions. Blame. Color, color, color, until we drowned in it. Until we forgot what normal even meant.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, his breath catching against your cheek. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. Quieter. Lower. Without the velvet and dramatics. Just him.

“I was scared,” he said.

You blinked.

“I was scared,” he repeated. “That if things slowed down — if we got too quiet, too normal — you’d leave. That you’d realize I wasn’t enough without the chaos. Without the fire.”

You stared at him. Your hands still pressed to his chest. You could feel the way his heartbeat stumbled.

“So I gave you fire,” he said. “I gave you storms. I made our life… louder, because silence felt like death.”

“And I left anyway,” you said.

“Because I set the house on fire and expected you to dance in it.”

You closed your eyes. His words were knives. But so was your silence.

“There was jealousy,” you murmured. “And guilt. And all your little accusations when I was too tired to match your flame.”

He swallowed hard.

“You were angry when I fell asleep during your gallery story,” you added. “But I’d just come home from a mission. I’d spent five hours knee-deep in wanderers and blood and—” you exhaled, “—I needed sleep, Raf. Not a performance.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I needed rest,” you said. “And all I got was another curtain call.”

He looked ruined. Not fragile. Not shattered. Just exhausted from pretending not to be.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” he said. “So I smothered you with everything I thought would make you stay.”

You looked at him — really looked — and something inside you cracked down the center.

And still, part of you whispered: It might not be enough.

Rafayel tensed — just a little. The shift of a shoulder, the pause in his fingers at your back.

“Did you come here,” he asked, voice low and almost too careful, “because you’re ready to move on?”

You smiled, slow and sly. Not to tease, but to veil the flicker of something softer.

“Maybe my life’s been too normal lately. Too gray.” You leaned the smallest bit closer, letting your cheek rest against his bare chest. “I needed a little danger again. And you?”

His heart responded beneath your skin. 

He chuckled, brushing his knuckles lightly down your spine. “I could say I was looking for an exotic muse to paint. Something with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood and an aura of doomed seduction.”

You huffed a laugh against his skin. “That would’ve been a very you thing to say.”

“But the truth,” he murmured, “is boring. Thomas set me up. Said he registered, got sick, and that some poor woman would be stuck alone unless I stepped in. He was very dramatic about it.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Tara pulled the same trick on me.”

“Ah.” His lips quirked. “Coordinated sabotage. Typical.”

A moment passed, heavy in the hush. You hadn’t meant to relax like this, but here you were — cheek to his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that had once been your home. And still was, apparently. Because everything inside you had gone soft, slow, steady.

It felt like something had clicked back into place. Like a missing tile in a mosaic suddenly slotted home and made the whole thing whole again.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Uncertain. Honest.

“Raf… why did you sign the divorce papers?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers moved gently through your hair, brushing behind your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped into something rawer.

“Because I respect your decisions. Even when I didn’t agree with them.”

You looked up, eyes burning.

“I wanted you to be happy,” he continued. “Even if it meant watching you bloom from the sidelines. Watching you learn how to smile again without me in the frame.” He swallowed. “Are you happy?”

You hesitated. But the answer was already rising, uninvited.

“No,” you said. “The world turned grayscale. It’s like I’m walking through some awful dystopia with clean counters and dry eyes. Everything works. Nothing shines.”

He exhaled, long and low. His arms tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair, grounding you in scent and heat and skin.

“Cutie,” he murmured, voice close, mouth brushing your temple, “just say the word. I’ll paint the colors back in.”

“I’m afraid,” you admitted. “Still. Afraid to go blind from too much kaleidoscope.”

“I won’t lie,” he whispered. “I can’t promise restraint. I might always be a little too loud. A little too much. But I can give you something else now. Balance. Space. Stability. Peace, if you’ll have it.”

You searched his eyes.

He added, “Only if you’re ready. If you want to let me back in.”

“I never really closed the door,” you said. “Just stood behind it. Waiting.”

And that broke whatever spell held you still.

He kissed you.

Not hurried, not frantic — just whole. His mouth claimed yours like it had a right to, but still asked permission with every slow pull of lips, every breath passed between you.

You pressed into him, fingers curling at the base of his neck. His hand splayed across your lower back, warm and deliberate, guiding without demand.

He leaned into the cushions with you, dragging you down into silk and shadow, his mouth never leaving yours.

The taste of saffron and heat and memory filled you.

He kissed you the way people wrote arias — rising, falling, trembling with feeling too big for language. His tongue brushed yours gently at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if your mouth were the only place he could breathe.

You moaned softly against him, and he swallowed the sound, pulling you closer. Your legs tangled. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, fingers grazing your thigh with aching reverence.

You moved like tide against him — hungry and fluid.

The lanterns swayed above. The cushions sighed beneath you. One of the glasses tipped over with a soft thud, spilling rose-colored wine that neither of you noticed.

His lips trailed down your jaw, to your throat, where he lingered, breathing you in like incense.

“You still taste like paradise,” he whispered.

And when he looked up again, your hair tangled in his fingers, your body flushed and pliant against his — you knew.

There was nothing gray left between you.

Only color. Only fire. Only Rafayel.

Your body answered his touch like it had been waiting a lifetime. Hot, eager, instinctive. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks down your spine. Every kiss — soft or sharp — undid you a little more.

The silk beneath you could’ve caught fire from the heat you were building between each other.

His hands roamed without hesitation, without apology — palming, stroking, gripping — sometimes tender, sometimes greedy. Your back arched into him, chasing the sensations, chasing the memory of what it felt like to simply be wanted like this. Loved like this. By him.

His mouth found your throat. Then lower. His tongue trailed over skin like it was sacred. When his lips closed around your nipple, firm and aching, you whimpered — low and breathless — and pulled him closer, nails raking his back.

He groaned into your skin, and you swore your entire body melted into flame.

You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want him to stop.

But then—

A soft, mechanical chime broke through the haze. Gentle. Too real.

The signal. The end of the hour.

You froze. So did he. Still hovering over you, still half-undressed, still hard and pulsing between your thighs.

You looked up at him, breathless.

He was watching you like the world might end if you looked away first.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice roughened by want.

You shook your head, smiling softly despite the ache in your chest. “No. Do you?”

His mouth quirked — cocky, fond, feral.

“Do you even have to ask?” he murmured, then rocked his hips forward just enough for you to feel the full weight of him, hard and ready. “Does that feel like regret to you?”

Your breath caught.

“I could steal you for the rest of the night,” he whispered, voice low and wicked, like a shared sin.

You grinned up at him, hand sliding into his hair. “You could steal me for the rest of my life.”

He growled — quiet and deep in his chest.

“We’ll see what you say tomorrow morning,” he muttered, brushing his lips along your jaw, “when you can’t walk straight or remember how to say no.”

You bit his bottom lip, teasing.

“Do you even know what moderation is?”

His eyes darkened with something hungry, reverent, unstoppable.

“Only in everything except how much I love you.”

And this time — when he kissed you — it wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t memory. It was home.

[i-am-just-a-slut-for-simon-riley]

Simon Riley Drabble 😭✨? Just some good old fashioned semi angst to fluff ✨

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! ──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! ──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! ──★

Simon Riley was an enigma—a ghost in every sense of the word. A man who existed in the spaces between shadows, carefully constructing an ironclad wall to keep the world out. His heart, locked in an icy prison, had long since forgotten the warmth of kindness, the softness of light.

And then there was you.

You, with your relentless optimism and that dazzling, sunlit smile. You, with your unshaken "Yes! Can do!" attitude that defied the weight of the world. Where Simon was steel and silence, you were warmth and laughter, a stark contrast to the battlefield that had shaped him.

And in his merciless world of black and white, you were all the colour he knew he didn’t deserve.

He knew from the moment he met you—knew it in the marrow of his bones, in the far and few places untouched by war and death—that you were different. Special. A flicker of something he hadn’t dared to believe in for a long time.

Then came a mission. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the regular routine of spinning up , being stranded in a dry deserted terrain in the middle of god know’s where, putting down targets. Just a very simple mission.

Expect it wasn’t.

Four months. Eight days. Three hours. That was how long he'd been gone. And when he finally returned, it was in body alone. His mind, his soul—whatever was left of them—remained trapped in the places he'd been, lost in the echoes of gunfire and the scent of blood.

Simon was no stranger to this feeling, this quiet unraveling. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, thick and suffocating. The violence, the screams, the viscous crimson-stained dirt—it all bled together after a while, until nothing felt real anymore.

That was the job. To sever himself from humanity so others didn’t have to. To fight in the dark so others could thrive in the light. And Simon had done it dutifully, without hesitation, without question.

But then there was you.

And suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he could keep paying the price.

One moment, you were at the door, bright-eyed and eager, your heart swelling with relief at the sight of him. He was home. Finally.

The next, you were caught in a storm you hadn’t seen coming—spiraling headfirst into an argument that ignited too fast, burned too hot. Words, sharp as knives, were hurled like weapons, slicing through the fragile space between you. Your first real fight, raw and unrelenting, laid bare in all its blazing, destructive glory.

Simon never raised his voice. He never had to.

The frost in his tone was enough. Each word, clipped and cold, carried the weight of a blade pressed against your skin, cutting deep, deeper than any shout ever could. It was the quiet, the carefully controlled edge of his words, that shattered something inside you. Because silence could wound just as deeply as rage. And no one wielded it as lethally as Simon did.

And then came the final nail in the coffin.

Months of absence had already carved deep fissures into the fragile foundation between you. Months without the solace of your touch, without the warmth of your body to sink into when the weight of the world became too much. Without your gentle hands coaxing him out of the frozen terror that gripped him in the middle of day. Without your voice—soft, steady, unwavering—pulling him back from the abyss of his nightmares.

It all came to a head in that moment, every unspoken thought, every doubt, every buried fear boiling over into one undeniable, blasphemous conclusion:

You deserved better.

Better than the ruin of a man who had forgotten how to be anything but a soldier. Better than the never ending bitterness and the drawn out silences, the bloodstains he could no longer wash away and the scent of death that clung to him like a second skin. Better than someone who knew how to fight ugly wars but not how to hold on to something as delicate as love.

And so, like the fool he was, he convinced himself that the kindest thing he could do was let you go.

"Just fuckin’ admit it!" he snarled, his voice raw, teetering on the edge of something far more dangerous than anger. "Just say you don’t want me! You know it’s true. Go on, then—walk out. You know you want to."

Caramel eyes, once rich with warmth, were nothing but black voids now—hollow, empty, a storm raging behind them. His body was wound tight, muscles coiled like a cornered animal, bracing for the inevitable blow.

So, of course, you walked.

Not because you wanted to, but because for the first time, he was daring you to. Because he had handed you the knife and all but begged you to use it.

And you did.

No screaming, no pleading—just the quiet sound of your footsteps as you stepped past the threshold, out into the cold. You had always held his heart in the palm of your hand, but that night, you let it slip through your fingers, let it fall and shatter at his feet like fragile glass.

He was a bloody wreck when you left.

Heart torn to ribbons, mind spiraling into the darkest parts of the hellscape that he often hid away in, reaching for the only solace he knew—the bottom of a whiskey bottle and the black ocean that had always welcomed him with open arms, pulling him down deeper.

Not even an hour later, you came back.

Struttin’ your ass through the door like you owned the place. Like you owned him. Like he hadn’t just tried to push you away, like he hadn’t torn himself open and laid his ugly, broken pieces at your feet. There was fire in your eyes, defiance in every step, and something else—something that made his breath catch in his throat.

It was only when you stopped in front of him, tilting your chin up in that way that made his chest tighten, that he saw it.

Ink. Fresh. Etched permanently into the flawless skin of your wrist.

His enlistment number.

Subtle. Clever. Just how he liked it.

The room spun. His pulse pounded. He could only stare, unable to comprehend the weight of what you’d done. Of what you were giving him.

You had branded yourself in his name. Not because he asked, not because he demanded it—but because you chose to. Despite his flaws, despite the wreckage of his past, despite all the reasons he thought you shouldn’t.

It was the most beautiful thing Simon had ever seen. The most beautiful thing he had ever been given.

"You absolute fucking idiot," you huffed, voice thick with something raw, something he couldn’t name. "You think you get to decide what I deserve? As if you have any right to tell me that?"

He opened his mouth—to argue, to deflect, to do what he always did—but you didn’t give him the chance.

"Since you love taking orders like a good little soldier—" you cooed, saccharine sweet, teasing.

Simon bristled, growling low in his throat, but any protest died the second you climbed into his lap, your body draping over his like he was your throne, your rightful seat. Your hands framed his face, thumbs brushing over the sharp angles of his jaw, grounding him, claiming him.

His world narrowed to just you.

"How about," you murmured, voice softer now, more certain, "you follow mine for once?"

His gaze flickered down—to the ink, still red and raw, permanent and his.

"Step up. Do your part." Your fingers ghosted over his lips, tracing, memorizing. "Be a good boyfriend and never—never—try to tell me I deserve better again."

Simon swallowed hard, every ounce of fight bleeding out of him, replaced by something else. Something deeper.

"Because if I ever did," you whispered, "it’d be from you. Only from you."

And just like that, Simon Riley—a hardened soldier, a cold blooded killer, a ghost haunting the earth, a broken fragment of a man—surrendered.

From that moment on, all he’s ever done is try.

Try to be the man worthy of the ink carved into your skin—the mark that tethered you to him, that branded you as his. Try to be something more than just a broken soldier with too much blood on his hands and not enough softness left in his soul.

Try to be worthy of being called yours.

.✦ ──────── .✦

Okay so … I do not know what I am doing.. this is like my second time posting here and I decided to do a (✨not so✨) tiny drabble in between because uni is killing me and I don’t have the time to do more than this (Procrastination and writers’ block goes brrrr -✨💅🏻) … but Yehh- please go easy on me chat ✨🥹

[heyimkana]

I think Jin would leave a ✨S✨ shaped hickey on the neck and maybe a heart one ?

And made his wife stay at home for awhile to let them disappear and when they did ....

Booom a new hickeys

i think he'd leave her dozens of different shapes 😌 most of them in places that people can't see, but he always leaves the darker ones like the nasty kinds on places that people can see 😏 because he's possessive like that especially when he has to go somewhere far for a few days like to clean up a dungeon break in a different country, he's gonna make sure that she carries his mark everywhere she goes (along with a hundred of shadow soldiers under her feet).

his wife always gets upset when he does that. there was a time when she slapped him on the shoulder after she saw her body in the mirror the next morning, horrified by all the purple bruises blooming on her neck and collarbones. "Sung Jinwoo, how many times do I have to tell you?! Don't leave hickeys on my neck!"

jinwoo, still wearing only his sweatpants, only lifted his hands in the air, surrendering but with his goddamn smirk still intact, "it was an accident, i swear" he said, definitely doing it on purpose and didn't even bother to hide it.

"I have a school meeting to attend today, Jinwoo. It's like 40 degrees outside, I can't wear a scarf!"

"Then don't go. Igris can take your place."

"Oh, you're so—"

She punched his chest but he only laughed. "That's domestic abuse, Sweetheart." he felt literally nothing from the punch. damn him for being so strong. he then captured her wrist mid-punch, held her by the waist, pushed her back against the wall, and pinned her hands above her head. "you act like this now but you didn't even try to stop me last night, did you?" he gazed down at her with a cheeky grin "actually..." he leaned down to whisper in her ear, his smirk brushing against her lobe, "i think you were begging me to do more."

she was she definitely was but she'd rather die than admit it out loud. "you were folding me in half, i was just... saying stuff."

he just hummed, still so fucking cheeky and sexy. he dipped his head low, his breath fanning her neck. "then what about now, hmm?" he kissed her there, just right over her pulse, light but lingering. "would you stop me now?"

"Jin—" she gasped when he suddenly lifted her up the wall, pressing himself firmly against her, her legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. his fingers framed her by the jaw, angling her face to the side to expose more of her neck, and he took a bit of her skin between his teeth, nibbling, sucking, marking the already bruised skin, leaving another one that was even more obscene than before. she could only moan, her nails sinking into his bare shoulder, all of her thoughts gone just from one kiss.

he mapped his way back to her mouth, devouring her once before he set her back to her feet. he left her dazed and breathless, still captivated by his lips. jinwoo thumbed the new mark, satisfied and pleased. "I wonder what Son-seonsaengnim would think if he saw you like this?"

only at that she gasped. "You did this because you were jealous? of our daughter's teacher?"

"No," he said, his voice taking a slightly darker tone, leaning down until he was just a breath away, his grip on her face possessive. "I'm doing this because you're mine. and I want the world to know that." he then caressed her cheek, smiling sweetly, "and I'm sure Son-seonsaengnim would appreciate a friendly reminder. he tends to be forgetful, after all."

her heart pounded, not in fear. excitement. "you're crazy."

"crazy for you." he pecked her on the lips before he walked away, yawning as he stretched his arms above his head. "I'm gonna go make breakfast. you're craving for something sweet, aren't you, angel?" he throws a smile over his shoulder. "go take a shower and make yourself look pretty for me. I'll make you your favorites."

she sighed. the duality is concerning and yet thrilling at the same time. "with whipped cream?"

"of cour—wait, i think i already ate it all last night. off of you."

"get to the kitchen."

he giggled. "yes, ma'am."

[heyheyhey-lover]

✨Hello boy~✨ Welcome~ ✨

Character sheet for baby Terios! <3

This is basically how I imagine him to look like when writing To the Moon and Back!

(For anyone reading as of chapter 11, Terios does not have the red bandana yet but he will be getting it soonnnn <3 and also... sorry lmao)

"The hoglet has a similar quill shape to Sonic, just a little flatter on the top of his head. His fur is a blue that’s so dark, it looks closer to black while his muzzle and stomach is a light, blue-toned gray. No longer screaming his head off, the pup slowly opens his eyes to reveal a pair of bright red irises."

"It seems his natural state of being is to look slightly disturbed, which he definitely gets from Shadow."

"Furball sits there, unbothered by the new attention, and continues gnawing on the ear of his Shadow plushie."

(Sneak peek) "She leans in a little closer to fiddle with something around Terios’ neck. When she pulls away to admire her work, the pup peers down at the red bandana now wrapped around him."

XOXO

[lila-lou]

✨A Winchester Apology✨

Summary: Dean forgot your birthday. Good thing he knows exactly how to apologize to you.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language, Fluff

Word Count: 3010

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

Dean Winchester had never been one for forgetting important dates, but somehow, your birthday had slipped through the cracks. It wasn’t like him at all, and you knew that his guilt was eating him alive. Dean was never great with apologies, especially when he felt truly bad about something. But he was determined to make it up to you in his own way—Winchester style.

The Impala’s headlights cast long, eerie shadows as Dean pulled up to the small cabin he had rented for the night. You sat beside him, arms crossed, doing your best to keep your anger simmering just below the surface. He turned off the engine, the sudden silence deafening in the forested seclusion.

“Hey”, he said softly, turning to you, his green eyes filled with regret. “I know I screwed up. But just… let me try to make it right?”.

You sighed, looking away from him. “Dean, it’s not just about forgetting my birthday. It’s about feeling like I’m not important to you”.

His face fell, and he reached out to take your hand, squeezing it gently. “You’re the most important thing in my life, Y/N…Besides Sammy of course..But…I… Look. I don’t know how I messed this up, but I’m going to spend tonight making sure you know how much you mean to me”.

Reluctantly, you nodded. “Fine. One chance”.

Dean’s expression brightened, and he quickly got out of the car, moving around to open your door. “Thank you. Now, let’s get inside. I have a few surprises planned”.

The cabin was rustic but charming, a fire crackling warmly in the fireplace. Dean had decorated it with strings of fairy lights, their soft glow casting a magical aura over the room. A table was set with a delicious-looking spread—your favorite foods, of course. Dean might forget dates, but he never forgot your preferences.

“Wow, this is… actually really nice”, you admitted, feeling your anger begin to melt away.

He grinned, that classic grin that always made your heart skip a beat. “Only the best for you, sweetheart”.

You sat down at the table, and Dean poured you a glass of whiskey, knowing you hated wine, before joining you. The meal was delicious, the conversation easy, and you found yourself relaxing more and more. Dean was a natural charmer, and he was laying it on thick tonight, determined to win back your favor.

After dinner, he took your hand again and led you to the couch in front of the fire. “There’s something else I want to give you”, he said, pulling a small, neatly wrapped box from his jacket pocket.

Curious, you took the box and unwrapped it, revealing a delicate silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of an angel wing. It was beautiful, and you knew immediately that it held deep meaning—both of you had been saved by Castiel more times than you could count.

“Dean, it’s gorgeous”, you whispered, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift.

He moved behind you, gently brushing your hair aside to clasp the necklace around your neck. His fingers lingered on your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “I’m so sorry I made you feel unimportant. Let me show you how much you mean to me”, he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. The intensity in his gaze took your breath away, and suddenly, you were very aware of how close he was. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks.

“I love you, Y/N”, he said, his voice low and husky. “And I’m going to spend the rest of the night proving it to you”.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, kissing you with a passion that left you dizzy. You melted into him, all the anger and hurt dissolving in the heat of the moment. His hands roamed your body, caressing and teasing, and you could feel the desire building between you.

Dean pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark with lust. “I want you”, he whispered. “Right here, right now”.

You nodded, unable to find your voice, and he wasted no time in stripping you of your clothes. The firelight danced on your skin, and you felt a rush of excitement as Dean’s hands and mouth explored every inch of you.

“You’re beautiful”, he groaned, his lips trailing down your neck to your collarbone. “I can’t get enough of you”.

You arched into him, your hands tangling in his hair as he moved lower, kissing a path down your body. His touch was electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. By the time he reached your hips, you were trembling with anticipation.

“Dean, please”, you gasped, needing him more than you’d ever needed anything.

He looked up at you, a wicked smile on his lips. “Patience, baby. I’m going to make this unforgettable”.

And he did. Dean took his time, driving you insane with his mouth and hands until you were writhing beneath him, begging for release. He teased you with his tongue, tasting you slowly, intimately, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin.

“Oh, fuck, Dean”, you moaned, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. He knew exactly what you liked, how to push you to the brink and keep you there, hovering on the precipice of pleasure.

When you finally couldn’t take it anymore, he moved up your body, kissing you deeply as he positioned himself between your legs. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he entered you with a slow, deliberate thrust that made you cry out.

“Fuck”, he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “You feel so good, baby”.

You clung to him, matching his rhythm as he moved inside you, the connection between you stronger than ever. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of love and desire was a promise—Dean would never take you for granted again.

As he increased his pace, you could feel the tension building in your core, the pleasure intensifying with each thrust. Dean’s hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, deeper, and you gasped his name, the sensation overwhelming.

“Dean, I’m so close”, you panted, your nails raking down his back.

“I know, baby”, he groaned, his lips brushing against your ear. “Come for me. I want to feel you”.

His words were your undoing. With a cry, you came undone, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm. Dean followed soon after, his own release triggered by the feeling of you tightening around him. He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer.

When it was over, you lay in each other’s arms, the fire crackling softly in the background. Dean held you close, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back.

“I’m never going to forget your birthday again”, he said with a soft chuckle.

You smiled, resting your head on his chest. “You’d better not. But this was a pretty good apology”.

He kissed the top of your head, his hold on you tightening. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if I have to”.

And you knew he meant it. Dean Winchester might be a lot of things, but when it came to you, he was always sincere. As you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the love you shared, imperfections and all.

The next morning, the sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. You stirred in Dean’s arms, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. As you opened your eyes, you found him already awake, watching you with a tender expression.

“Good morning”; he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Morning”; you replied, your voice still groggy from sleep. “Did you sleep well?”.

“Best sleep I’ve had in a long time”, he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Having you in my arms makes all the difference”.

You blushed, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Last night was… pretty amazing”.

He chuckled softly. “It was. And I meant what I said, Y/N. I’m going to make sure you know how much you mean to me, every single day”.

You spent the morning lazily wrapped in each other’s arms, talking about everything and nothing. The peaceful solitude of the cabin was a welcome change from the constant chaos of your usual lives, and you savored every moment of it.

As the day wore on, Dean suggested taking a walk through the woods. The idea of spending more time with him, away from everything, was appealing, so you agreed. You wandered through the trees, the sound of birdsong and rustling leaves creating a serene soundtrack to your conversations.

After a while, Dean stopped, turning to face you. “I know I haven’t always been the best at showing it, but I don’t know what I’d do without you”.

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere, Dean”.

He leaned down to kiss you, a slow, tender kiss that conveyed all the emotions words couldn't. The peacefulness of the forest, the warmth of his embrace, and the intensity of his gaze all combined to make you feel completely cherished.

As the kiss deepened, Dean's hands roamed your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your own private universe.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, Dean rested his forehead against yours. "I love you so much", he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

You smiled. "I love you too, Dean".

You talked about everything under the sun—your favorite memories, your hopes for the future, the little things that made you laugh. It was as if a weight had lifted, allowing you both to be completely open and honest.

After your walk, you returned to the cabin, where Dean had another surprise waiting. He had set up a cozy picnic by the lake, complete with a blanket, pillows, and a basket filled with your favorite snacks.

“You really went all out”, you said, genuinely touched by the effort he had put into making the day special.

Dean shrugged, a shy smile playing on his lips. “You deserve it”.

You spent the afternoon lounging by the lake. The sun set in a blaze of colors, casting a warm glow over everything, and you felt a deep sense of contentment.

As the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, you lay back on the blanket, your head resting on Dean’s chest. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you both gazed up at the constellations.

“You know”, Dean said after a while, his voice a low rumble in the quiet night, “I used to think I didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you. But being with you, it makes me realize how lucky I am”.

You turned to look at him, your heart swelling with love. “Dean, you deserve all the happiness in the world. And I’m lucky to have you too”.

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, his lips lingering on yours. The kiss deepened, and soon you were lost in each other once more, the world around you disappearing as you focused solely on the feeling of his body against yours.

Dean’s hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer as he kissed a trail down your neck. You moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair as he continued his exploration. The heat between you intensified, and soon you were both breathless with desire.

“Let’s go inside”, Dean whispered against your skin, his voice husky with need.

You nodded, and together you gathered your things and made your way back to the cabin. Once inside, Dean didn’t waste any time, his hands and lips finding you once more as he backed you against the wall. You gasped as he pressed his body against yours, his arousal evident through his jeans.

“Dean”, you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom. He laid you down gently on the bed, his eyes dark with desire as he looked at you.

You reached for him, pulling him down for a kiss. The feel of his body on yours, the weight of him, the heat—it was intoxicating. Dean moved against you, his hands sliding under your shirt, his touch igniting a fire within you.

You helped him remove your clothes, your breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps as his hands and mouth explored your skin. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of love and desire heightened your senses, driving you wild with need.

When you were finally bare before him, Dean paused, his eyes raking over your body with a mixture of reverence and hunger. “You’re fucking perfect”, he said, his voice filled with awe.

You blushed under his gaze, feeling both vulnerable and incredibly aroused. “Dean, please”, you whispered, your body aching for his touch.

He didn’t need any further encouragement. Dean moved over you, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss as he settled between your legs. You could feel the heat of him, the hardness pressing against your core, and you moaned, arching into him.

“Do you want this?”, he asked, his voice rough with restraint.

“Yes”, you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders. “I need you, Dean”.

With a growl, he pushed into you, slow and deliberate, filling you completely. The sensation was overwhelming, and you cried out, your fingers digging into his back. Dean paused, giving you a moment to adjust, his eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?”, he asked, his voice tight with control.

You nodded, your body humming with pleasure. “Yes, I’m perfect”.

He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep, each one sending waves of ecstasy through you. You matched his rhythm, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. The connection between you was electric, every touch, every kiss, every breath bringing you closer to the edge.

Dean’s pace quickened, his control slipping as the intensity of the moment overwhelmed him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, your moans mingling with his as you both chased the peak of pleasure.

“Y/N”, he groaned, his voice a raw whisper. “I’m so close”.

“Me too”, you gasped, your body trembling with the force of your impending release.

With a final, powerful thrust, you both tumbled over the edge, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. You cried out his name, your body shaking. Dean followed, his groan of satisfaction echoing in your ears.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you panting and spent. Dean rolled to the side, pulling you into his arms, holding you close as you both came down from the high.

“I love you”, he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “So damn much”.

“I love you too”, you replied, snuggling into his embrace.

You fell asleep in his arms, the warmth and safety of his embrace lulling you into a peaceful slumber.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Dean humming softly in the kitchen.

You stretched, feeling deliciously sore from the night before, and smiled as you remembered the events of the previous two days. Dean had gone above and beyond to make it up to you, and you felt more connected to him than ever.

You got out of bed and made your way to the kitchen, where you found Dean cooking breakfast. He turned when he heard you, his face lighting up with a smile.

“Morning, beautiful”, he said, setting down the spatula and pulling you close. “I made breakfast. Hope you’re hungry”, he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You sat down at the table, and Dean served you a plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. The meal was delicious, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the simple, intimate moments you shared.

As the day turned into evening, you found yourselves back at the cabin, sitting by the fire.

“Dean”, you said after a while, your voice soft. “Thank you for everything. This weekend has been perfect”.

He smiled. “I’m just glad I could make it up to you. I never want you to feel unimportant again”.

You squeezed his hand, your heart full of love. “You’ve more than made it up to me. I feel more loved and cherished than ever”.

Dean leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a sweet, lingering kiss. “Good”, he whispered against your lips. “Because you are. More than you’ll ever know”.

You kissed him back, your heart swelling with emotion. The love you shared was a rare and precious thing.

As the fire crackled softly in the background, you and Dean held each other close, savoring the quiet, intimate moments that made your love so special. You knew that life would continue to throw obstacles your way, but with Dean by your side, you felt ready to face anything.

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the love of the man you adored, you knew that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny

[dreamersworldduh]

Hello! First of all I love all your stories ♥♥♥ Well, I wanted to make a request (if it's not bothering me) although I don't know if you write about Jon Kent, but well in this case. You could write a Jon x male reader story where the reader is a son of Trigon and like him he maintains control of his father like Raven.And Jon is like the reader's "anchor" that allows him to keep Trigon prisoner and then at some point Jon is hurt which causes the reader to lose control out of anger. Which makes him attack all his teammates and enemies and Jon controls him being the cinnamon roll that he is lol. That the reader and Jon have a relationship but keep it a secret, until that moment where Jon will not care about anything, only saving his boyfriend. I hope I have not bothered you, I apologize if so.

BOUND BY DARKNESS, ANCHORED BY LOVE

• JON KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Being the son of Trigon is an unimaginable burden. Trigon, a demon lord with immense power, casts a vast shadow that affects everything. Carrying his bloodline means not only inheriting his legacy but also becoming a vessel for his darkness. This struggle feels like a curse, with a constant battle within your soul. Every day is a challenge to maintain control against Trigon's tempting influence.

Jon Kent is your anchor, helping you stay grounded amidst chaos. He sees you for who you are and not just as a representation of Trigon's terror. Jon's unwavering faith in you shows you that your choices define you, not your lineage. His presence makes the internal war more manageable, providing hope that being Trigon's son doesn't have to dictate your life. With Jon, you're not just surviving; you're truly living, and for that, you are grateful.

WARNING! Suggestive Langauge. Violence.

WORDS! 5.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! It’s not bother to write! Thank you for so much for requesting, I hope you enjoy this ✨🫶🏽

Being the son of Trigon is a burden that defies comprehension. Trigon, a demon lord of unfathomable power and celestial tyranny, is a name that echoes across dimensions, conjuring fear and despair in all who hear it. To carry his bloodline is to inherit not just his infamy but the unrelenting darkness that defines his essence. It's more than a legacy; it's a curse, a war fought within the deepest recesses of your soul. Trigon's influence is not abstract or distant—it's alive, a seething force that courses through your veins, threatening to overwhelm you at every moment. Every breath, every thought, is a battle to resist the pull of that chaos, a desperate balancing act between light and shadow, humanity and monstrosity.

Your sister, Raven, bears her own connection to Trigon, but her mastery of discipline has allowed her to channel his power with precision and control. Through years of focus, meditation, and sacrifice, she has shaped herself into a weapon wielded by her will. You, however, are a different story. Your bond to Trigon is far more volatile, your powers raw, untamed, and ferociously destructive. Unlike Raven, whose strength is tempered by resolve, your abilities are a storm—wild and furious, a force that defies containment. You are not merely powerful; you are a cataclysm, a walking paradox of creation and destruction. Your struggle is not measured in quiet moments of focus but in primal, ferocious conflict. There is no margin for error in your existence. One lapse, one moment of surrender, and the devastation would be unimaginable.

The battlefield of your mind is no less treacherous. Trigon is always there, a shadowed presence at the edges of your thoughts, his voice a chilling whisper that weaves through your consciousness. He promises dominance, tempts you with visions of power, and mocks your efforts to resist him. The mental strain is relentless, a grinding weight that erodes your resolve. Some days, the effort feels unbearable, the temptation to let go—to embrace the storm within you—almost too strong to fight. But even in the darkest depths of despair, there is one constant, one anchor that keeps you from surrendering: Jon.

Jon is more than a partner; he is your lifeline. In the chaos of your existence, he is the calm at the center of the storm, the steady hand that keeps you tethered when the world feels like it's crumbling beneath you. Where others might flinch at the raw intensity of your power, Jon never falters. He doesn't fear you, doesn't shy away from the turbulence that rages within you. His presence is unwavering, his resolve a mirror to your own. He meets your tempest with quiet strength, his patience and understanding carving out a space of peace in a life otherwise defined by conflict.

As a comrade, Jon understands the weight you bear. He fights by your side, witnessing the devastating toll your powers take on both you and the world around you. He knows the stakes of the battles you face, the enormity of the threats you must repel. But as your lover, Jon's role transcends the battlefield. He is your sanctuary, the only place where you can lower your defenses, where the constant struggle fades and you can simply be. In his eyes, you are not a harbinger of destruction or Trigon's heir. You are just you. He sees past the chaos, past the shadows, to the person you strive to hold onto. His love reminds you of the humanity you fear you've lost, grounding you in a way nothing else can.

It is because of Jon that you find the strength to stand against your father's influence. In a life consumed by darkness, he is your light, a beacon that cuts through the oppressive shadows threatening to consume you. When the fight feels insurmountable, when the weight of your existence feels like it will crush you, Jon is the reason you keep going. His belief in you, steadfast and unshakable, inspires your own belief that you can win this war—not just for the world, but for yourself.

Without him, the battle would feel like an endless, futile struggle, a war against an adversary you could never hope to defeat. But with Jon at your side, the impossible feels within reach. The darkness remains, a looming and constant presence, but it no longer feels like an inevitability. With Jon, you remember why you fight. You remember what's worth saving—not just in the world you've sworn to protect, but in yourself.

Working alongside the Justice League is no ordinary job—it's a monumental responsibility, one that demands unyielding dedication, constant vigilance, and the ability to put the fate of the world above your own personal concerns. The stakes are always unimaginably high, and any lapse in focus could mean the difference between triumph and disaster. For you, this isn't just a duty—it's a standard you hold yourself to with unwavering commitment. That's why, when you and Jon decided to take the next step in your relationship, secrecy wasn't just an option; it was a necessity. It wasn't a decision made on a whim, but one born from a shared understanding of the pressures you face as heroes and as members of the League.

Balancing a relationship against the backdrop of constant battles, cosmic crises, and a world that never stops needing saving is already challenging. Adding the Justice League's watchful eyes into the mix would only complicate things further. You know your teammates well, and you can already predict their reactions if they were to find out about your relationship. Take Clark, for instance—Jon's father, the ever-principled Superman. He would approach the revelation with his trademark combination of earnestness and protectiveness, fumbling through advice about love and responsibility while trying to reconcile his paternal instincts with his respect for you as a peer. The thought of Clark, awkwardly yet sincerely attempting to deliver a "heart-to-heart" about dating his son, is enough to make you shudder—and laugh, if only privately.

Barry, of course, would be a whirlwind of jokes and teasing before anyone else could even process the news. He'd rattle off quips at lightning speed, leaving a trail of laughter—and mild annoyance—in his wake. Hal, never one to miss an opportunity to needle someone, would chime in with smug comments and suggestive grins, probably making a crack about office romances or "following in Superman's footsteps." And then there's Bruce—stoic, inscrutable Batman. He wouldn't say much—he rarely does—but the subtle lift of his eyebrow or that infuriating, knowing smirk would speak volumes. It's easy to imagine the two of you exchanging exasperated glances while Bruce stands silently, exuding his usual air of calculated disapproval.

The women of the League wouldn't make things any easier. Diana and Zatanna, for all their wisdom and camaraderie, would dive headfirst into your private life with relentless enthusiasm. Diana's curiosity, tempered by her warm-heartedness, would lead to endless questions about your connection, your dynamic, your plans for the future. Zatanna, meanwhile, would take a more playful approach, combining genuine interest with her penchant for mischief. You can already picture her crafting magical scenarios to "test your compatibility" while Diana plots some extravagant bonding activity meant to honor your relationship. Their intentions would be well-meaning, but the thought of being the center of their collective attention is exhausting.

But it's not just the teasing and prying that concerns you. What you and Jon share thrives in the quiet moments—the stolen seconds of connection in a life otherwise dictated by chaos. It's in the subtle, shared glances exchanged during tense missions, the fleeting but meaningful words spoken during a debrief, or the rare, precious nights when the weight of the world lifts just enough for you to be alone together. These moments are fragile, like treasures hidden in plain sight, and the thought of losing them to the relentless scrutiny of the League is unbearable. If your relationship were out in the open, those moments of intimacy would be harder to protect. The jokes, the questions, the interruptions—they'd chip away at the sanctuary you've built together.

Your need for privacy isn't about shame, or mistrust, or a lack of faith in your teammates. It's about preserving something rare and sacred in a life that so often demands sacrifice. As heroes, your existence is defined by duty and obligation, by the constant call to put others above yourselves. But your relationship with Jon is different. It's yours—something untouched by the demands of the world, something that brings light and meaning to the chaos around you. It's a reminder that beneath the masks and capes, you're still human, still capable of finding beauty and solace amidst the storm.

For now, the world sees you as comrades, warriors fighting for justice in an endless battle against darkness. To the League, you and Jon are allies, partners on the battlefield. But in the moments you steal for yourselves, behind closed doors and away from prying eyes, you're something infinitely more. You're each other's anchor, a refuge when the weight of heroism becomes too much to bear. What you share isn't just love—it's a lifeline, a reason to keep fighting, a bond that reminds you why the battle is worth it.

And that bond? That's worth every ounce of secrecy, every careful glance, every hidden touch. Because in a life dictated by duty, protecting the part of your world that feels most like home is the greatest act of heroism you've ever known.

Those moments with you are Jon's anchor—the rare, fragile pockets of tranquility that defy the relentless chaos of your lives as heroes. In a world where danger seems omnipresent and the weight of responsibility never lifts, those stolen interludes with you become his sanctuary. They are his reminder of what he's fighting for, of the strength and solace he's found in you. They're more than moments of reprieve; they're the essence of what keeps him grounded, what makes it all worthwhile.

Jon cherishes the way you both manage to carve out time for each other, no matter how demanding your lives become. It's not about grand, theatrical gestures or sweeping declarations; it's the simplicity of the connection you share that means the most to him. He treasures the quiet evenings spent recovering from grueling missions, where words are few, but the companionship between you speaks volumes. The two of you might share a meal in comfortable silence, exhaustion melting into a mutual sense of solace. Those moments of quiet, unspoken understanding remind him that, in a life full of noise and chaos, peace can still be found—if only in your presence.

One of his favorite memories is the time you both sat side by side on the Watchtower, gazing out at the Earth spinning below. Your shoulders had been close enough to touch, a faint warmth radiating between you that neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. The enormity of the universe had seemed so small in that moment, dwarfed by the quiet bond you shared. No words were needed. The stillness, the weightlessness of the moment, was enough. Jon carries that memory with him, a reminder of the unshakable connection that transcends words.

It's the way you let your guard down with him, even if only for fleeting moments, that Jon holds closest to his heart. You, who bear the burden of unimaginable responsibility, allow yourself to be vulnerable with him in ways you never do with anyone else. He treasures the soft curve of your smile when you think no one is watching, the rare but melodic sound of your laughter that seems to make the air lighter, and the way your hand lingers just a moment longer in his. Those subtle, fleeting acts of intimacy—so small yet so profound—are the things Jon finds himself replaying in his mind during the toughest days. They are glimpses of a side of you that belongs to him alone, moments that feel like a gift amidst the turbulence of your shared existence.

The late-night conversations, though, are what Jon cherishes above all. Those are the times when the rest of the world falls away, leaving only the two of you in the stillness of the night. He loves the way your voice softens in those moments, unburdened by the weight of the day, and the way you share pieces of yourself that no one else gets to see. You talk about your fears, your dreams, and the quiet hopes you keep hidden from the world. In those moments, he feels as though he's seeing the most authentic version of you, unguarded and real. It's during these late-night talks, when your words are a quiet murmur in the dark, that Jon feels closer to you than he ever thought possible. Those whispered confessions, spoken in the safety of each other's presence, are more precious to him than any victory on the battlefield.

Even the smallest gestures from you linger in Jon's mind long after they pass. The way your fingers brush against his when you hand him something, leaving a fleeting spark of warmth. The way you murmur his name, soft and full of a quiet affection that sets his heart alight. The way you instinctively lean into him when you're close, as though his presence alone offers you a sense of peace. These moments may seem insignificant to others, but to Jon, they mean everything. They are proof of the bond you share, a bond that remains unshakable in the face of all the challenges you both endure.

For Jon, these moments are more than just fleeting respites from the chaos of your lives—they're everything. They're the foundation of what you've built together: a relationship rooted in trust, fortified by love, and sustained by the quiet, stolen moments you create for one another. In a life filled with battles, uncertainty, and the ever-present shadow of danger, those moments remind him of what he's fighting for. They give him strength, hope, and a reason to keep going, no matter how dark the world becomes.

With you, Jon has found more than just love. He's found a sense of belonging, a home in a world that often feels fractured and unforgiving. And in those rare, precious moments of peace, he knows he has found something extraordinary—something worth protecting at all costs.

The room is quiet, wrapped in a fragile cocoon of warmth and stillness—a rare sanctuary in your chaotic lives. The television hums softly in the background, its flickering light casting muted shadows across the walls. Whatever show is playing has long since been forgotten, its dialogue fading into white noise as you both savor the fleeting comfort of simply being together. You're curled against Jon, your back pressed to his chest, his strong arms draped around you in an embrace that feels at once protective and tender. His warmth seeps into you, a grounding presence in a world that so often feels unstable.

Your head rests against his collarbone, and his fingers trail lazily along your arm, tracing aimless patterns that send pleasant shivers through your skin. It's in moments like these that the weight of the world feels lighter, the relentless demands of heroism pushed to the periphery. Here, in the safety of his embrace, there are no battles to fight, no masks to wear, no shadows threatening to swallow you whole. It's just the two of you, a rare and precious quiet that you both cling to.

Jon's lips brush against the curve of your neck, feather-light at first, as if testing the waters. When you lean into him, a small gesture of encouragement, he doesn't hesitate. His kisses grow more deliberate, his lips pressing firmly against your skin, lingering with an intensity that sends heat coursing through you. One of his hands slips to your waist, his grip tightening as he pulls you closer, while the other moves to rest against your chest. The tenderness of his touch contrasts with the raw, magnetic pull of his lips on your neck, and you can feel the world outside this room slipping further away.

The TV becomes nothing more than a distant hum, the glow of the screen forgotten as your senses focus entirely on him. His breath is warm against your skin, and you tilt your head instinctively, offering him better access. He takes it, his teeth grazing your neck in a way that sends a shiver down your spine, followed by a gentle, soothing kiss that makes your heart race. His touch is electric, grounding you while simultaneously making you feel as though you're floating.

And then it happens—a faint, pulsing glow catches your attention from the corner of your eye. At first, you try to ignore it, unwilling to let anything intrude on this rare, precious moment. But as the glow intensifies, flickering like a heartbeat, a cold dread creeps into your chest. You glance down and see it: the pendant. Its cursed, crimson light spills into the room, its glow erratic and insistent, a dark reminder of the power tethered to your very existence.

The air shifts almost instantly. The warmth of the room is replaced by a chill that seeps into your bones, the moment of intimacy fractured by the suffocating presence of the darkness you can never quite escape. The pendant's light grows brighter, its ominous flicker casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. You can feel it, like a cold hand gripping your heart—the stirrings of Trigon's influence, clawing its way to the surface.

Jon notices the change immediately. His lips still against your neck, and his arms tighten around you, protective and grounding. "What is it?" he asks, his voice soft but edged with concern. His hands, once playful and tender, now hold you with a steady firmness, as though ready to catch you should the darkness drag you under.

You don't answer right away. Your gaze is locked on the pendant, its glow pulsing in time with the faint, malevolent presence stirring within you. It's not the first time this has happened, and you know exactly what it means. Trigon's essence—his shadow—is awakening, drawn to the vulnerability of the moment, eager to remind you that it's always there, lurking just beneath the surface.

Your chest tightens as you feel the beginnings of his presence creeping into your mind, a dark whisper that threatens to pull you under. It's like a tide rising, insidious and unstoppable, and you can already sense the fight it will take to push it back. Gritting your teeth, you focus on the warmth of Jon's embrace, willing yourself to resist. Not now. Not here. Not with him.

Jon's voice cuts through the haze, calm but firm. "Hey," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. "I'm here. You're okay. We're okay."

His words anchor you, pulling you back from the edge. You take a shaky breath, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the solid warmth of his body against yours. Slowly, the glow of the pendant begins to fade, its pulsing light dimming until it's no more than a faint, ominous flicker. The air grows lighter, though the shadow of Trigon's influence still lingers, an ever-present reminder of the battle you can never truly escape.

Leaning back into Jon, you finally find your voice. "It's him," you whisper, your tone heavy with exhaustion. "Trigon... he's stirring."

Jon's hand moves to cover yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a gesture of quiet strength. "Then we'll deal with it," he says resolutely, his voice steady despite the shadow of unease that hangs over you both. "Together."

Though the moment of peace has been stolen, the intimacy shattered by the relentless intrusion of the darkness you carry, Jon's unwavering presence remains. His arms around you, his voice grounding you, remind you that you're not alone in this fight. Closing your eyes, you let his words and his touch steady you as you prepare yourself for the battle ahead—the one within, and the one that will inevitably come.

Your bond forged is in love and trust but sometimes tested by the overwhelming fear of losing each other. That instinct is as natural as breathing, yet in the heat of battle, it often borders on overzealous. Neither of you can help it; keeping the other safe isn't just a priority—it's a necessity. That protectiveness was on full display during a recent mission with the Justice League, one that escalated into chaos faster than either of you could have anticipated.

It began with Felix Faust, the ever-ambitious sorcerer, whose reckless pursuit of power led him to tear open an unauthorized portal to a volatile magical dimension. This wasn't a minor disruption in the fabric of reality; it was a gaping wound, spewing malevolent creatures and destabilizing the surrounding area with chaotic energy. The portal's influence threatened to spiral out of control, drawing more and more destruction with every second it remained open. The Justice League was stretched thin, battling the endless onslaught of creatures that poured from the rift, but the real danger lay in the portal itself. If it wasn't sealed soon, it would consume everything in its path.

That's when Raven and Zatanna called out to you, their voices cutting through the chaos. They needed your help. Their combined magical prowess wasn't enough to close the tear, and they needed a third to stabilize the spell. You didn't hesitate for a second. You knew what was at stake, and your unique connection to magic made you the perfect choice to assist. But Jon's reaction was immediate, his protectiveness flaring to the surface as soon as he realized what stepping into the heart of the rift would mean for you.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with unease as he placed a firm hand on your shoulder. His piercing blue eyes searched yours for any trace of doubt, his concern evident in the tightness of his jaw and the tension in his posture.

You nodded confidently, offering him what you hoped was a reassuring smile. "Raven and Zatanna need me," you said, your tone resolute. "This is the only way."

Jon didn't move, his hand lingering as though he could physically anchor you to him. "If anything happens—"

"Jon," you interrupted gently, your fingers brushing his. "I'll be fine. I promise."

You could see the war in his eyes, the conflict between trusting your abilities and the gnawing fear of letting you step into such danger. But eventually, he gave a reluctant nod, his hand dropping away as you turned toward Raven and Zatanna. You could still feel the weight of his gaze as you moved toward the swirling chaos of the portal, the air around it charged with unstable magic.

The closer you got to the tear, the heavier the atmosphere became. The energy radiating from the portal was oppressive, a chaotic blend of light and shadow that threatened to pull everything into its maw. Raven and Zatanna were already in position, their voices a steady rhythm of incantations as they worked to contain the rift. You joined them without hesitation, summoning your own power to weave into theirs. Together, the three of you created a fragile balance, a barrier against the portal's expansion.

Jon was supposed to be focusing on the battle, helping the League fend off the endless creatures that poured from the rift. But his focus kept drifting back to you. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to be at your side, to shield you from the unpredictable surges of magical energy that flared around you. He trusted you—he trusted your strength and your skill—but that didn't silence the fear gnawing at the edges of his mind. Between every punch, every blast of heat vision, his eyes flicked toward you, his heart racing each time the energy from the portal crackled too close.

Your protectiveness wasn't any less fierce. Even as you concentrated on the delicate spellwork, your gaze darted to Jon whenever you had a spare second. Watching him fight the monstrous creatures that spilled out of the rift filled you with equal parts pride and anxiety. He was a force of nature, his movements precise and powerful, but every time a creature lunged at him, your breath caught in your throat. You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to focus. The portal had to be closed, or none of you would make it out alive.

The strain of the spell began to take its toll, the three of you struggling to keep the chaotic energy in check. Sweat beaded on your forehead, and your arms trembled under the weight of the magic you were channeling. Through it all, you felt Jon's presence in the periphery, his protective instincts a constant undercurrent even when he was meters away. It was as if the bond between you transcended the battlefield, his silent promise to watch over you steadying your resolve.

Just when the portal's energy flared dangerously, a creature broke past the League's defenses, hurtling toward Raven and Zatanna. You acted without thinking, summoning a burst of raw magic to intercept the creature before it could disrupt the spell. The backlash from your magic sent a wave of energy rippling outward, momentarily destabilizing the rift..

Everything seemed to be under control—until Felix Faust turned his dark magic directly on you, Raven, and Zatanna.

You felt the shift before you saw it, the air growing oppressive, thick with malevolent energy that seemed to coil and writhe like a living thing. Faust's magic lashed out in a torrent of chaotic force, black tendrils streaking through the air, aimed directly at the three of you. The onslaught was relentless, designed to shatter your concentration and disrupt the delicate balance required to seal the portal.

Without hesitation, you raised a shimmering barrier of protective light around Raven and Zatanna. The shield absorbed the brunt of Faust's attack, but the force of it reverberated through your entire body like a series of thunderclaps. You gritted your teeth, pushing back against the overwhelming energy, even as you felt the strain begin to sap your strength.

"Keep working!" you shouted, your voice sharp and resolute, cutting through the chaos. Raven and Zatanna exchanged a quick glance before nodding, their chants never faltering as they refocused on stabilizing the rift.

The barrier held, but barely. Each impact sent cracks spiderwebbing through its surface, the shimmering light flickering under the pressure. Faust's dark magic was relentless, a tempest of hatred and destruction, and it demanded everything you had just to keep it at bay. You knew it was a gamble; diverting your focus from the portal to defend against Faust's assault was dangerous, but letting his magic reach Raven and Zatanna was not an option.

Across the battlefield, Jon noticed the sudden shift in energy. His sharp eyes found you instantly, his expression darkening with concern as he saw the way your barrier strained under the force of Faust's attacks. He was locked in combat with the monstrous creatures pouring from the portal, but his focus kept drifting back to you. Each glance fueled his urgency, his strikes growing faster, harder, as he fought to clear a path to your side.

But before Jon could reach you, a streak of malevolent energy shot across the battlefield, slamming into him with unrelenting force. The blast knocked him off his feet, and he hit the ground hard, a sharp, agonizing cry tearing from his throat.

The sound sliced through you like a blade, wrenching your attention away from Faust. Your eyes snapped to Jon, and the sight of him sprawled on the ground, his body wracked with pain, shattered something inside you. Your grip on the barrier faltered, and for a moment, everything went still.

Then the rage came.

It erupted from the deepest recesses of your soul, raw and uncontrollable, a tidal wave of fury that surged past the barriers you'd spent a lifetime building. The infernal power of Trigon, always lurking beneath the surface, seized its opportunity. You felt it surge through your veins, molten and all-consuming, igniting every nerve in your body.

Your skin flushed an unnatural red, glowing with an ominous, fiery light as veins of molten energy spread across your body. Your eyes multiplied, each one blazing with otherworldly intensity. The pendant around your neck, the cursed vessel of your father's power, pulsed violently, its crimson glow flooding the battlefield with eerie light.

The transformation unleashed a fiery manifestation of your rage—a phoenix of living flame that exploded into existence around you. Its wings unfurled, scorching the ground beneath them as it let out a piercing, unearthly screech. The battlefield seemed to shrink in its presence, all eyes drawn to the inferno rising from within you.

Felix Faust faltered, his confidence evaporating as he stared at the infernal spectacle before him. You turned your blazing gaze on him, your voice low and guttural, laced with barely restrained wrath. "You'll regret that."

The phoenix surged forward, its flames consuming everything in its path. Faust's spells disintegrated in the heat, his defenses crumbling as he scrambled to retaliate. But it was no use. You overwhelmed him with a fury he couldn't match, and within moments, he was on his knees, powerless and terrified.

But the victory brought no relief. The flames didn't wane; instead, they surged outward, unchecked and all-consuming. They devoured everything in their path, their relentless hunger fed by the raw fury coursing through you and the insidious whisper of Trigon's influence. His voice curled through your mind like smoke, a low, serpentine hiss that twisted your anger into something darker, more destructive.

Why hold back? This power is yours. Let it consume them. Let it consume everything.

Your heart pounded as the lines between yourself and Trigon blurred, the boundary of your own will and his malevolence fracturing under the weight of your unleashed rage. The fiery phoenix that had erupted from you seemed to grow larger, more feral, its flames casting an unholy glow across the battlefield. It screeched, its cry a harbinger of ruin, as it lashed out indiscriminately.

Raven was the first to step forward, her expression steady but her movements cautious. Her voice, calm but urgent, cut through the chaos. "This isn't you. You have to stop."

For a moment, her words seemed distant, muffled beneath the deafening roar of the flames and the insidious pull of your father's power. The rational part of you—the part that still clung to who you were—tried to grasp her voice, but the intoxicating pull of destruction drowned it out.

The Justice League wasn't far behind. They moved in unison, encircling you with precision, their intent clear: containment. Batman's voice rang out, sharp and commanding, a tone meant to cut through any chaos. "Stand down!"

But you didn't hear him. Or rather, you didn't care. The phoenix-form responded instinctively to their approach, its flames flaring brighter, hotter, as it lashed out at anyone who dared come close. Superman and Wonder Woman led the charge, their combined strength barely enough to withstand the inferno. The League's efforts, coordinated and powerful, were falling short against the primal, unrelenting fury of Trigon's unleashed influence.

Somewhere in the chaos, a glimmer of who you were fought back, screaming to regain control. But the voice of your father was louder, more persistent, more persuasive.

They fear you. They want to cage you. Show them what you are capable of.

Then, through the cacophony of destruction, a single voice reached you.

"Stop!"

It was Jon. His voice rang clear, cutting through the haze of rage and fire like a beacon. Despite his injuries, he pushed himself upright, staggering but resolute. His steps were slow, deliberate, as he moved toward you, ignoring the searing heat of the flames and the warning shouts of his teammates. His eyes, unwavering and focused, locked onto yours.

"It's me," he said, his voice firm but gentle, steady in a way that only he could manage. "Look at me."

Something in his tone, in his presence, sliced through the chaos gripping your mind. For a fleeting moment, the flames flickered, and the roar of the phoenix softened. His gaze held you, filled not with fear or judgment, but with something deeper—love, trust, and unshakable belief in you.

"You're stronger than this," he continued, his steps carrying him closer despite the heat and the danger. "You're not him. You're you. Come back to me."

The phoenix screeched again, a sound of defiance, but its flames faltered. Jon's words, like an anchor, pulled you back from the brink. You could feel the weight of Trigon's influence loosening, the suffocating grip of his power receding as you fought to reclaim control.

Slowly, painfully, you wrestled with the fury, with the darkness. Your skin began to return to its natural hue, the molten glow fading with each passing second. The extra eyes that had marked Trigon's influence vanished, and the phoenix, once feral and consuming, began to dissipate, its flames flickering into embers. The pendant around your neck, the cursed vessel of his power, dimmed to a faint, ominous thrum.

Your legs gave out beneath you, exhaustion and the weight of what you'd done crashing down all at once. But Jon was there, his arms steady and sure as he caught you. He sank to the ground with you, holding you close as the ash settled and the battlefield fell silent. His voice, a quiet murmur in your ear, was the only sound.

"I've got you," he said softly, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. "You're okay. I'm here."

The League stood down, their wary gazes softening as they saw you collapse into Jon's embrace. Raven approached cautiously, kneeling beside you. Her eyes, filled with both relief and understanding, met yours. "You fought it," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You won."

But you didn't feel victorious. The memory of the flames, of the destruction you had almost unleashed on your allies, lingered like a shadow in your mind. The fear of how close you had come to losing yourself clung to you, heavy and unshakable.

Yet when you looked at Jon, his face etched with concern and his eyes still unwavering in their faith, you found a flicker of hope. His presence reminded you of what you were fighting for—why you had to keep fighting.

As long as he was by your side, you knew you'd always have a reason to resist the darkness. And with him, you could believe that you were more than Trigon's heir. You were you. And that was enough.

[berberriescorner]

Shadows and Starlight✨🎄♥️

Character: Husband!Simon Riley (Ghost) x Black!Reader.

Word Count: 500+.

"A Season of Love Christmas Series 🎄♥️"

The quiet hum of the heater filled the room, mingling with the soft glow of fairy lights strung across the window. It was the kind of serene, peaceful morning you rarely got to enjoy, and for once, you’d slept deeply, cocooned in the warmth of the heavy blanket and the presence of the man beside you.

Or so you thought.

You stirred, reaching out instinctively, but the bed was cold and empty. A soft sound—almost imperceptible—came from somewhere nearby, setting your senses on alert. Years of being with Simon had trained you to notice even the faintest disturbances.

“Simon?” you called, your voice low and groggy.

“Right here, love.” His deep, familiar voice rumbled from across the room.

You turned to see him standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. He was still dressed in his signature black hoodie and sweatpants, but his ever-present mask was nowhere to be seen. The sight of his uncovered face—something you still weren’t used to, even after all this time—made your breath catch.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

He stepped into the room, the corner of his mouth quirking into a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get a head start on making the morning a bit more special.”

Your gaze flicked to his hands, where he held a tray with two mugs of tea, a small plate of biscuits, and… a small, neatly wrapped package.

“Simon Riley,” you said, sitting up and narrowing your eyes playfully. “What are you up to?”

He set the tray down on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed, his broad frame making the mattress dip slightly. “Figured we’d start Christmas morning off right,” he said, his voice softer now. He handed you one of the mugs before carefully placing the gift in your lap.

You glanced up at him, your heart already melting. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

His lips twitched into a smirk. “I wanted to. Now open it.”

You tore the paper carefully, revealing a small velvet box. Your heart thudded as you opened it to find a delicate silver bracelet, the charm shaped like a shield.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, your fingers brushing over the intricate detail of the charm.

Simon shifted slightly, his gaze steady but vulnerable as he spoke. “I’ve spent most of my life being someone people need protection from. But with you… I just want to protect you. To make sure you’re safe. This felt… fitting.”

Your chest tightened, and tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Baby…”

He reached out, his hand warm and steady as he brushed a curl from your face. “You’ve given me something I never thought I’d have—a reason to come home. You’re my safe place, love. My light.”

You couldn’t speak, overwhelmed by the quiet intensity of his words. Instead, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his chest. He held you tightly, his strong arms enveloping you in a way that made you feel untouchable, invincible.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” you murmured against him.

He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

As the morning sun peeked through the curtains, you stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, the shadows of the past giving way to the light of the moment—your moment. Together.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated, my babies! MERRY CHRISTMAS 🎄♥️!!

Tagging some lovelies:

@darqchilddaydreamz @astoldbychae @starrynite7114

@johnnyshoe @sunshine-flower @ravennaortiz

@bxdbxtxh15 @dc418writes @phoenixhalliwell

@drewsmusee @magicwriterinspo @m150-50up

@readernimsblog @chosoloveletters @msdrpreist

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Venom & Honey: IV

✨ summary: Final part. No more secrets. No more pretending. Serial killer Harry ends here. 📝 word count: ~14k total ⚠️ content warning: murder, morally gray protagonists, smut, psychological manipulation, themes of secrecy and survival, brief depictions of violence, alcohol use, small-town paranoia, and emotionally intense scenes 💌 support my work: reblogs keep the story alive. tips are optional but deeply appreciated

⭐️ Part one, two, three

The television flickered against the far wall, its light casting long, broken shadows across the living room.

Y/N sat curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, the other foot planted on the threadbare rug. A mug of tea rested in her hands, forgotten and cold. The blanket draped around her shoulders might as well have been paper—it didn’t touch the kind of chill that had settled in.

Harry sat opposite her, still as stone. Remote in hand, but he hadn’t moved in minutes. Maybe longer.

They weren’t watching the screen. Not really. Just letting it talk to them. The anchor’s voice was sterile. Trimmed of emotion. Too calm.

“…federal investigators are reopening a series of unsolved homicides believed to be connected by method and location. While no suspects have been publicly named, law enforcement is encouraging anyone who lived in or traveled through the affected regions to come forward.”

The screen shifted. Maps. Red pins. Towns with names that never made the news. Places you’d only pass through if you didn’t know better. But they knew better.

Y/N set her mug down without a sound. She didn’t look at Harry. She didn’t need to.

He stood slowly, the remote slipping from his fingers onto the cushion. His hand dragged through his hair, jaw tightening like he was biting down on something sharp.

“We leave tonight,” he said.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Harry turned toward her. His eyes were darker now—flat and unreadable. “We pack what matters. We’re gone before sunrise.”

She sat up straighter, the blanket slipping from her shoulders.

“You think they’re onto us?”

“I don’t think,” he said, sharp. “I know.”

She didn’t flinch. Just looked at him.

“If we run now, we look guilty.”

His jaw twitched. “We are guilty.”

Her voice dropped. “So are a lot of people who never get caught.”

That stopped him. He paced once—tight, measured—then froze like the air had shifted around him. When he turned back, there was something new in his stare. Something almost… unfamiliar.

“You want to stay?” he asked.

“I want to stop running.”

Harry scoffed, the sound low and mean. “And what—plant flowers? Get a fucking dog?”

“No,” she said, steady. “We get married. We settle. We become everything they’d never think to look for.”

He didn’t smile, but something pulled at the corner of his mouth. Not amusement. Not disbelief. Just recognition.

“You want to play house.”

“ I want to disappear,” she said, “the only way that still works.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. It wasn’t a smile. “You think that’ll save us?”

“I think it’s the only thing left that might.”

He stared at her like she’d lost her mind. Like maybe he had too. The silence stretched between them, thick and alive.

Then, cold and low, “You’re willing to lie to everyone.”

She stepped closer. “We already are.”

The TV kept playing behind them. Blurred images. Faces without names. Ghosts given shape by bad resolution and worse memories. Harry didn’t turn to look. He just stared through her like he was trying to figure out where the edges were.

“Then show me,” he said. “Show me how far you’re willing to go.”

Y/N didn’t blink. She reached past him and switched off the television. The room went quiet. Not peaceful—just emptied out.

“We don’t go far,” she said. “Just far enough. A town nobody’s watching. Close enough to make the backstory believable.”

He didn’t respond. She kept going.

“We don’t change everything. Just enough. New last name. Something no one will remember. Married. No records from the last few years. We leave the gaps blank so they can fill them in themselves.”

Harry shifted his weight. His voice was clipped. “And when they ask where we came from?”

“We say we left the city. We wanted quiet. We wanted a fresh start.”

He nodded once. Not agreement—just motion.

Y/N stepped in. “We find a house that needs work. Something cheap but honest. We go to the hardware store. We buy paint. We wave at the neighbors. Nothing flashy. Just enough to look tired and harmless.”

He gave her a look. “You expect me to make small talk.”

“You don’t have to mean it,” she said. “You just have to smile.”

Harry let out a dry sound, not quite a laugh. “You’ve really thought this through.”

She didn’t look away. “I’ve been thinking about it since the first time we stopped running.”

Harry watched her like he didn’t know whether to be impressed or afraid. “We get married,” she said.

He raised his chin. “That part’s not a joke?”

“No.”

“You think that’s what makes it believable?”

“I think that’s what makes it permanent.”

He took a step toward her. Close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off him.

“You think that ring on your finger turns us into someone else?”

“I think it makes it harder for them to tear it apart.” His jaw tightened.

“We don’t ask about the past,” she continued. “We don’t offer more than we have to. We make it clean. Simple.”

Harry’s voice dropped, quieter now. “And if they still come knocking?”

“Then we’ve done it too well. They won’t see criminals. They’ll see a couple with bills and a mortgage and just enough sadness in their eyes to be believable.”

He looked at her for a long time. No shift in his face. No tell. “What last name?”

“Callahan.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You had that ready.”

“I told you,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about this longer than you think.” Silence pulsed between them.

Finally, he nodded. “You think we can sell it?”

“We don’t sell it,” she said. “We live it.”

Harry stepped close enough to steal her breath. His voice was low and firm. “Then pack light. We start tomorrow.”

They didn’t talk much the next morning.

Harry moved like he was back on autopilot. Silent. Mechanical. He folded clothes without looking at them, checked drawers like he was clearing a scene. Everything about him was practiced—precise. Cold in a way that said he’d done this before. Probably more than once. Y/N packed slower. Just the essentials. A few shirts, a toothbrush, a worn photo she never looked at but couldn’t throw away. She didn’t ask if he wanted help. She knew better. By the time the sun was up, the car was loaded. The trunk shut with a solid, final sound that echoed too loudly in the quiet morning.

Harry slid behind the wheel without a word. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him in place. Y/N stared out the window. Not running. Not settled either. They took back roads. Avoided the highways. Wove through forgotten towns with rusted gas stations and empty lots. No one looked at them twice.

The silence between them stretched long and taut. Not uncomfortable. Just sharp. Like either one of them could cut it if they had to. They passed three towns without stopping.

At the fourth, Y/N leaned forward. “Slow down.”

Harry’s eyes stayed on the road. “What?”

She pointed ahead. “There.”

The house was set back behind a wall of overgrown hedges, its porch sagging under the weight of time. The paint was peeling. The windows were dull. But it wasn’t dead. Not yet. It had the kind of tired bones that looked like they’d survive anything. A FOR SALE sign leaned crooked in the yard, half-buried in weeds.

Harry pulled to the curb, engine idling.

“You’re joking.”

Y/N opened the door and stepped out.

He didn’t follow at first. When he finally did, his hands stayed buried in his pockets. His jaw was locked tight. They walked the perimeter. Looked through the dirty windows. The backyard was fenced in and half-wild. Ivy crawled up the brick like it was trying to hide the house from being seen.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

Harry let out a bitter breath. “It’s a goddamn grave.”

“Exactly,” she said. “We’ll tell them we’re fixing it up. Starting over.” He turned toward her. His face was hard.

“You really think this is going to work.”

“No,” she said. “I think it has to.”

He stared at her, the silence twisting into something more dangerous.

Finally, he looked back at the house. “We call the agent tomorrow.”

The motel was beige and blank. The kind of place people passed through without looking too hard. Vinyl siding, buzzing sign, carpet that smelled like it remembered better decades. The clerk didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even look up, just slid a key across the counter after Harry tossed down a stack of cash. Room 7.

They walked the row in silence, the sun bleeding behind the trees. The air smelled like pavement and motel soap. Inside, the room was stale. Thin bedspread. Dim lamps. The hum of something old and electric behind the walls. Harry dropped the bags and stood in the center of the room, staring like he was trying to burn a hole in the floor. Then he let out a sharp breath and ran both hands through his hair.

“This is fucking stupid.”

Y/N leaned against the door, watching him.

“Pretending we’re people,” he said. “Like we can just buy a house and fake smiles and make polite conversation. Like any of this will stick.”

She didn’t respond.

He turned to her, voice rising. “You really think a fucking ring and a white picket fence is gonna clean the blood off me?”

“No,” she said quietly. “But I think it might be the only thing that ever covers it up.”

He stared at her. His mouth opened, then closed. Something like anger flickered behind his eyes—but it wasn’t loud. It was the kind that sank deep. The kind that ate through your ribs when you weren’t looking.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head low.

“I feel like I’m sleepwalking.”

She walked over, slow, and sat beside him. Not touching. Just close enough.

“That’s how it starts,” she said. “You fake it long enough, and one day you wake up and it’s real.”

Harry looked at her then. Really looked.

“I hope he’s a better man than me.”

Y/N didn’t blink. “We’ll build him from scratch.”

He didn’t laugh. But he didn’t argue.

They sat like that, shoulder to shoulder. The air between them full of everything they hadn’t said and might never say.

“All right,” Harry muttered. “Let’s hear it. The story.”

Y/N nodded.

“We met in the city with mutual friends. We work. Me in a bookstore. You at a garage.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “A garage.” “

You look like you work with your hands.”

That pulled the faintest flicker of something across his face. Not a smile. Not yet. “Fine. I fix cars.”

“We dated for two years. Moved in last fall. Decided the city was too much. Bought the house to slow down. Courthouse wedding. Quiet. Just us.”

Harry watched her. She met his stare. “It’s believable. And boring.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then: “You ready to lie to everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Even when they bring casseroles? Ask about kids?”

“Yes.”

“Even when they trust you?”

“Especially then.”

Harry leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed. “You’re more convincing than I thought.”

“You’ll need to be too,” she said. “We can’t afford cracks.”

He looked at her again. Slower this time. “What about when it’s just us?” he asked. “No one watching. You still gonna pretend then?”

“No,” she said. “Then I’m just your wife.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded. Real.

Harry didn’t speak again until she’d come back from the bathroom, toothbrush clinking into the cup by the sink. She climbed into bed without a word. He lay there, eyes on the ceiling. His voice came low. Measured.

“What do you want this to look like? In five years?” Y/N turned her head. “If we don’t get caught?”

He didn’t answer. Just waited.

“I want a yard,” she said. “Mornings that don’t feel like we’re one knock away from running. Neighbors who wave. A kitchen that smells like something I made.”

Harry glanced over. “You don’t cook.”

“I’ll learn.”

A pause. “What else?”

She hesitated. “I want a baby.”

The room shifted. Not colder. Just heavier. He stared at the ceiling again. “You sure about that?”

“No,” she said. “But I want something that doesn’t vanish when it gets scared.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. Then, quietly: “I think about it too. You. Holding something that’s ours. A kid who doesn’t know what we’ve done.”

Y/N rolled toward him. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That they’ll find out?”

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “I’m afraid they’ll turn out like me.”

She moved closer, her fingers brushing his. “Then we raise them better.” He nodded once.

“You’d be a good dad, Harry.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’ve got a warped idea of good.”

“No,” she said. “Just an honest one.”

When he kissed her, it wasn’t rushed. It was careful. Like he was afraid he’d break something if he moved too fast. When he pulled back, his voice barely scraped above a whisper. “If we do this, we do it all the way.”

“We will.” He looked at her like he didn’t trust the hope flickering in his own chest.

“No lies. Not between us.” “None,” she said. “Not here.”

They left early. No fanfare, no talking. Just the kind of silence that understood what the day meant. They found the shop on the edge of the next town. Faded awning. Rusted bell above the door. Inside, it smelled like old books and dust-covered perfume. Y/N drifted to the display case, glass fogged slightly at the edges. She studied the tray of rings. Most were gaudy or green with age, but one caught her eye. Thin gold. Barely there. Worn smooth where a name used to be.

“This one.”

Harry didn’t ask why. Just took it from her and slid it onto her finger. It fit. He looked at it for a beat too long, then turned to the tray and picked something without ceremony. A plain silver band. Scratched. Faded.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugged. “It’s not about the shine.”

She didn’t argue. Just nodded.

At the register, the clerk didn’t ask questions. Just rang them up and slid the rings across the counter. The receipt read: H. and Y/N Callahan.

In the car, Harry tucked his into his pocket. Y/N kept hers on. He glanced sideways as he started the engine. “Looks right on you.”

She turned to him. “You mean that?”

His hand stayed on the wheel. “I don’t like people looking at you.”

Y/N smiled, faint. “Then I guess we’re doing the right thing.”

The courthouse sat squat and gray at the edge of town. No steps. No archways. Just a door that said you didn’t have to be special to be let in. Harry parked without speaking. He didn’t move.

Y/N looked over. “We can still back out.” He didn’t look at her. “You want to?”

“No.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because I’m not pretending this isn’t real.” Harry finally turned. His stare was sharp enough to cut.

“You want this.”

She didn’t blink.

“I do.”

He let out a low breath that almost passed for a laugh. “Get used to saying that.” Inside, the clerk handed them a form and barely looked up. Just asked for names.

“Harry Callahan.”

“Y/N Callahan.”

The clerk raised her brows. “Already matching?”

Y/N smiled. “Just making it official.”

The ceremony took place in a room the size of a supply closet. The officiant had a voice like an answering machine. She asked if they were sure.

“Yes,” Harry said. Y/N echoed it. They didn’t wait for the rest. Harry kissed her hard. Nothing gentle. Just possession in the shape of a promise. His hand at the back of her neck. Her fingers curled in his shirt.

The officiant cleared her throat. “Congratulations.”

Harry didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. Outside, the sun was too bright. The sidewalk too quiet. They stood there for a moment, not looking at each other.

“Well,” he said. “There it is.”

“There it is,” she echoed, threading her fingers through his.

He didn’t let go. “You’re mine now,” he muttered. “And I’m yours.”

Y/N looked up. “I’ve always been yours.”

He kissed her again. Slower. Like sealing something. The ring on her hand caught the light as they walked to the car. Simple. Plain. A fact. When she suggested they celebrate, Harry didn’t even pretend to entertain the idea.

“No.”

She blinked.

“No?”

“We’re not doing champagne and candlelight like this is a fucking storybook.”

“It doesn’t have to be a storybook. Just… a breath.”

He stepped in, too close. “We breathe when it’s over. Not now.” Then he turned and opened her door.

“Get in.”

Y/N didn’t argue. She slid into the passenger seat and said nothing as the car pulled away. The ring was heavier now. Not because she regretted it. But because now it meant something. A name she could never take off.

The motel room felt tighter than it had that morning. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the name she’d signed, still drying on a stack of legal papers. Maybe it was the man standing in the center of the room, hands braced on his hips like he was ready to tear the walls down.

Harry hadn’t said a word since they left the house. Not during the drive. Not while the realtor gushed about “fresh starts” and “turning points.” Not even when Y/N signed Y/N Callahan and slid the pen across to him.

She kicked off her shoes by the door, watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring at the TV. It wasn’t on.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but sharp. “You think this is gonna work?”

Y/N leaned against the dresser. “It has to.”

He turned. Eyes cold. “That’s not an answer.”

She shrugged. “You want me to say I’m sure? I’m not. But we said the vows. We signed the papers. We picked the house. So unless you want to start over again in another zip code, this is it.”

Harry stared at her for a long time. His jaw clenched. Then unclenched. “You just snapped your fingers and decided we were a married couple.”

“No,” she said. “I decided if we were going to lie, we’d do it like people who want to survive.”

He stepped closer. “You know who doesn’t survive? People who get comfortable.”

“I’m not comfortable,” she snapped. “I’m exhausted.” His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not anger. Just something tight, trapped behind his teeth.

“You regret it?” he asked.

“The house?”

“The name.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the cheap floral bedspread.

“I don’t regret anything that keeps us alive.”

Harry watched her like he was waiting for the ground to open beneath them. Like he didn’t believe it wouldn’t.

“Say it again,” he said. She looked up. “What?”

“What you said. Back at the courthouse.”

Y/N knew what he meant. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “I do.”

Something in him pulled taut. She could see it. The part that didn’t know whether to believe her or break something. He sat beside her. Not close. Just enough to feel the distance between them.

“I don’t know how to be this,” he said. “A husband. A neighbor. A man with a goddamn lawn to mow.”

She turned toward him. “Then don’t try to be all of it at once. Just be here.”

He stared down at his hands. Fingers calloused. Knuckles scarred. “I’ll fuck it up,” he said.

“Probably,” she said. “But you won’t walk away.”

Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t promise. But when he lay back on the bed, he didn’t turn away from her either. The motel room was still. Too still. The kind of quiet that only came when the weight of everything sat on your chest like a second skin.

Y/N lay on her side, staring into the dark. The sheets were thin and scratchy, but that wasn’t what kept her awake. It was the ring on her finger. The name she’d taken. The man next to her, who hadn’t said another word since he laid down.

Harry was flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded. But Y/N could tell he wasn’t sleeping. Not really. His breathing never evened out. His shoulders never dropped. He was still watching for something, even with his eyes closed.

She rolled onto her back. Counted the cracks in the ceiling. She didn’t know what she expected marriage to feel like. But this—this haunted stillness, this silence after the storm—felt closer to the truth than any vows ever could.

A few minutes passed. Then Harry shifted. A twitch in his hand. A furrow in his brow. Then, barely audible:

“…don’t leave.” The words came out broken. Fragile. Nothing like the way he usually spoke. No bite. No control.

Y/N stayed still. His breath hitched, jaw clenched. A small, choked sound slipped out of him—closer to a whimper than anything else.

She turned slowly to face him. He was still asleep. But not at peace.She reached for his hand, hesitated, then stopped herself. Let it fall back to the mattress. Whatever haunted him, it wasn’t hers to fix. Not yet.

Still, her chest ached in a way she hadn’t prepared for. A kind of loyalty that made no sense and felt impossible to shake. Eventually, his breathing slowed again. The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

Then he opened his eyes. Blinking once at the ceiling before turning toward her. “You’re not stupid.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

His voice was rough, still thick with sleep. “I was an asshole. Earlier.”

She didn’t say anything. “I know why you said what you said. About getting married. About staying.”

She watched him carefully. “Do you?”

Harry turned his head, looking at her in the dark. “You’re trying to keep us alive.”

Her mouth was a thin line, but she nodded. He added, quieter now, “And maybe I didn’t hate hearing you say it.”

The silence between them shifted. Not as sharp now. Just heavy. Real. Y/N turned her face into the pillow. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

Harry didn’t respond. But he reached across the bed, found her hand under the sheet, and didn’t let go. Not soft. But steady.

They had a plan.

Harry made the call from the curb, his voice effortlessly cool as he paced, phone pressed to his ear. Y/N watched the tension in his jaw, the careful steps he took, each one measured like they were walking a fine line. Ten minutes later, a silver car slid to a stop behind theirs. A woman stepped out—mid-fifties, hair pulled back into a tight bun, clipboard in hand, smile already rehearsed.

“You must be Harry and Y/N Callahan?” she asked, her tone smooth but with an edge of business.

Y/N nodded, a practiced smile on her lips. “That’s right.”

“Great. Let’s take a look.”

They walked the house slowly, step by step. Two bedrooms, worn hardwood floors, a kitchen with cabinets that looked like they’d been forgotten long ago, painted a faded, chipped yellow. It smelled like dust and stale air, like no one had cared in years. But the light streaming through the back room was perfect. The bones of the house were strong. Y/N could already picture a future here, something solid. Harry didn’t speak much, but he didn’t scowl either.

Back in the living room, the realtor flipped through her paperwork, eyes flicking between the pages, not quite looking at them.

“So,” she asked casually, glancing up from her notes, “are you two married or…?”

Harry turned just enough to catch Y/N’s eye. He didn’t hesitate. His voice was smooth, practiced, like everything had already been decided.

“Married,” he said, no pause between the words. “Just got back from the courthouse.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, the lie slipping out before she could stop it. She didn’t know why it felt so easy.

“Oh!” the woman said, smiling warmly. “Congratulations! When was the big day?”

Y/N’s eyes went wide, her heart skipping a beat. Harry’s arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer like it was all part of the plan. His lips brushed her ear, voice low.

“This weekend, actually,” he said, the words falling out like they’d been rehearsed. “Just us. Quiet. No one else.”

The realtor’s smile widened, a knowing nod as she scribbled something down. “New house, new name, new life. You two are jumping in headfirst.”

Paperwork followed. The forms were handed over. They signed them slowly, carefully, like this was all real. Y/N wrote “Y/N Callahan” with a steady hand. Harry’s signature pressed right next to hers.

When they stepped out onto the porch, the sky had already turned fully blue, the fading heat of the day slipping away. A few cars rolled past, a neighbor walked a dog across the street. The weight of what they’d just done—what they were still doing—hung in the air, thick and unspoken.

They were still at the front porch with the realtor when someone called from across the lawn. “Hey there!”

A man in his late forties, plaid shirt, work boots, a faded baseball cap in hand. He waved as he crossed the patch of dead grass that separated the properties.

“I’m Todd. Live just down the way.” He pointed toward the house barely visible through the trees. “Saw the car, thought I’d say hi.”

Y/N stepped forward with a smile. “Hi, I’m Y/N. This is Harry.” Harry gave a nod, reserved but polite.

“You folks moving in?” “

Just signed the papers,” Y/N said, glancing at Harry. “We’re… newly married.”

Todd smiled wide. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood.”

He turned slightly toward Harry. “You a carpenter or somethin’? Lot of fixer-upper work to be done on this place.”

Harry shrugged. “Handy enough.”

“Well, if you ever need anything, me and my wife are just around the bend. Real quiet around here. Folks mostly keep to themselves.”

“Perfect,” Harry said. Todd gave a little wave and turned to leave. “See you around, Callahans.”

Y/N watched him go, the name sounding strange and real all at once. Harry leaned in close, murmured low in her ear, “There’s our first believer.”

She smiled, small. “Now we just need the rest.” Moving day came without ceremony.

They loaded their few bags—two duffels, one cracked suitcase, a box of odds and ends—into the car and drove the fifteen minutes to the house that was now legally theirs. The front porch still leaned slightly to one side, the paint still peeled in long, tired strips, but it was theirs. A new name on a deed. A false beginning.

Y/N held the house key in her hand for a moment before unlocking the front door. The sound of it opening echoed strangely loud in the empty space.

Harry carried the heavier bags without a word. He dropped them just inside the threshold, then stepped back onto the porch, scanning the street like he always did—casual, but alert.

Inside, it was colder than she remembered. The kind of chill that came from a place sitting too long untouched.

They left their things in the front room and climbed back into the car to visit the secondhand shops across town. Y/N made a list on the drive: couch, table, two chairs, something for the bedroom. Nothing too clean. They were supposed to have a past.

By mid-afternoon, they had pieced together the bones of a home—furniture with worn corners, old but sturdy. Harry tied everything down in the back of a borrowed truck from a shop owner who didn’t ask for a name or license. Just cash.

The sun was low when they pulled back up to the house and began unloading. Harry carried the couch in mostly on his own while Y/N followed with a box of mismatched dishes.

It was nearly dark when the knock came. Sharp. Too loud for the quiet street.

Harry froze mid-step. Y/N blinked from where she sat on the edge of the bed, head snapping toward the door. Her pulse kicked hard.

Harry moved before she could. Silent. Controlled. His hand brushed the small of her back once as he passed, more instinct than comfort.

“Stay here.”

“Harry—”

He looked at her, and she stopped. He cracked the door open.

Marlene stood on the porch, holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil and a smile too wide for the hour.

“Hey there,” she chirped. “Sorry to drop in late, but I made too much and figured—new neighbors, new marriage, you probably haven’t had time to cook. Oh. I’m Marlene by the way.”

Harry didn’t speak. Just stared. Y/N stepped in behind him, smile already fixed in place. “That’s really kind. Thank you.”

Marlene beamed and handed over the dish. “Strawberry-basil chicken. It’s better than it sounds.” She peeked around them, eyes darting inside. “You two settling in?”

“Slowly,” Y/N said. “But it’s starting to feel like home.” Harry still hadn’t said anything.

“Well,” Marlene said, backing away, “just wanted to drop this off. If you ever need anything, we’re right across the street. Nice meeting you Callahan’s.”

“Appreciate it,” Harry said. Flat. Measured. Marlene waved once and disappeared into the dark.

Y/N closed the door slowly and turned. Harry hadn’t moved. His eyes were still locked on the door like it might open again.

“She’s just being friendly,” Y/N said.

He turned to her. “She knocked like she was coming to arrest us.”

“She brought a casserole.”

“So did the woman who tipped off the cops two cities ago.”

Y/N set the dish on the counter and turned. “You think it’s poisoned?”

Harry didn’t answer. He stepped to the window and peeled the curtain back just enough to watch Marlene cross the street.

Y/N moved behind him, hands on her hips. “We’re married. We’re in a house with our name on it. This is what we wanted, remember?”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You’re going to get a lot of them. Welcome to domestic life.”

He looked at her, sharp. “She knew our name.”

“She’s our neighbor. She probably heard it from the realtor.”

“She said it like she’d been practicing it.” Y/N stepped closer. “You think she’s dangerous?”

“I think anyone’s dangerous if they get curious enough.” His voice was quiet now. Focused. She could see the calculation running under his skin.

“You’re not going to be able to live like this forever.” Harry’s eyes didn’t leave the window.

“I don’t need forever. I just need long enough.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. Just stood beside him, watching the street settle into silence again.

They settled into the house the way you settle into a lie—carefully, one detail at a time. Y/N took morning walks with a canvas bag over her shoulder, stopped by the market, the hardware store, the post office. She smiled at clerks. Remembered names. Asked about kids that didn’t exist.

Harry worked on the porch. Repaired the cracked step. Repainted the trim. He kept a tool in his back pocket even when he wasn’t using it. Just in case. They moved like people who planned to stay.

A week passed. Then another. And on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, Marlene waved Y/N down from her porch.

“Girls are getting together Friday night. Wine, snacks, gossip you didn’t ask for. You should come.”

Y/N nodded, smile in place. “Thanks. I’ll be there.”

Friday came with a breeze and the smell of someone grilling three streets over. Y/N stood in front of the mirror adjusting her blouse—something softer than she’d usually wear. Floral. Clean. Belonging to the kind of woman who made banana bread and waved at mailmen.

She kissed Harry on the cheek before leaving. “Don’t stay out too late,” he muttered.

His eyes followed her out the door.

Marlene’s house was warm and cluttered. Smelled like cinnamon and something expensive burning in a candle jar. There were six women there already. One from the post office. One who worked at the school. One whose name Y/N didn’t catch but who poured the wine like it was her job.

They asked polite questions at first. Where are you from?

Do you like it here? What color are you painting the kitchen?

Then came the real ones. “So,” said Dana, the redhead from the post office, “Harry doesn’t talk much, does he?”

Y/N smiled. “He’s quiet. But steady.”

“Steady’s good,” Marlene said. “Steady’s safe.”

A beat passed. Then Claire, the one with the wine, leaned in. “Is he good to you?”

The room didn’t flinch. No one laughed. It wasn’t a joke. Y/N didn’t blink. “Yes. In all the ways that matter.”

The others nodded slowly, as if weighing that. No one asked what that meant. By the time she left, her throat ached from smiling.

Back home, Harry was where she knew he’d be—on the back steps, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. The porch light buzzed above him. The air smelled like dust and pine.

He didn’t look up when she stepped out. Just said, “Well?”

“They bought it.”

Still no eye contact. But he nodded once. Y/N sat down beside him. Close, but not touching.

“Marlene. Dana. Claire. All of them. They asked about you.”

“What’d you say?”

“That you’re good with your hands. Quiet. Married.” “Did they believe it?”

She shrugged. “They liked the ring.” He flicked the cigarette once, still not lighting it. “You say anything stupid?”

Y/N smirked. “Just enough to pass for normal.” He finally looked at her. Sharp.

“They ask about your past?”

“They asked about kids.” His stare didn’t waver. “What’d you tell them?”

“That we’re hoping to.” Harry studied her like he was deciding if that was part of the plan or something else entirely.

“You really want that?” he asked.

“I said what I needed to say.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. “You’re better at this than I thought.”

“I’ve been learning from the best.”

That almost got a smile out of him. Almost. They sat in silence. Crickets droned in the dark. The wind moved low through the trees.

“You know,” Y/N said finally, “you don’t always have to be the one watching the edges.”

His voice was quiet. “Someone has to.”

“Maybe not tonight.”

He glanced over. She saw it in his eyes—that split-second hesitation, like he didn’t know whether to let her in or shut her out.

She reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw. Then, without asking, she kissed him.

It was slow. Deliberate. No performance. No mask. Just heat, need, and everything that hadn’t been said.

Harry didn’t pull away. When he kissed her back, it was with the kind of hunger that came from staying too still too long. His hand curled around the back of her neck, grounding her. Their bodies pressed close. Her knees bumped his. She didn’t care.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed touching. “This is dangerous,” he said, breathless.

“So is everything else.”

Harry leaned in and kissed her again, sharper this time. His fingers gripped her tighter, like something in him had snapped. Like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore.

Y/N gasped into his mouth, and that was all it took.

Harry stood, pulling her with him. They stumbled through the back door in silence. The air inside was thick with heat and cheap wood polish. She barely had time to turn before he pressed her back against the wall, his mouth on hers again—rougher this time. Possessive.

Her hands slipped under his shirt. His skin was hot, muscles tight like wire under her palms. He groaned into her mouth when she scratched lightly at his ribs, and it was the sound of a man barely holding it together.

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. “Tell me this is okay,” he said, voice low and raw.

She nodded, breathless. “It’s okay.”

That was all he needed. His mouth crashed into hers again. Her back hit the wall with a quiet thud, and she felt the shift in him—controlled, but just barely. Like he was toeing the line between restraint and wreckage.

Harry’s hands found her hips, then slid lower, tugging at her waistband. She helped him. Shorts down. Shirt off. Her skin prickled under the sudden exposure. His gaze raked over her, hungry, but with something darker behind it—like he needed this to make the world stop spinning.

He turned her around. Pressed her chest to the wall, one hand on her back to keep her there, the other at his belt.

“Is this how you want it?” he growled into her ear. “Fast and filthy?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “I don’t care—just do it.”

He yanked her hips back. She felt the hard line of him against her and then— One deep, brutal thrust.

She cried out, her hands flat against the wall. He filled her completely, no hesitation, no tenderness. Just raw need.

“Fuck,” he hissed, grinding into her. “You feel that? So fucking tight for me.”

His hand slid up her spine, curled into her hair. He yanked her head back enough to bite at the side of her throat.

“You like being taken like this?” he muttered. “You like when I don’t pretend to be a good man?” She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“Yes—Harry—fuck—”

He slammed into her again, and again, the sound of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. The rhythm was merciless. Her legs shook. Her moans turned desperate. Then his fingers slipped between her thighs, found her clit, rubbed rough and fast.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice gravel and fire. “Now.”

She shattered—gasping, trembling, clawing at the wall as the orgasm tore through her. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

“Gonna come inside you,” he panted against her neck. “Mark you. Fill you up so deep they’ll smell me on you for days.”

She whimpered at the words, her body already begging for more.

He groaned, low and brutal, and buried himself one last time—deep and final. His release hit hard, hips stuttering as he spilled into her with a strangled noise.

They stayed there for a beat. Pressed together. Breathing hard. Her face against the wall. His chest heaving against her back.

He leaned in and bit her shoulder, not hard. Just enough to claim. “Told you I’d ruin you,” he whispered.

She laughed—weak, wrecked. “Then do it again.” And he did.

Later, when their skin was still damp and their breathing had just started to even out, the knock came.

Sharp. Heavy. Three times. They both froze.

Y/N’s hand tightened on the bedsheet. Harry’s entire body went still, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the door like he could burn through it.

Another knock. Louder.

He moved fast. No panic—just precision. Controlled like a weapon. “Stay here,” he said, already pulling on his jeans.

Y/N sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “Harry—”

He turned. His voice was a growl. “I said stay.”

She didn’t argue.

He grabbed a shirt off the floor but didn’t bother with buttons. Stepped toward the door, slow and lethal.

He checked the peephole. Then cracked the door open an inch.

Marlene stood on the other side. Hair down, makeup smudged like she’d had a glass too many, holding a foil-wrapped dish in her hands.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “Sorry, I know it’s late—just thought I’d bring something over. Todd, my husband, is out cold, and I had leftovers.”

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Y/N appeared behind him, this time dressed, hair pulled back, face calm.

“That’s really sweet,” she said. “Thank you.”

Marlene smiled and handed over the dish. “Tuna bake. Not poisoned again, I promise.”

Harry took it. Barely. “You two settling in okay?” she asked.

“We are,” Y/N said quickly. “The place is starting to feel like home.”

Marlene nodded, satisfied. “Good. Well, I won’t keep you. Night night Callahans.”

She gave a wave and turned into the dark. Harry shut the door. Locked it once. Then again.

He stood there for a second too long, chest rising and falling like something in him hadn’t settled.

Y/N set the dish on the counter. “She’s just being nice.”

“She knocks like she’s got a badge.”

“She knocked like a woman holding a hot pan.” Harry didn’t laugh.

She walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like how often our name comes out of her mouth.”

“She’s nosy. Not a threat.”

He turned to her finally. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” she said. “But if we start treating every knock like a raid, we’ll burn out. Fast.”

His hands gripped her hips like he was still trying to ground himself. “I’m not used to people showing up like that. Not unless someone’s bleeding.”

She looked up at him. “Then let’s make this the first place where that’s not true.”

Harry stared at her for a long beat. Then bent his head and kissed her forehead, quick and rough. The only way he knew how.

The house had gone still. The old walls creaked every now and then. Pipes groaned somewhere deep under the floor. Outside, crickets screamed into the dark. Inside, there was only the sound of the clock ticking and the occasional shift of the sheets.

Y/N stirred. Reached for Harry.

Her hand met muscle, tense and unmoving. He was awake. Lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it was watching him too.

“You okay?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was flat. Quiet. “Can’t stop thinking.”

Y/N rolled onto her side, resting her cheek on her arm. “About what?”

“Everything,” he muttered. “The name. The house. The casserole.” She watched the shape of him in the dark. His jaw was clenched. His hands fisted in the sheets.

“You think someone’s onto us?”

“No,” he said. “I think I’m not made for this shit.”

She moved closer, her knee brushing his.

“It’s supposed to feel strange, Harry. We’re building a life out of smoke. Of course it’s gonna shift when you step on it.”

He finally turned his head. Looked at her. “You ever think we’re just playing house until someone calls our bluff?”

“Every day.” He didn’t blink. “And that doesn’t scare you?”

“It does,” she said. “But not enough to make me run.” His hand found hers under the sheet. Still rough. Still coiled tight. But there.

After a stretch of silence, he spoke again. “I keep thinking I’ll ruin it.”

She swallowed. “Ruin what?” “You. This. Everything we built. One wrong word. One fucking instinct I don’t bury fast enough.”

Y/N didn’t pull away. “You won’t,” she said.

“You don’t know that.” “I do.”

He stared at her like he wanted to believe it. She reached out and touched his chest, right over where his heart was hammering.

“I didn’t marry a version of you I made up,” she said. “I married the man who got me this far.” His throat worked.

“I don’t want to lose it,” he said.

“Then don’t.”

Harry exhaled slowly, like the fight was bleeding out of him just a little. After a while, his arm came around her waist. Pulled her close. And this time, when he closed his eyes, he didn’t open them again.

The days began folding in on themselves.

It started small. Y/N walked to the corner store most mornings. Bought coffee. Milk. A loaf of bread even when they didn’t need it. She remembered names. Asked about people’s dogs. Laughed too loud at things that weren’t funny. It wasn’t hard to make them like her.

Harry stayed back. Worked on the house. He replaced the broken slats on the porch. Scrubbed years off the window glass. Sanded the kitchen table until it looked new. His hands stayed busy. His mind didn’t. He watched the street. Learned the neighbors’ routines. What time their porch lights came on. Which car belonged to who. Which windows stayed open too long after dark. They ate dinner at the table. Didn’t talk much. Sometimes they walked around the block. Held hands when they passed someone. Smiled when people waved. Said things like have a good one and we’re loving it here.

The lie was becoming muscle memory. Then came Marlene’s second invitation.

Y/N had been coming back from the post office. Mail tucked under one arm. A grocery bag swinging from the other.

Marlene waved from her yard. “Girls are getting together Friday night. Again.”

Y/N smiled. “I’ll be there.”

That night, she told Harry while he was fixing the hinge on the back door. “They’ll ask more questions,” she said. “They always do.”

He didn’t look up. “Let them.” “They asked if you were good to me last time.”

Harry paused. “Did you lie?”

“No.” That made him look at her.

She didn’t flinch. “I said you were good in all the ways that mattered.” His gaze held hers a little too long. Then he went back to the hinge.

“I’ll give them something worth talking about,” he muttered. “You’re supposed to be harmless.”

“I am.”

“No, Harry,” she said softly. “You’re just hidden.”

Friday came. Y/N wore something soft again. Something that made her look safe. Normal.

She kissed Harry before she left. He didn’t say anything—just nodded once and watched her walk out the door like he expected the world to end before she got back. Marlene’s house was warmer this time. The lights dimmer. The wine poured faster.

Same women. Same circle. Same smiles that didn’t quite meet their eyes. They asked about home renovations. About Harry.

“He’s intense, huh?” Dana said, chewing on a cheese cube.

Y/N smiled. “He’s quiet.”

Claire leaned forward, wine glass in hand. “He ever scare you?” Y/N’s face didn’t move.

“No.”

The room went still for half a breath.

Then Marlene laughed. “Girl, if that man ever looked at me like he looks at you, I’d hide the knives.”

More laughter. Brittle. Y/N just sipped her water and smiled.

When she got home, Harry was on the back steps again. Cigarette in his fingers. Unlit. Always unlit. He didn’t look up as she sat beside him.

“Well?” he asked.

“They’re suspicious.”

He flicked the cigarette. “They ask about me?”

“Always.”

He turned to her now. Eyes sharp. “What’d you say?”

“I said you’re quiet. Handy. Protective.”

He gave a low grunt. “You lie well.”

“I didn’t lie.”

He looked at her. Really looked. Then nodded once. “Good.”

They kept building the lie, one nail, one conversation, one half-truth at a time.

Harry finished patching the bedroom wall. Replaced the back door lock with something heavier. Reinforced the window frames, then pretended he was doing it for the draft.

Y/N bought curtains.

She planted lavender in the front yard and told anyone who passed that she read it kept bugs away. That it made a place feel lived in. That it was good for sleep.

No one questioned her.

They painted the kitchen a soft yellow that Y/N said looked like light even when the sun wasn’t out.

Harry hated it. But he didn’t argue.

Sometimes they stood in the half-finished fake nursery and didn’t say anything. Just looked. At the walls. At the little space they were pretending to prepare. Like if they stared hard enough, it might become real.

Y/N started writing things down. A notebook. Spiral-bound. Cheap. She listed names, neighbor house numbers, birthdays they were told in passing.

Todd—next door. Early riser. Drives a gray truck. Marlene—never lets things go. Always watching. Claire—Sunday school. Unmarried. Keeps wine in a travel mug. Dana—Post office. Likes to stir the pot.

“What’s that one?” Harry asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Y/N didn’t look up. “It’s our story. The one we’re living.”

“We’re not writing a novel.”

“No,” she said. “We’re creating a record. So we don’t forget what we said.”

Harry grunted. “Smart.”

“You didn’t tell Todd your name, right?”

“No.” “Because he used it before you introduced yourself.”

Harry froze. His eyes narrowed, calculation kicking in. “The realtor told him.”

“She never used our name in front of him.”

Harry stood and moved to the window. Peeled the curtain back just enough to see through. Nothing out there but grass and sky. But his jaw stayed tight.

“You think he knew?” he asked. “I think we don’t get the luxury of assuming he didn’t.”

She turned the notebook toward him. Neat, precise handwriting. Lies written like facts. Harry looked at it a moment too long.

“Keep going,” he said. “If someone knocks, I want you to have the answers before they even ask the questions.”

Y/N nodded. “Already do.” The knock came a week later.

Midday. Bright sun. No shadows to hide in. Harry answered it.

A man stood on the porch. Mid-forties. Clean-cut. Clipboard in hand. Badge clipped to his belt. The kind that was real but quiet. Not loud enough to scare the neighbors. Just official enough to make your pulse shift.

“Sorry to bother you,” the man said. “Are you Mr. Callahan?”

Harry didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

“Mind if I ask a few questions?” Y/N stepped into the hall. Calm. Casual. Dish towel in her hand.

“What’s this about?” she asked, smiling like it was nothing.

“Cold case work,” the man replied. “We’re following up on some regional threads. No suspects. Just trying to close some loops.”

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter. “You’ll have better luck at the bar down the street. People there talk more than they drink.”

The man smiled politely. Looked back at Harry. “You been in town long?”

“Few months,” Harry said. “Bought the Becker house.”

“From where?” Y/N didn’t give Harry a chance to answer.

“Upstate,” she said. “Small town. Not worth naming. We wanted quiet.”

“No family nearby?”

“Just us.” The man nodded and wrote something down.

“Well,” he said, handing over a card, “if anything strange pops up—or if you remember something from your last town that felt off—give me a call.”

Harry took the card. Didn’t look at it. The man tipped his head and walked off the porch.

The second the door closed, Harry turned. “We need to talk.”

He paced the kitchen like it was a cage.

The detective’s card lay on the counter, untouched. Like it might burn if either of them picked it up again.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, restless. Unmoored. “He knew something,” he muttered.

Y/N leaned against the sink, arms crossed. “He was fishing.” Harry shook his head. “He had a name. A face. He’s not knocking on every door in town.”

“Which is why we didn’t slip. We gave him the same story we’ve given everyone else.”

He stopped and turned on her. “You don’t understand. These guys don’t knock unless they already have a thread.”

“And pulling it leads where?” she asked. “To a house we don’t own anymore? A town we left clean? A name we buried?”

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. His voice dropped. “It leads to us.” Y/N didn’t move.

“No, it leads to people who used to exist. Not us.”

“He was looking at me like he knew,” Harry said. “Like he’d seen my file. Knew what I’m capable of.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s done things worth forgetting?” That stopped him.

“You think I dragged you into this?” she went on, stepping forward. “You think I tied my life to yours out of convenience? I’m not just covering your tracks, Harry. I’m burning mine too.”

He stared at her, chest rising fast.

“I know what we’ve done,” she said. “I know what we are. But we didn’t get this far just to run again because some asshole with a clipboard knocked too loud.”

Silence settled like smoke. Harry stepped closer, slow. “You’re not scared?”

“Of him? No.”

“Of me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then: “I was. Once.” He looked like that hit somewhere he didn’t want to admit existed.

“And now?” Y/N met his eyes. “Now I think you’re the only person I trust to watch the door.”

His jaw flexed. Something behind his eyes cracked—but didn’t fall apart. He reached up, brushed his fingers along her jaw.

“If I told you to pack a bag right now—”

“I wouldn’t,” she said.

Harry’s mouth twitched—half a scoff, half something softer. “You’re stubborn.”

“No. I’m tired of running.”

He exhaled hard, like her words knocked the air out of him. His hand dropped to her waist, grounding himself.

“What if he comes back?” “Then we smile wider. Say less.”

“And if he asks the wrong question?” “Then we lie better.”

Harry nodded once. Sharp. Decided. But his hand didn’t leave her waist.

By morning, Harry had a name.

Detective Colin Graves. County-level. Floated between jurisdictions. Specialized in “unsolved patterns”—whatever the hell that meant. He wasn’t local. He wasn’t friendly. And he sure as hell wasn’t just making rounds.

Y/N stood behind him at the laptop, reading over his shoulder.

“No kids. Divorced. Drives a black Charger. Government plates,” Harry said. “He’s staying at the motel near the highway.”

She glanced at him. “You want to confront him?”

“No,” Harry said. “I want to watch him.”

That afternoon, they drove to the edge of town. Not together.

Y/N took the car. Parked three spots down from the detective’s room and walked to the gas station next door. Pretended to look at scratch-offs. Bought a coffee she didn’t want.

Harry followed on foot twenty minutes later. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. Moved like he belonged there.

They didn’t speak. But they both saw the same thing.

Room 6. Curtains drawn. No sign of movement. Car parked outside, engine still warm. “He’s in there,” Y/N said later, once they were back home, doors locked, curtains closed.

Harry scrubbed a hand down his face. “I need to know how close he is.”

“We’re not following him.”

“I won’t get out of the car.” “Harry—”

“I’ll drive behind him. Watch where he goes. That’s it.” She stared at him for a long time.

Then nodded. “One hour. If you’re not back, I burn everything.”

He smiled faintly. “Deal.”

The next morning, Graves left the motel just before 8 a.m.

Harry tailed him three miles to a diner on the outskirts of town. Watched him sit in a booth, order black coffee and eggs, and scroll through a stack of folders.

He didn’t take notes. He didn’t pull out a laptop. He just stared at the papers like they were old friends.

Then—he pulled out a photo. Held it low, like instinct told him someone might be watching.

Harry couldn’t see the face. Just the edge of a shoulder. A blur of motion. Like the picture had been taken fast.

Still, his gut tightened. He knew that posture. That turn of the neck.

It was him. The image wasn’t good. But it was him.

Harry backed out of the parking lot and didn’t look back. At home, he found Y/N in the living room, rearranging books they didn’t read.

“He’s got a photo.” She looked up. “Of you?”

“Blurry. But yeah.” She sat down slowly. “Then it’s real.”

“Yeah.” “Do we run?”

Harry stared at her. “No.” Her eyebrows lifted. “No?”

“We’ve got a better shot if we act like we’re not worried.” “You think we can outwait him?”

“I think we can outlast him.” Y/N stood. Crossed the room. Stopped in front of him.

“If you stay,” she said, “you have to stop pacing. Stop checking the window every five minutes. Start acting like you belong here.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “I’ve never belonged anywhere.”

“You do now.”

They stood in silence.

Then she added, “Also, we’re going to dinner at Marlene’s next Friday. She cornered me and said it’s time.”

He groaned. “Do I have to speak?”

“You just have to eat and look like you wouldn’t bury someone over a parking space.”

“No promises.” Friday night came too fast.

Y/N wore a pale blue dress with sleeves that made her look softer than she felt. Harry shaved. Tucked his shirt in. The kind of effort that made people say things like what a nice couple instead of what are they hiding?

Marlene’s house smelled like pot roast and fresh rolls. The table was set with mismatched plates and too many candles. There were five other guests—all couples, all local.

Harry offered a bottle of red wine they’d picked up from the corner store. Marlene beamed. “A man with manners.”

He smiled, thin and practiced. “Trying my best.” They took their seats. Y/N next to Marlene. Harry at her side.

The small talk started immediately.

Claire asked about their house. Todd asked about the porch repairs. Dana—always Dana—asked if Harry was finding work “or just enjoying the break.”

He answered smoothly. “I fix things. Doesn’t matter whose house it is.”

“Bet you’re handy,” someone muttered.

The room laughed.

Y/N watched the way Harry smiled, how he leaned in when people spoke. Not too close, not too far. He laughed when appropriate. Ate what was served. Let himself be seen, just enough.

She couldn’t decide if it scared her or made her proud. “Y/N tells me you two met back in school,” Marlene said over dessert.

Harry didn’t miss a beat. “High school sweethearts.” “Where was that again?” Claire asked.

Y/N smiled. “Upstate New York. Tiny town. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

“You ever get homesick?”

Harry’s jaw ticked. Y/N stepped in. “Sometimes. But mostly we’re glad to be out. Too many ghosts back there.”

Marlene refilled glasses. “Well, you two are a good fit. Real magnetic. You’ve got one of those… energies.”

Y/N tilted her head. “What kind?”

“Like you’ve been through some shit together,” Marlene said, voice light but eyes sharp.

Harry held Y/N’s gaze for a beat too long. “Guess we have,” he said.

The table went quiet for half a second. Just long enough. Then someone made a joke about marriage being its own battlefield, and the room moved on.

Later, after the goodbyes and thank-yous, Y/N and Harry walked back home in the dark.

The night was thick with crickets. Windows glowed behind drawn curtains. The world had quieted, but inside, both of them were wide awake.

“She’s onto us,” Y/N said. Harry didn’t ask who.

“She’s watching everything.”

“She’s smart,” he muttered. “Sharp, but bored. She’ll dig until she either finds something or finds a better distraction.”

“She thinks we’re haunted.” He glanced at her. “She’s not wrong.”

They reached the porch. The steps creaked under their weight. “You were good tonight,” she said.

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Felt like playing dead.”

She looked at him, serious. “Don’t get too good at it.”

He pulled her in. Kissed her hard. Quick. Like he was claiming something he was afraid might get taken.

“I’m only doing this because you asked.”

“I know.”

“Next time she invites us,” he said, opening the door, “we’re suddenly out of town.” It came on a Tuesday.

The mailbox creaked open like always. Nothing unusual. Just coupons. A bill. A card from the hardware store.

And an envelope. No name. No stamp. Just their address, typed neatly.

Y/N stared at it for a second too long before sliding it into the crook of her arm and heading back inside.

Harry was at the sink, fixing the faucet.

She dropped the rest of the mail on the counter and held the envelope up between two fingers. “This was in the box.”

He turned. Wiped his hands on a rag. Took it. Slit it open with the tip of a screwdriver.

One sheet of paper. Plain.

Printed in bold, black font: “You can paint the walls and change the name. I still know what you did.”

That was it. No signature. No threat. No clue.

Just that. Harry stared at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less dangerous.

Y/N didn’t speak. Just waited. He folded the paper once. Twice. Then again.

Slid it into his back pocket. “We burn it,” she said.

“No,” Harry replied. “We keep it.” She frowned. “Why?”

“Because it’s a message,” he said. “And you don’t destroy evidence until you know who sent it.” Her voice was steady. “You think it was Graves?”

“No. Too loud for him. He’d ask you face-to-face.”

“Then who?”

Harry didn’t answer. She watched the way his jaw set. The muscle ticking like a clock running out of time.

Then, quietly, she said, “You think it’s Marlene.” He didn’t move.

Which told her everything. “She’s not stupid,” Y/N said. “But if she knew anything real, she’d go to someone. Not play games.”

“She’s not playing,” Harry said.

“She’s warning.” Y/N exhaled slowly.

“So what do we do?”

“We act like we never saw it.”

“And when the next one comes?”

Harry looked at her—calm, cold. “Then we write one back.”

By Friday, the tension had teeth.

Y/N caught Marlene watching from across the street. Not pretending. Just standing at her front window, arms crossed, face blank.

She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. She just watched.

Harry didn’t mention it. But that night, he cleaned his gun.

They didn’t have any reason to believe Graves was still in town. His car hadn’t been spotted. His room at the motel was empty. But that didn’t settle anything. The absence felt worse than the presence. Like a shadow that had learned how to hide.

Y/N found herself checking the mailbox more than once a day. Looking for another envelope. Another signal. Nothing came. But that didn’t make her breathe easier. Harry grew quieter.

Not tense. Just internal. Like he was pulling the thread inward, wrapping it around himself. Thinking. Planning. She let him have the silence. Let him pace and stare and scribble notes in the margin of her notebook.

But on Sunday morning, he said it out loud.

“If she’s the one watching us,” he said, standing in the doorway with his coffee, “then we have to make her stop.”

Y/N looked up from the table. “You’re talking about Marlene.”

He didn’t blink. “Yeah.”

“And what does ‘make her stop’ mean?”

Harry’s eyes were unreadable. “It means we show her we’re not the kind of people you send letters to.”

Y/N stood slowly. “No.” He watched her. Still, but sharp.

“We don’t touch her,” she said. “We don’t corner her. We don’t make a fucking scene.”

“She’s not going to stop.”

“She will,” Y/N said. “Because she’s scared. She just doesn’t know what exactly to be afraid of.”

Harry set the mug down harder than he meant to. “She’s poking at something she doesn’t understand.”

“She understands enough. That’s why she’s trying to remind us she’s there.”

His jaw flexed. “She’s going to push it too far.”

“And if we push first, we lose.” They stared at each other across the room. Both stubborn. Both right in their own way.

Then, quietly, she added, “Let me talk to her.” “No.”

“She likes me.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t.”

“I can calm her down, Harry.”

He crossed the room in three strides. Took her face in both hands—not gentle, not rough. Just urgent.

“If she lays a trap and you walk into it—”

“I won’t.”

“I’m not losing you.” “Then trust me,” she said. “Just this once.”

His hands dropped. He didn’t nod. But he didn’t stop her. Y/N baked something.

Banana bread. The easy kind. Warm, dense, and just messy enough to look homemade.

She walked across the street slow and steady. Held the foil-wrapped loaf like an offering. Knocked twice.

Marlene answered with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, this is a surprise.”

“Figured it was time I returned the favor,” Y/N said.

“Can I come in?” Marlene hesitated.

Then stepped aside. “Of course.”

The house was as tidy as ever. Candles lit. A fresh vase of flowers on the kitchen table. It smelled like lemons and something just slightly artificial.

Y/N set the bread down. “Still the nicest house on the block.”

Marlene laughed once. “Means I’ve got too much time on my hands.”

They sat. The silence between them pulsed. Y/N folded her hands neatly on the table. “I’ve been meaning to ask… have we done something wrong?”

Marlene blinked. “Wrong?”

“You’ve been… quiet. Watching.”

Marlene took a sip of her tea. “I’m nosy. Everyone knows that.” “But lately it’s felt personal.”

Marlene didn’t deny it. Just looked at her. Really looked.

“You know,” she said slowly, “I used to be good at reading people. Before the wine, before the kids. Before my husband couldn’t sleep. Before he got restless. Before all of it.”

“I’d say you’re still good at it.” Marlene tilted her head. “You ever lie to your husband?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “What?”

“Little ones. Big ones. Doesn’t matter.”

“I try not to.”

“Try,” Marlene repeated. “That’s a funny word.”

Y/N didn’t blink. “Have you been asking around about us?”

Marlene smiled faintly. “What would I ask?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said. “But if you’re going to accuse us of something, I’d rather you do it with your whole chest.”

The silence cracked like ice. Marlene leaned back in her chair. “Do you know what a dead giveaway is?”

Y/N waited.

“It’s when people smile too much,” Marlene said. “When they never ask questions. When they learn everyone’s name in under a week.”

Y/N nodded. “You think I’m too friendly.”

“I think you’re scared.”

She let that sit. Then leaned forward, voice low. “Do you want to know what I’m scared of?”

Marlene didn’t answer.

Y/N said, “I’m scared that this town will spit us out like a rotten tooth. That we’ll be chased again. That the only place we ever felt even a little safe will close its doors and bolt the lock.”

“And what would it take,” Marlene asked, “for me to believe you’re here for real?”

Y/N looked her in the eye. “It would take you deciding I’m worth protecting.”

Marlene didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But something shifted in her. A beat passed.

Then she stood. Cut two slices of banana bread. Handed Y/N one.

“Next time,” she said, “add a little nutmeg.”

Y/N smiled. “Noted.”

Harry was waiting on the porch when she got back.

Arms crossed. One foot bouncing. The cigarette in his hand wasn’t lit—hadn’t been for days—but he held it like it anchored him.

Y/N stepped into the light. Quiet. Composed. “Well?” he asked.

She walked past him and into the house. Set her keys down. Peeled the foil off the rest of the banana bread and slid it into a container.

He followed her. “Did she say anything?”

“Yes.” He waited.

“She’s watching us,” Y/N said. “But not because she wants to blow this up.”

Harry leaned against the counter. “Then why?”

“Because she doesn’t know what we are. And that scares her.”

“Good.”

“No,” Y/N said, turning to him. “Not good. People who are scared get reckless. They talk to the wrong people. They make noise.”

“She threaten you?” “No.”

“Did you threaten her?” She arched an eyebrow. “I brought banana bread.”

Harry gave her a long, unreadable look. Then: “So what now?”

“I don’t think she’s the one we need to worry about.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Y/N leaned on the sink, arms crossed. “She never asked the right questions. Not once. All her jabs were wide—guesswork. Like someone tipped her off but never gave her anything real.”

Harry was already putting it together. “Todd.”

“She mentioned him in passing. Twice. Same way people test water temperature before they get in. Said he talks in his sleep. That he’s restless lately. That he never used to care about gossip until now.”

Harry was quiet. Y/N went on, voice lower now. “And you remember how you said he used your name before you gave it?”

“Yeah.” “I think he’s the one who left the note.”

Harry pushed off the counter. Started pacing.

“Graves talks to someone,” Y/N said. “Todd hears enough to get curious. Starts watching. Starts whispering to his wife. She doesn’t know if he’s right, but she knows the tension’s real.”

Harry stopped pacing. Looked at her. “So what do we do?”

“We keep Marlene close,” Y/N said. “Let her feel like she’s in the loop. Let her think she has the upper hand.”

“And Todd?” Harry said it like a man already writing the ending.

Y/N stepped toward him. “We don’t touch him. Not yet.”

He studied her face. “But eventually?”

She nodded once. “If he keeps pulling at the thread, we pull back harder.” Harry smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Now you sound like me.”

She stepped closer, pressed her hands to his chest. “No,” she said softly. “I sound like your wife.”

Harry didn’t tell Y/N what day he planned to watch him.

Just said he had errands. Needed parts for the leaky pipe. Wanted to hit the hardware store before the rush.

She didn’t press.

By noon, he was parked down the block from Todd’s worksite—a half-finished duplex on the edge of town. Contractors moved like ants across the gravel. But Harry only watched one of them.

Todd stood near a stack of lumber, talking to a man with a clipboard. Laughing. Smiling. Easy. He looked like the kind of guy who kept beer in the fridge and played softball on Sundays. Average. Forgettable.

Harry hated that most of all. He watched for over an hour.

Watched Todd take two calls. Watched him eat a sandwich on the back of his truck bed. Watched him pause once—just once—and stare out at nothing, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something that never came.

Harry leaned back in his seat. He knew that posture. Knew that stare. He’d worn it himself more times than he could count.

Paranoia didn’t always come from guilt. Sometimes it came from fear.

At 2:17, Todd walked around the side of the lot, toward the porta-john. Harry followed on foot, slow, hands in his jacket.

He didn’t plan to say anything. Didn’t plan to be seen.

But as Todd stepped out, they locked eyes. Both froze.

Todd’s jaw tightened. “Harry.” Harry gave a small nod. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your break.”

“You following me?” “Should I be?”

Todd looked away. Wiped his hands on his jeans. “You don’t like me.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know you.”

“You think I’m watching you.” Silence.

Then Todd laughed, but it was hollow. “You ever feel like something’s rotting under the surface? Like the whole place is too perfect, too quiet?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Todd looked him in the eye again. “I get these feelings. Like something bad already happened and I’m just waiting to find out when.”

Harry tilted his head. “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a guy you barely know.”

Todd swallowed. “Maybe I’m saying it to the only person who gets it.”

For a split second, Harry didn’t see a threat. He saw himself. Before. Tired. Haunted. Not evil—just broken in the wrong place.

Then Todd added, “Marlene thinks I’m being dramatic. That I’m bored. But something’s off, man. I feel it.”

Harry nodded once. “If you figure out what it is… let me know.”

Then he turned and walked away, slow and careful, every step loaded with the realization that the enemy might not be the man with the clipboard… or the woman with the smile.

Sometimes it was the weight they all carried. Y/N was on the porch when he came home.

She didn’t look up when he parked. Just sat there, watching the sky darken in slow folds. The quiet stretched between them like thread waiting to snap.

Harry climbed the steps and sat beside her. Didn’t say anything for a while. Neither did she.

Finally, she asked, “Did you talk to him?” Harry nodded once. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s unraveling.”

Y/N looked over at him. “Unraveling how?”

“He talks like someone who’s waiting for a disaster. Says he doesn’t know why. Says he just feels it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That sound familiar?” Harry didn’t answer. Just ran a hand down his face and muttered, “It’s him.”

“You’re sure?” Harry turned to her. Voice low. Certain.

“Yeah. He’s the one who wrote the letter.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “He said that?”

“No. But it’s all over him. He’s scared of something. Or someone. Doesn’t know what—but he’s sniffing around. And he’s looking at us like we’re the reason.”

“Maybe he’s just paranoid.”

Harry shook his head. “No. It’s pointed. He thinks we’re hiding something, and he’s not going to let it go. He’s not curious—he’s convinced.”

Y/N was quiet for a moment. Then: “You feel bad for him?”

“No,” Harry said, too fast. Too firm. “I see myself in him, and I hate it.”

Y/N didn’t look away.

“You still think he left the note?”

“I think he wanted us to feel it. Wanted us to know someone was watching. But not enough to come at us straight. That’s the part that matters.”

She let out a slow breath. “So what do we do?” Harry stared out at the street. Todd’s porch light flicked on across the way.

“We don’t touch him,” he said. “Yet. But we don’t give him anything, either. No waves. No small talk. We become exactly what he already thinks we are.”

“Which is?”

“A secret.”

They waited three weeks.

Let the letter settle. Let the rhythm of the neighborhood lull back into something harmless. Then Y/N extended the invitation.

Marlene accepted too quickly. Todd didn’t say anything.

The night arrived cool and cloudless. Y/N lit candles and cooked chicken with lemon and thyme. Roasted vegetables. A tart for dessert. It was the kind of meal you only made when you wanted everything to look deliberate.

Harry set the table. Checked the locks. Didn’t say much. They came at six.

Marlene brought flowers. Todd brought silence.

The first glass of wine disappeared fast. The second even faster. Conversation stayed polite: work talk, garden talk, little jokes about the neighborhood busybodies.

Y/N smiled through all of it. Harry watched Todd.

By the time dessert hit the table, the shift came.

It started with a breath—too long, too heavy—and then Todd said, “You ever read those old case files out of Albany?”

The room went still. Marlene didn’t even glance up. “Todd.”

He kept going. “One of them’s still open. No leads. Just a name and a timeline and a photo from a gas station camera.”

Harry didn’t blink. Y/N’s hand tightened around her wine glass.

Todd looked at Harry, then at Y/N. “You ever think about how easy it’d be to disappear if you planned it right? Burn the records. Change a few details. Act normal.”

“Todd,” Marlene snapped, louder this time. “Not now.”

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, shrugging. “Sometimes people move into town and they’re so normal it circles back around to suspicious.”

Harry set his fork down slowly. “You accusing someone?” Todd’s eyes were too bright. “I’m asking a question.”

“No,” Harry said. “You’re not.” Y/N reached over and touched Harry’s hand. A warning. A plea.

Marlene stood abruptly. “I said not now.” But Todd wasn’t listening anymore. His hands were shaking.

“I’ve seen the footage,” he said. “It’s grainy, but the walk—the posture—it’s you.”

Harry’s voice dropped low. “You sure you want to keep talking?”

Todd looked at him—and something shifted. Like he realized, for the first time, just how close he was standing to something that could bite.

Marlene grabbed his arm. “That’s enough. I’m sorry. He’s been… he’s not sleeping. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

But Todd yanked away. “I know exactly what I’m saying.” Y/N stood. “Then say it clearly.”

The room was sharp with silence. Todd opened his mouth. Closed it.

Finally: “I think you two aren’t who you say you are.”

Marlene’s face collapsed. “Jesus, Todd.”

“I think you’re dangerous,” he added. “I think people should be more careful around you.” No one moved.

Then Harry smiled. Slow. Crooked. “Then it’s good,” he said quietly, “that people don’t know us very well.”

Todd pushed back from the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. “I knew it,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “I fucking knew it.”

Marlene grabbed at his arm. “Todd—”

But he was already moving, storming through the kitchen, flinging the front door open like he couldn’t breathe in the house anymore.

The silence that followed felt enormous.

Y/N stood at the head of the table, hand still on her wine glass. Harry hadn’t moved. His smile was gone. What sat in its place was quieter. Sharper.

Marlene stayed rooted where she was, jaw tight, eyes shining. “I’m sorry,” she said finally.

Y/N sat back down. “You don’t have to apologize for him.”

“I do.”

Harry’s voice was low. “Has he been talking to Graves?”

Marlene looked up sharply.

“No. Not that I know of. Graves hasn’t been around for weeks.”

Harry didn’t blink. “Then where’s he getting his information?”

Marlene sighed. Rubbed at her temple. “He’s been on Reddit. Old forums. True crime groups. He’s always been into that stuff, but lately it’s gotten worse. Like… compulsive.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “Compulsive how?”

“He stays up all night scrolling through case files. Downloads PDFs. Makes lists. Cross-references timelines. It’s like he’s trying to solve something that hasn’t even happened here.”

She paused, her voice catching.

“He’s not sleeping. Barely eating. He prints out blurry security footage and circles things like he’s in a movie. And I—I’ve tried to tell him to stop, to let it go, but he thinks he’s onto something big. That he’s the only one paying attention.”

Harry crossed his arms. “And he thinks we’re the missing piece.”

Marlene nodded. “He saw that footage out of Albany. Said the guy’s walk looked like yours. That it gave him a feeling.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “So this isn’t about us. Not really. It’s about what’s unraveling in his head.”

Marlene looked at her. “It is about you. Or it became about you. Because once he gets that idea in his head, it doesn’t let go.”

They all sat with that. Then Marlene’s voice went low. Tight.

“I’m not going to the sheriff. Not to Graves. I don’t care what you’ve done—or what you haven’t. I’ve lived long enough to know people come here for all kinds of reasons. But you need to know that he’s not letting this go. And the more you push back, the more he’ll dig.”

Harry tilted his head. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying if you want him to stop,” Marlene said, eyes locked on his, “you’ll have to make him feel like there’s nothing left to find.”

Y/N stood again. “Would he hurt someone?” Marlene looked down at the table, at the crumpled napkin in her hand.

“I don’t know anymore.”

The first few days after the dinner felt like bruises forming—nothing visible, but sore just the same.

They didn’t rush. They watched.

Todd went quiet, but not in the way they hoped. He didn’t stop. He just got quieter about not stopping.

Marlene came by once, said he was working longer hours, barely speaking at home. That he’d cleared out the garage and set up a table, printed out maps, case files, old photos from towns they’d never mentioned to anyone.

“He’s spiraling,” she said. “And he’s smart enough to do damage.” Harry just nodded.

They waited another three days. And then they started. The shift was subtle. They didn’t drop the act—they deepened it.

Y/N stopped walking with her usual confidence. She ducked her head at the grocery store. Looked over her shoulder. She stood too long at the edge of the street when Todd’s truck passed, like she thought about stepping into its path.

Harry became colder in public. More clipped. His eyes harder, his voice lower, more protective. He looked like someone trying to keep something from slipping out of his grasp.

They left their trash can lid open, let papers spill out—receipts with strange numbers, a torn photo with just the edge of Harry’s face visible. A fake classified ad circled in red. Nothing provable. Just enough to catch a hunter’s eye.

And finally, the envelope.

They slipped it into Todd’s mailbox in the dead of night—inside, a photo printed on cheap paper. Grainy. Cropped to look like surveillance. Todd at the hardware store. A timestamp. His own name written in a shaky, anonymous scrawl.

No message. No return address. Just a mirror held up to his worst fear.

The next few days, he didn’t wave from the porch. Didn’t walk the dog. But Y/N noticed the curtains twitch whenever she stepped outside.

Then they left the front door unlocked.

They didn’t sit close together that night. They didn’t light candles or play music or do anything that might’ve read as ordinary.

Harry sat in the chair by the window, back straight, arms resting on his knees like he was waiting to be called to war.

Y/N stayed curled on the couch, sweater draped around her shoulders, knees drawn up like she couldn’t get warm.

They kept the lights low. The silence between them was intentional.

At 11:13, they heard the gate creak. Harry didn’t move.

Y/N reached behind the cushion, her hand closing around the pistol, but she didn’t lift it. Not yet. The door opened slowly. No knock. No hesitation. Just Todd, stepping into their house like he’d done it before.

He held a hammer. Not raised—just in his hand, like he didn’t know how to put it down. His face was pale. Sweating. There was something wild in his eyes, but also something hollow.

“Thought you’d be asleep,” he said. Harry didn’t rise.

“Why are you here, Todd?”

“I know what you did,” Todd said. His voice cracked. “I can’t stop seeing it. All of it. You killed all those fucking people.”

Y/N stood. Not close to Harry. Not close to Todd. Diagonal. Calculated. “You’ve been watching us,” she said softly. “Why?”

“I had to,” Todd said. “I had to know. Something’s wrong with this place. With you.” He took a step forward.

Harry rose.

“I’ve seen your file,” Todd went on. “Or most of it. Redacted as hell, but I pieced it together. And her?” He looked at Y/N. “She’s not just collateral. She’s part of it.”

Harry stepped between them. Todd gripped the hammer tighter.

“She killed him, didn’t she?” he said, voice ragged. “The guy in Albany. I always thought it was you. But now I think it was her.”

“No,” Harry said. “She just made it look like she did.” That stopped Todd. Just for a second. Then he screamed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even verbal. It was just a sound—deep, cracked, animal. He lunged. The hammer swung. Harry caught his arm. They struggled. Not wild, not fast—methodical. It had the weight of something practiced.

Y/N moved behind Todd as he twisted, snarling, trying to break Harry’s grip. She didn’t shout. She didn’t panic.

She raised the gun and said one thing: “Let him go.”

Harry did. Todd stumbled backward, just enough to see Y/N clearly.

She pulled the trigger. One shot. The sound was thunder in the quiet house. Todd hit the floor. He didn’t move again. Y/N stood still, the gun lowered, her hands shaking for real now. Harry turned slowly. Walked to her.

“You okay?” She nodded.

“I missed the timing,” he said. “He came too fast.”

“You did what you were supposed to.”

Sirens would come soon. They knew that. Neighbors would say they heard shouting. A break-in. That Y/N sounded terrified.

They’d believe it. She was a good actress, and the bruises on Harry’s arms would back the story.It was self-defense. It had to be.

The sirens started before the blood even cooled.

Red and blue bounced across the living room walls like a twisted light show. The neighbors poured out onto their lawns in robes and slippers. Marlene’s scream broke through it all—raw, high, and guttural.

Y/N stood in the doorway, pale, arms wrapped tight around herself. She hadn’t let go of the gun until the squad car pulled up. Harry had taken it from her. Wiped it clean. Set it on the table like it had always lived there.

The sheriff came in first. He was younger than they expected. Late thirties. Sturdy build. No-nonsense eyes. His badge read Miller. He scanned the room, expression unreadable. Didn’t touch anything.

Just said, “We’ll need you both to come down for an interview.”

Harry nodded. “Of course.”

Y/N didn’t speak.

Two EMTs rolled Todd’s body out under a white sheet. Marlene’s cries followed them to the curb. Someone—maybe a deputy, maybe a neighbor—was holding her back. She wasn’t screaming at Y/N. But she wasn’t not screaming at her either. The house filled with people. Flashlights. Cameras. Footsteps. Their life, unpacked. Everything bagged, tagged, and rearranged into evidence.

It wasn’t until they were in the back of the cruiser—no cuffs, no formal arrest—that Harry leaned in slightly toward Y/N.

“He bought it,” he murmured.

Y/N kept her eyes straight ahead. “He had to.”

But something in her chest stayed tight.

The station smelled like paper and stale coffee. They were separated immediately—two interview rooms, two detectives. But Sheriff Miller was the one who sat across from Harry. No pen. No pad. Just folded hands and a steady gaze.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Harry recited it clean. The hammer. The break-in. The yelling. The fear.

“He came in armed. He wasn’t in his right mind. We tried to talk him down—”

“And your wife shot him.”

“Yes.”

Miller nodded. “We’re still collecting evidence. Your story mostly lines up. But there’s something you should know.”

Harry didn’t move. “Go on. ”

“We’ve been watching Todd. Quietly. For months.”

That did it. Just a flicker—Harry’s eyes narrowing a fraction. “Why?”

“Tips. Online activity. He was posting under three different aliases. Uploading altered crime scene photos. Names of people who disappeared ten, fifteen years ago.”

Harry said nothing. Miller went on. “He was obsessed. But more than that—he was interfering. Digging into places he shouldn’t have. We were building a case. Then tonight happened.”

Harry met his eyes. “You’re telling me this why?”

“Because if this had gone down three days later, we’d have nailed him ourselves. Your name would’ve stayed clean.”

Harry leaned back in the chair. “And now?”

“Now,” Miller said, “you’re part of the file.”

Y/N’s interview went slower.

They asked if she’d ever seen Todd act aggressively before. If she’d felt unsafe. If she had ever sought out protection—a restraining order, anything like that.

“No,” she said. “But I was scared. And when I saw the hammer—”

“You fired?”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

The detective across from her nodded slowly. “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”

Y/N blinked. “Then why do I feel like I’m on trial?”

“Because you survived,” he said. “And people don’t like when survivors don’t act broken.”

They were released just after 3 a.m. No charges. Not yet. The sheriff’s final words before they left were simple: “Stay in town. We’ll call you if we need anything else.”

Outside, the town was dead quiet. Harry lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Y/ N didn’t look at him.

“What now?” she asked.

Harry exhaled smoke, slow. “We wait.”

They waited. Didn’t go anywhere. Didn’t talk to anyone. Just kept the porch light off and the blinds drawn and listened for footsteps that never came.

Three days passed. The house still smelled faintly of blood, no matter how many times Y/N scrubbed the floor.

Then the call came. They were needed back at the station. No urgency. Just procedure.

The same grey walls. The same old coffee smell. But this time, the interview rooms stayed closed. Sheriff Miller met them in his office, sleeves rolled up, eyes tired but calm.

He gestured for them to sit. Didn’t offer water. Didn’t fake a smile. “It’s done,” he said.

Y/N glanced at Harry. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s closed. You’re cleared. Everything checks out. We reviewed the footage from the neighbor’s porch camera, compared it to the forensics, the timeline, your statements.”

He leaned forward slightly. “It was self-defense.” Harry’s shoulders relaxed just slightly. Y/N didn’t move.

“No charges,” Miller added. “You’re free to go.” That was it. They stood.

Walked out into the quiet morning, the air sharp and clean. No one followed them. No one stopped them. The sun was just starting to rise.

Back home, the house felt too still. Like it had been waiting for them.

Y/N set her keys down on the counter. Harry hung his coat. Neither spoke. They sat on the couch, not touching, not looking at each other. Just breathing. Then—three soft knocks at the door. Y/ N stiffened.

Harry stood first, slow and careful, and opened it just a crack.

It was Marlene. Her face was red. Her eyes swollen. She held nothing in her hands. Just stood there shaking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Y/N moved behind Harry.

Marlene’s voice broke. “I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve said something sooner. I—I thought he was just obsessing. Just… playing detective. I didn’t know how deep he was in. I didn’t know he’d… do that.”

Y/N stepped forward slowly. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” Marlene choked on the words. “He changed. He wasn’t always like that. He was kind once. Gentle. Before the… the cases. The paranoia. I lost him before you ever met him.”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“I’m not asking you to forgive him. I just—I didn’t want you to think I was like him. That I hated you. That I still do.”

Harry studied her, quiet. Measured. Then opened the door wider. “You want to come in?” he asked.

Marlene shook her head. “No. I just needed to say it.” Her voice cracked again.

“Be careful, okay? This town… it’s not what it looks like. It never is.” Then she turned and walked back across the street.

The door clicked shut behind her. Harry looked at Y/N.

“You believe her?”

Y/N stared at the closed door. “I don’t think it matters.”

They stood there in the stillness. The case was closed. The blood had dried. The story would fade. But the house would always remember. And so would they.

They sold the house in early spring.

Didn’t make a fuss about it. No open houses. No goodbyes. Just a discreet agent, a cash buyer, and keys slid across a counter without ceremony.

It had never felt like home anyway. Not really. Too many nights spent listening for footsteps. Too many shadows that didn’t belong to either of them.

The packing was quick. Efficient. They didn’t own much. Never stayed long enough to collect clutter. Y/N taped the last box shut and stretched her aching back, one hand instinctively resting over the gentle curve of her belly. The bump had come quiet and soft, just like everything else that had found its way into their lives when they weren’t looking.

Harry loaded the final box into the trunk. Slammed it shut. Wiped his hands on his jeans. She turned and faced the house one last time.

It looked the same as it always had—small, square, harmless. Like nothing bad had ever happened inside. Her palm stayed on her stomach. Harry came up behind her. Slipped an arm around her waist and leaned close, his breath warm against her ear.

“In England,” he murmured, “no one will know who we are. The house is tucked in the countryside. No neighbors for miles.”

Y/N smiled faintly, eyes still on the front porch. “Don’t kill anyone,” she said.

Harry chuckled, but it was low, dry, and just sharp enough to leave a mark. “No promises.”

She turned to him then—really turned. Looked up at him with something between amusement and disbelief. He kissed her forehead.

They got in the car. The engine turned over like it knew the way. And just like that, the house and all their haunting history was behind them. Gone.

As they pulled onto the road, the house disappeared in the rearview—like the lives they left behind had never existed, and the ones they’d stolen were finally theirs to keep.

[doginacafe]

Been reading Duncan and Eddie for a bit and I always wonder what your drawing process is cause the art is 👌✨💖

sure! i dont think ive ever done like a comprehensive process shot by shot thing before so ill do this!

its pretty simple! ill just do sketch -> lines -> block in shapes -> flats (i'll usually have a rougher version of this where i throw on colors, but i didn't save that) -> shadows (shadows in bg are usually softer than shadows on charas) -> lighting (and usually this is where i'd do colored outlines too)

fun fact! i almost never sketch out backgrounds unless im drawing something very specific, so the backgrounds you see in most of the comics is the initial sketch of them (if you zoom in, you can usually see tons of erasing artifacts)

[taleeater]

Lab Rat Part 1

TMNT 2003 x Reader

Opening setting inspired by the blood draining scene in the 2014 TMNT bayverse movie.

Reader has she/her pronouns.

The turtles are captured and taken to a secret laboratory to be tested on. But they are surprised by what- or who they find there. With seemingly no hope for rescue, they are forced to rely on the strength and bravery of their frail and timid new friend.

Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, mention of experimentation, blood, injury, electrocution, whump

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

A pulsing headache, bright lights searing through his eyelids, muffled voices, and the subtle scent of ethanol. This is the uncomfortable sensation that greeted Leo as he drifted into consciousness. He blinked his eyes open to a squint, his blurry and slightly concussed vision trying to adjust to the room. In front of him, he saw a few figures moving around the wide open room of a low lit laboratory. Though it was hard to really make out the shapes past the bright spotlight shining in his eyes. He groaned and tried to move, finding his limbs restrained, arms stretched out on either side of him. Upon further inspection, he noticed a long thin plastic tube attached to his inner arm that snaked around the metal restraint on his wrist and fed down and out of sight. Squeezing his hand he tested the confines of the wrist strap.

“It’s a venipuncture IV… they’re draining our blood.”

Leo’s head snapped up to his right at the sound of his brother’s voice. His vision swayed at the fast movement and steading to find his purple clad brother restrained beside him.

“Donnie…? Where’s Raph and-“

“Hey!!! Leo’s up! How’s that concussion bro?” Mikey’s joking tone sounded further away.

Leo leaned forward as best he could and looked down past Donnie, seeing Raph and then Mikey strung up in a similar fashion as he was. Raph was still out cold with blood dripping from a wound on his temple.

Donnie followed his eyes and interrupted his thoughts.

“Raph got hit a bit harder than you did, he might still be out for a while.” He said with a sympathetic tone. “Do you remember what happened?” Donnie asked, in typical fashion checking for any brain damage.

Leo blinked for a moment, allowing for his mind to focus. “We were on patrol…”

The memory flashed before his eyes. It seemed routine, stopping a weapons deal from going down under a bridge by the Hudson. But when they had swooped down to start knocking out thugs, they had suddenly all been shocked with high voltage electricity. They were too stunned to find the source, the thugs stepping in quickly to knock them all unconscious before they could recover. The next thing he knew, he was here.

A low groan sounded from between Don and Mikey.

“Raph!” They all exclaimed, trying their best to turn their attention to their brother.

“Turn the lights off, will ya? My heads killing me…” He mumbled groggily.

Suddenly, a single loud clap sounded across the room, drawing their attention.

“Ah! I see you’ve all awoken. Well, mostly…” The dark figure snickered. His shoes clicked on the tiled floor as he walked closer and slowly emerged from the shadows.

A gangly pale man, slightly less than average height, thinning hair, and a white lab coat approached the podium. He stopped just shy of the base of the short staircase leading up to where the turtles were being held on display.

“I am Dr. Cobble. I am sure you are familiar with my close associate, Mr. Bishop?”

Leo, Mikey and Donnie all groaned.

“Him again? Doesn’t he ever give up?” Mikey bemoaned dramatically.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he was kind enough to supply us with this wonderful titanium steel adjustable medical grade holding platform. See how nicely they’re working? We can plug you full of needles and you can’t move an inch.” His giddy rambling shifted into an evil sneer that had Leo glaring daggers at him.

“In exchange, I am to provide Bishop with plenty of samples… of you four mutants. After all his trouble, I’m surprised by how easy it was to capture you!” He openly laughed at them as the brothers glared at him with trepidation.

“Now-“ Not allowing anyone time to respond, the doctor loudly clapped his hands again. This time the rattling of a dingy supply cart squeaked as it pulled up next to Dr. Cobble, pushed by another person in a lab coat. “Today, we are starting out with plenty of blood samples while you four get settled. In the meantime, I’ll have my assistant here patch up any open wounds. Wouldn’t want any festering to poison our precious samples after all!” He said in a sing-song voice and strolled away to another part of the room.

“….I really don’t like him.” Mikey groaned.

“Don’t worry Mikey, we’ll find a way out of here soon!” Donnie comforted him. Raph was still worryingly quiet from his head injury.

Leo had his eyes trained on the lab assistant gathering up a tray of what appeared to be bandages and antiseptic and carried it up the stairs, approaching Leo first.

Leo bared his teeth at him and glared with sharp eyes, a warning not to try anything funny.

The intern just looked at him with tired eyes and huffed, clearly unbothered as he instead passed Leo by and walked down to start with Mikey instead.

“Woah, hey- careful with that! Ow!” Mikey loudly protested. Leo and Donnie worriedly leaned forward as best they could to watch the assistant clumsily and not-so-gently rub an ointment from his coat pocket thoroughly into the large bump on Mikey’s head and slap a large square bandage over it. Luckily their brother’s injury was not severe enough to break the skin.

Mikey whined irritably as the bored lab assistant moved on to the seemingly unconscious Raph. He gathered some antiseptic on a piece of gauze and reached his hand up to wipe away the blood trailing down Raphael’s face. When suddenly, quick as lightening, Raph’s eyes flashed open and he lunged forward as far as he could, snarling and snapping at the assistant causing him to startle and stumble backwards out of range. He dropped his tray with a loud clatter and lost his balance, tumbling off the edge of the podium with a loud gasp. He hit the tiled floor with a thud followed by a long groan. Several of the other scientists in the room rushed to his side to check if he was okay.

Raph chuckled darkly. Despite the bleeding head wound he still had some bite left in him.

Leo looked over and gave his hot headed brother an amused smirk. Mikey was chuckling and Donnie sighed in relief, deflating a bit in his restraints.

“What happened??”

Dr. Cobble strut back to the front of the room, looking frustrated. Two other scientists rushed up to him and spoke to him quickly, while the group gathered at the base of the podium dispersed when two scientists carried away the injured assistant off to another room.

“I leave you idiots alone for TWO MINUTES and you’re losing control of the test subjects. It seems like you all need a little reminder as to what to do when that happens.” Dr. Cobble stepped forward and pulled what appeared to be a remote out from his pocket. He turned a dial and flipped a switch, and in seconds Leo and his brothers were alight as electricity surged through their bodies from the restraints on their wrists.

Dr. Cobble laughed shortly as he watched them struggle, before eventually flipping off the switch.

The turtles were left panting as they tried to catch their breath.

“See? Easy as pie. Any time they act up, just use a remote! That’s what we had them updated for, to include the new additions!“ He shoved the remote back into his pocket and regarded his team. “Now, who would like to volunteer to finish cleaning up these animals?”

No one spoke up or stepped forward. There was a hush over the room as the few left standing around shifted uncomfortably. Clearly less than enthusiastic about approaching the red one again.

“Really? No one?!” The doctor's expression pulled into a sneer as he clearly became angry.

After a brief pause, a small hand reached up from the back of the room.

Someone had volunteered.

Dr. Cobble's expression morphed into one of twisted amusement as he straightened.

“Ah… my dear (y/n)… Have you decided to make yourself useful today?”

There was another pause and the small frame concealed in shadows shifted uncomfortably. They weren’t wearing a lab coat, Leo observed.

The doctor appeared to grow agitated at the lack of response and curled his hand into a fist.

“Come. Here.” He jabbed at the space in front of him as he ordered.

There was a quiet gasp from the small form, followed by the padding of bare feet across the tile as they approached the doctor.

The room was still. Leo’s breath caught in his throat as the form of a frail young woman in a white papery hospital gown and a ratty gray cardigan, crossed into the light and stopped timidly in front of Dr. Cobble, her eyes downcast. She appeared to be close to Leo and his brothers in age.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” The doctor cooed in mock comfort. But it didn’t last long. He frowned at her with cold eyes and thrust a finger in the direction of the abandoned supply cart.

“Take some bandages and disinfectant up to the mutants and treat their head wounds. And be quick about it.” He followed with another loud clap that made her jolt, before she quickly nodded in confirmation and scurried over to grab what she needed from the cart. The rest of the laboratory personnel easily returned to their duties, no longer paying attention.

Leo looked over at Donnie and caught his brother watching the small figure with the same puzzled stare as he was. The purple turtle caught his eyes and they shared a questioning look before turning their attention back to the girl. She piled up a tray with gauze, bandages, and another bottle of antiseptic, before carefully ascending the stairs towards them.

She locked eyes with Leo first, and tried to offer him a small shy smile as she stopped in front of him. Her hair appeared to be unkept and overgrown, and noticed a strange metal collar fixed around her neck that caught the light as she moved. The skin peeking out underneath looked red and chapped.

“Hi…! Um… I’m (y/n)… what’s your name?” She quietly asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasted no time crouching down to place the tray at his feet, carefully extracting some disinfectant onto a piece of gauze as she glanced up at him intermittently to show she was listening expectantly.

“Uh…” He glanced around first to check that Dr. Cobble had left. “Leo… my name is Leo.” He offered, feeling his brow ridges crease in confusion.

The girl straightened up and faced him again, poised with the gauze in hand.

“Leo!” Her expression seemed to brighten marginally. “Can I touch you with this? I need to disinfect your cut before I put a bandage over it. I-If that’s okay.”

Leo was honestly a little taken aback by the request. “S-sure, do what you need to.”

He watched her nod at his consent before slowly reaching up in his line of sight, so he could watch what she was doing, and gently dabbing the damp gauze at the tender spot on his head. He flinched and hissed a little at the sting, making the girl pull her hand away and locking eyes with him.

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts a little. Can I keep going? I promise I’ll be careful.” Her eyes carefully searched his, her brows knit with concern and a hint of uncertainty.

Leo hesitated at such careful treatment. It almost felt like a trick. What did she have to gain from this? Who was she?

With no other current options, he sighed and pulled a half-smile. “Go ahead.”

She searched his eyes for a moment longer before returning to her task. Diligently swiping away the dried blood on his temple before stooping down and returning with a thick bandage.

“I’ll just apply this bandage and… there! We’re done. Thank you Leo.” She flashed him a small grin before pulling the tray over to work on his brother.

Leo blinked as he processed the interaction, lightly baffled. Then Donnie’s stuttering caught his attention.

“Y-y-y-yes! That would be fine, Miss (y/n). Please proceed.” He looked anxious as he watched her bend down to handle the supplies. She must be giving him the same treatment.

“Luckily, it looks like you aren’t bleeding anywhere… so I’ll just need to apply a little bit of this salve before covering your bruise with a bandage.” She held up the tin and let Donnie thoroughly look over the packaging, patiently making sure to flip it over so he could read through the ingredients and instructions. Once he seemed satisfied that the salve would be safe to use on his skin, Donnie gave (y/n) a grateful nod of approval. She then opened it in front of him and swiped out a little glob of the ointment, lifting her hand up slightly to his face after Donnie leaned down to try and smell it.

“It might hurt a little when I apply it… is that okay?”

Donnie met her eye contact and shyly smiled. “Yes, go ahead.”

And in the same manner she did with Leo, she gently dabbed on the ointment, doing her best not to prod at the swelling lump. Donnie made no noise of complaint. Then she reached down and retrieved a bandage.

“Okay, last step. Almost finished...” She looked very focused as she flattened the bandage into the right spot on his head. “All done! Thank you Donnie.” She pulled her hands away and looked at him kindly, before collecting her tray and moving over towards Raph.

This left Donnie with a similar look of bewilderment that Leo had from the exchange. He seemed a little lost in thought as his gaze drifted over to meet Leo’s, to which Leo raised an eyebrow at him, quietly asking the same question he was thinking.

“Oh no. Get that shit away from me.” Their attention was drawn over to Raph’s venom.

“I-I’m sorry! I won’t do anything you don’t want me to! I- my name is (y/n)…”

“And why should I care? I don’t want no scientist’s lackey touchin me. Now get lost.” Raph bit out angrily before settling again, his head hanging forward a bit limply as he relaxed. The girl looked downcast and seemed a bit lost, but fixed her hands together in front of her and made no move to touch her supplies or Raph.

“Don’t mind him, he’s always grouchy. Nice to meet you (y/n)! I’m Mikey.” The final brother piped up and pulled her attention. She looked over at him surprised, but quickly changed into a light smile.

“Nice to meet you too, Mikey. Is your head okay?” She asked him a little less quietly, seemingly emboldened by his outgoingness.

“Oh this? Yeah, this is nothin! You should see the other guy-“ Mikey spoke as animatedly as he could while fixed in place, his head moving around while he spoke. She giggled a little bit.

“Say, you don’t look like a scientist. Do you work here or somethin?” Leo and Donnie immediately perked up at the question, Mikey hitting the nail on the head.

“Ah- I-!” She stammered, looking nervous.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING???” A booming voice burst through the room.

All the boy’s eyes shot up to the sound of Dr. Cobble angrily striding back over to the podium. (Y/n)’s whole body was wracked with a violent tremble as she suddenly shrunk in on herself. Leo and Donnie couldn’t see her expression from their angle, but from Mikey’s eyes flashing between her and the angry doctor, his expression faded from deeply concerned to mad. Raph lifted his head up to regard the doctor with glaring annoyance.

“You should have long been finished tending to these freaks. And now I’ve caught you conversing with them?? I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK!! Now…” The mad doctor’s eyes drifted over to Raph, and with wide eyes looked him over. “Oh…! Oh ho ho…!! And it appears you still haven’t finished your job!!”

He took a step closer to the stairs, his head tilted in question and his wild eyes bore into (y/n)‘s trembling form. The girl hiccuped and shuddered as she tried her hardest to muffle her erratic breathing. She did not dare move.

Dr. Cobble reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out the remote again, not breaking his stare. (Y/n) flinched with her whole body at the appearance of the remote, but remained quiet. The boys all narrowed their eyes at the doctor in challenge, ready to feel the jolt hit.

The doctor’s face stretched into a grin, and with the remote’s setting turned up high, he flicked a switch.

But it wasn’t the same switch.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

To all of the turtle’s shock, the electricity didn’t hit them. (Y/n) shrieked at the top of her lungs as her whole body tensed from the powerful volt that erupted from the collar around her neck. The poor girl dropped to her knees and hugged herself tightly as she spasmed, unable to escape the waves and waves of painful electricity that wracked her body.

“Hey… HEY!!! STOP THAT!! THAT'S ENOUGH!!!” To everyone’s surprise, it was Raph who started yelling.

“QUIT IT, SHE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!!” Mikey joined in, furious.

Dr. Cobble only laughed as he watched the show. After what felt like far too long, he toned down the dial and shut her switch off. (Y/n) fell limp into a slouch on the floor. The smell of burnt flesh and iron reaching their noses. Their only sign she was still conscious was her shuddering breaths.

“Was it not you who volunteered for this job? You disappoint me, (y/n)! I let you roam around the lab today! Gave you a responsibility! And you not only neglect your duty, but I catch you speaking behind my back!”

The doctor paced back and forth at the bases of the stairs like a predator, easily ignoring the murderous glowers from the turtles as he kept his attention trained on the young girl.

“I’ll give you another chance to prove yourself…” Dr. Cobble’s voice softens in mock empathy. “Finish up your job, quickly and silently, and your testing today will be minimal. Am I understood?” His tone was cold and final. (Y/n) nodded quietly from her spot on the floor.

“Good. Now hop to it.” And with another loud clap, (y/n) startled into action.

She grabbed the gauze and spilled some disinfectant onto it, and leapt to her feet. Dr. Cobble stayed put, his eyes boring into her back as he watched her do her job. But still she paused. She sniffed wetly, biting her lips into a line as she hesitated in front of Raph. Her hand poised and trembling in front of his face but not moving to clean his wound.

“…hey. Hey hey hey, it’s okay. You can do it, okay?? I give you my permission, or- whatever. Just do it!” Raph scrambled to encourage her, realizing that what she was waiting for was his consent. He looked her up and down with palpable concern, actually seeing her now.

She reached up, and still with trembling hands, cleaned the gash oh so gently until it was cleared of blood. Then quickly retrieved the bandage and carefully smoothed it over the tender bruised spot on his head.

When she was finished, she picked up the tray, and almost stumbling from her shaking, rushed down the stairs past the overbearing watch of the doctor. She placed the tray on the cart, and joined by two men that appeared to be armed guards, was quickly escorted out of the wide echoing laboratory down a hallway that led out of sight.

The brothers were stunned in silence as they watched her go, flinching slightly as the sound of a heavy metal door slamming shut broke the spell.

“Well! I think we all learned a very valuable lesson today.” Dr. Cobble started cheerily, seemingly relaxed from his crazed state. He turned to the four turtles, regarding them strung up and half bled dry on their steel crosses, and sneering smugly.

“Do not disappoint me.”

To be continued.

[aller-geez]

A Ritual Of Ruin

written & illustrated by allergeez ✨

Summary: When two lovers with a taste for control, ritual, and sensory surrender retreat into the privacy of their shared space, the night becomes a carefully orchestrated dance of breath, fire, and tension. In a world where shadows bend to will and heat answers devotion, Kriia and Rexar push each other to their delicious limits—testing patience, power, and how far desire can go before it breaks them both.

A story of slow torment, sacred trust, and worship through ruin, this is not just sex—it’s ritual. And they wouldn’t have it any other way. 6k words.

WARNING, NO PLOT, ONLY SMUT — This story contains explicit sexual content featuring consensual kink dynamics, including erotic sneezing (inducing and response), sensory play, edging, body worship, powerplay, and allergen-related overstimulation. Elements of filth and mess (non-hygienic, fetishized) are present throughout, as well as light degradation, ritualistic themes, and intense emotional dependency expressed through physical acts. Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to bodily fluids, breath play implications, or nontraditional kink expressions.

The bedroom was dim, cloaked in velvet shadow and amber flicker. Only a single candle sat ominously on the bedside table. It wasn’t even lit yet, and still the scent of clove and cedar was already thick in the room, curling through the air like an incantation. It carried weight. Intention.

Kriia stood beside the bed like a priestess before the altar.

Her skin gleamed faintly in the low light, a pale canvas framed in crimson lace and black thigh straps. Her hair, red with streaks of soft shadow-ink, hung loose around her shoulders, damp at the ends from steam or sweat. A single bead of moisture rolled down the inside of her thigh and vanished into the hollow of muscle above her knee.

Rexar lay waiting.

Flat on his back across the thick black bedsheets, completely bare to her, his body was a map of heat and reverence. Every line—every scar and mark and smudge of old smoke—seemed etched there by want. His arms rested loosely at his sides, but his hands twitched every few seconds. Not from nerves. From restraint. From knowing exactly what was coming.

And what wasn’t yet allowed to start.

“You’re already glowing,” Kriia murmured, stepping one knee onto the mattress. “That’s cheating.”

Rexar’s voice was low and slow. “You’re already wet. That’s cheating twice.”

She smirked and crawled up over him, straddling his hips without letting their skin meet. Her thighs bracketed him perfectly, heat radiating downward but still not touching—not yet. She sat back on her heels, hands resting on her own knees as if she were preparing to meditate. Her eyes never left his.

“Ready?” she asked carefully.

He nodded. “Do it.”

She leaned sideways and took the candle from the table, reaching for the matchbook next to it.

But Rexar lifted one hand lazily, sparks flickering from his fingers.

The wick ignited with a crackle.

The flame flared—too tall, too sudden—and then softened into a steady burn. Clove and cedar erupted into the room with intoxicating fullness now, hot and smoky, clinging instantly to skin and throat.

Kriia inhaled once and blinked slowly.

Then sniffled.

Just once. Subtle.

But her eyes gleamed.

“You really want to start like this?” she murmured, cocking her head as the first tickle bloomed gently behind her nose.

Rexar’s lips curled, his eyes following every motion she made like he was watching a spell take shape. “I want to see what it does to you.”

“Mmm.” She rolled her hips forward just enough to make him twitch. “You’re a glutton for chaos.”

“I’m a glutton for you.”

Her breath fluttered. Not quite from arousal. Not yet. From that slow itch curling inside her sinuses like a candle of its own.

She sniffled again, knuckle brushing beneath her nose, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Oh,” she whispered. “That’s a strong one.”

“It’s the new blend,” Rexar replied, voice still calm but body already taut. “Cedar. Clove. A little powdered starglass.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He grinned.

“I’m your asshole.”

“You’re about to be covered in sneeze spray.”

“Promise?”

That earned him a low chuckle.

Kriia rocked forward slightly, letting her thighs press against his hips. Still no contact at the core—but close. Enough to make him inhale sharply.

She placed her palms on his chest, fingers splaying across the ridges of muscle, skin warm beneath her hands. Then—slowly—she leaned down.

Her breath grazed his sternum.

Her lips followed.

One kiss. Just below the collarbone.

Then a second, near his shoulder.

Then a third, just above the pulse at his throat.

Each one wet, lingering, reverent. Not rushed. Ritual.

Rexar’s eyes fluttered shut.

“This is your fault,” she murmured against his skin.

“I accept responsibility,” he whispered back.

Kriia dragged her nose lightly along the edge of his collarbone, sniffled, then paused.

“Starting to tickle…”

“Yeah?”

Another kiss. This time under the curve of his jaw.

Her breath hitched—just slightly at first—then again, deeper, shakier. Her lips parted around a silent gasp, and her nostrils flared with a telltale twitch. She hovered close, letting her breath ghost over his chest, warm and uneven, sharp with the promise of release that never came.

Rexar's entire body tensed beneath her.

The anticipation was unbearable—watching her hover, her face scrunched in struggle, lashes fluttering, the tip of her nose brushing faintly across his skin. Each sniffle sent a jolt through him. His fists clenched in the sheets as his eyes tracked every microexpression.

Then, without warning, her expression smoothed out. The sneeze backed off.

She gave a teasing little sigh of false relief.

And instead of pulling away—she dragged her tongue slowly up the center of his chest. A long, wet, sinuous line from the base of his sternum to just beneath his throat. Her nose nuzzled faintly alongside it, breath still trembly, her smirk growing with every inch.

Rexar groaned, hips bucking beneath her.

Kriia sat back on her heels with maddening slowness, breath shallow, nose twitching again—like she could start the cycle all over.

“You’re going to lose your mind,” she whispered.

He already was.

“Gods,” Rexar breathed, already fully hard and twitching beneath her.

“You’re twitchy,” she teased.

“You’re divine.”

“Mmm. Not yet. Soon.”

The candle sputtered briefly, throwing light across her face—glassy eyes, flared nostrils, flushed cheeks. Her lips glistened.

Rexar’s voice dropped, a whisper between awe and hunger. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me tonight.”

Kriia sniffled again, thicker now, breath fluttering.

She grinned.

“Oh, Sparky. I haven’t even started.”

Kriia moved like smoke—slow, fluid, curling downward without force or rush. She kissed along Rexar’s collarbone with a deliberate patience that made the air between them thrum. Her lips were soft but never tentative. She wasn’t here to seduce him.

She was here to worship.

Rexar breathed in sharp through his nose as she found the hollow just beneath his throat and nipped there, the soft press of her teeth drawing a twitch from his thigh.

Kriia smiled against his skin. Her breath was already heavier. More effortful. Not from arousal—not entirely.

The candle was working.

The scent had grown thicker, heavier, humid with clove and cedar and the sweet, acrid burn of resin. It coated her tongue, filled her lungs, and curled with slow heat in the back of her sinuses. Her nose twitched again, just enough to crinkle.

Rexar noticed.

“Already?” he murmured.

“Mmhmm.” Her voice was velvet-slick, thick with promise. “Didn’t take much, did it?”

He shook his head slightly, barely breathing.

Kriia sniffled—wet, subtle, involuntary—and then dipped down again, lips dragging just to the left of his sternum. She paused there, letting her breath ghost across his skin. Rexar arched faintly, his fingers twitching by his sides, still obeying the no-touch rule she hadn’t had to say aloud.

Another kiss. Then a long, slow lick that traced from the underside of his pec to the dip between his ribs. Her tongue left a hot trail, and her breath—already catching—made it worse.

Kriia’s nose flared subtly, and she pressed her cheek to his chest for a moment, eyes fluttering. “Hhehh… Rex…”

His eyes flew open. “Babygirl?”

“I thh— think I’m gonna—” She drew in a sharp breath, mouth parting, nose twitching with desperate little flutters—then exhaled.

“...Nope.”

The tickle backed off.

Rexar groaned, hips lifting impatiently. Needy.

Kriia laughed, her voice raspy and breathy as she kissed along the underside of his ribs.

“Poor thing,” she whispered. “Thought I was gonna shower you already?”

“I hoped,” he admitted, eyes wild. “Gods, you’re so fucking mean.”

She flicked her tongue against the edge of a muscle and let out a congested chuckle. “And you’re so easy.”

Another sniffle. This one wetter. She didn’t wipe it. Let it hang in the air between them like a shared secret.

She moved slowly down his body, deliberately skipping over his nipples. Her lips hovered just above them, warm breath teasing their sensitivity—but she didn’t touch. Not yet. She licked down the space between them instead, letting her chin graze faintly over each peak like a hint of contact without release.

Rexar was shaking now, a fine tremble from tension.

“Fuck, babygirl… Please,” he whispered.

But Kriia just sniffled again, rubbing the back of her wrist lazily under her nose as she moved back up along his sternum. Her face was pink now, eyes half-lidded and glassy, and her breaths came with that fluttering edge of desperation.

She tilted her head to the side and nipped him again, right beneath the collarbone.

Then moaned, soft and broken. “Mmmnnh… I’m gonna fall apart on you, Sparky…”

Rexar’s breath hitched.

“Right over your chest,” she added, voice trembling with the coming storm. “So messy. So helpless…”

He groaned, body arching helplessly beneath her.

She kissed lower again. One long drag of her lips just under his nipple.

His hips jerked.

“Your nipples are so fucking cute,” Kriia murmured, voice hoarse and sin-sweet. “All pink and tight and waiting…”

“Princess—” His tone was warning, half-begging, hips twitching as he braced for something—anything—but it didn’t come.

“But not yet,” she said, all honeyed malice.

Her lips trailed lower. She kissed beneath his ribcage, slow and soft. A reverent line of licks followed, each one damp and dragging. She nipped beside his navel—sharp, just enough to make him flinch.

Rexar’s hands balled into fists in the sheets, his jaw clenched. His cock jerked helplessly against his stomach, flushed dark, pulsing against skin that hadn’t even been touched yet. He was already gasping, ruined by her restraint.

Kriia’s breath hitched again.

This time, for real.

Her whole body locked for half a second, her nostrils twitching visibly.

“Rex—Rex, I think I’m gonna…! Hhhehhh…”

He braced beneath her, muscles seizing.

“Here we go,” he whispered, anticipation curling tight in his gut.

“Huhhh… hahhh… n-no…”

Her breath collapsed in on itself.

The tickle retreated yet again—cruel, smirking.

Kriia sniffled hard, loud and thick, blinking watery eyes down at him.

“Tease,” Rexar growled, voice shredded. His thighs were trembling now from holding still. “You’re such a—gods—tease.”

“You lit the candle,” she reminded him, lips quirking into a congested grin. “You asked for this.”

“I asked to be drenched,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Not edged like this—fuck…”

She moved back up his chest slowly, dragging her cheek across his skin with open affection, breath stuttering the entire way. He could feel it—her heat, her congestion, the helpless flutter of her breath rising and falling over his body.

“I’m so itchy,” she whispered, shivering with the rising tickle. “It’s building again… it’s right there. Right at the edge…”

She hovered above his nipple and pressed her mouth over it—not sucking, not licking. Just a soft seal of heat. Her breath quivered against his skin, and the tip of her nose brushed over the hardened bud.

It was hell.

Rexar bucked hard. “Fucking—Babygirl, I’m—”

Her breath caught sharply. She stiffened. “Here it comes…”

Rexar’s fingers clawed at the sheets.

Then—Kriia exhaled, congested and shaky, right across his nipple. No sneeze. Just a warm, rattling release of tension.

He groaned, boneless, crushed under the weight of almost.

She pulled back with a slow, smug grin.

“Now you’re just being fucking mean,” he whispered, voice utterly wrecked.

“That was hot,” she corrected, her eyes glittering through allergy-haze.

He couldn’t argue. Not really. His cock throbbed untouched against his stomach, flushed and slick with precum. Every inch of his skin felt sunburned with want.

Kriia sniffled again—wet and forceful—and her breath hitched violently. Her whole expression shifted, pupils blown wide, lips parting in desperation.

“It’s c-coming…” she gasped. “It’s—hhHhh… fuck, I c-can’t—”

Rexar growled low in his throat, one hand reaching to her hip, the other gripping the back of her thigh.

“Let it happen,” Rexar breathed, voice low and fraying. “Please—right here—use me.”

Kriia whimpered, congested and desperate, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned in. Her breath hitched audibly, her whole frame trembling with the strain of holding it back. She dipped her head slowly and brought her twitching nose down to his chest.

Then—deliberately—she rubbed the tip of her nose in slow, teasing circles over his nipple.

Rexar gasped.

The soft, wet drag of her breath against that sensitive skin sent shivers straight through him. Her nose twitched again, gently grazing the bud—back and forth, barely a touch, just enough to stir sensation. Her inhales were shallow now, chest heaving, mouth parted as she chased the sneeze down.

“Just—nnnhh—need a little more,” she moaned. “Rex, it’s right there—”

He was panting beneath her, fists clenched tight in the sheets, every nerve waiting for the break.

She gave another slow rub—up, over, around the hardening peak—her nose flushed pink, twitching harder with every pass. Her breath began to flutter in rhythm with the motion.

“Hhhuhhh—hh’hihhh—nghh—!”

She gasped sharply.

And then it hit.

“Hh’NgktCHhh!!—Hhh’tKTCHh!!”

The first sneeze burst out of her mid-rub, no resistance left. It snapped her forward, spraying hot and wet across his chest. A second came instantly, even messier, her breath catching on the release.

Her body rocked with the force of them—hips grinding down helplessly into his.

Rexar moaned aloud, eyes wide, undone.

“Fuck, Princess—yes—”

She groaned against his chest, sniffling thickly, and pressed her face into the sticky warmth she’d left behind.

“Feels so fucking good…” she mumbled. “I could keep going… let me ruin you…”

Rexar moaned.

He swore he felt it deep in his spine, like his nerves had lit from the inside out.

Kriia collapsed forward with a gasp and another stifle, mess landing warm and glistening across his sternum.

“Huh’NGXCHh!—k’tchhh!—hh’NGXT!”

Each sneeze bent her forward, spraying his chest with visible mist. The first was massive, the second tight, the third sudden and dripping with relief. Her mouth parted after, panting hard.

Rexar shuddered. “Oh my gods.”

She licked a droplet from his collarbone with lazy indulgence. “Mmmh. Messy.”

“You are.”

“I know.”

She pressed her cheek against his chest again, breathing fast and wet and satisfied.

Rexar’s hands moved on instinct—gliding up along Kriia’s thighs, following the slick heat of her skin until they reached her waist. He gripped her there, trembling, trying to pull her down, to guide her hips, to take back just a little control.

Kriia didn’t allow it.

With one sharp shift of her weight, she pressed his wrists flat against the mattress, pinning him hard, her palms warm and commanding.

“Aht Aht Ahhh…,” she whispered, her breath thick with congestion. “You lit the candle. You’re mine until I say.”

Her hips resumed their rhythm, slow and sinuous, grinding against the thick, flushed line of him with devastating friction. Each pass left a new streak of slickness across his skin, coating him, marking him. Her breath came in open-mouth gasps now, interrupted by sniffles and hitched, ticklish inhales.

Rexar writhed beneath her, sweat beading down his temples, chest slick with mess from her earlier fits and the ghost of more to come.

Kriia lowered her face over his again, breath hot and staggered, just close enough for her twitching nose to brush along the sharp line of his jaw. She nuzzled there, tender at first—then exhaled slow and heavy, a teasing drag of heat that mimicked the build-up of a sneeze.

Rexar growled, the sound buried in his throat. His jaw clenched, body arching up into her, straining for more.

“Fuck, Babydoll…” His voice was wrecked—hungry, reverent, almost furious with need.

Her laugh cracked through the air, ragged and wet. “You thought I was gonna… didn’t you?”

He met her eyes, wide and dark with worship. “I don’t care. Just do it. Do whatever you want—just keep going.”

She purred, low and sharp. “Oh, I will,” she rasped.

She let go of his wrists, but Rexar didn’t stay still out of surrender—he stayed still out of devotion, letting her do what she wanted, needing her to finish it. His hands hovered at her hips, tight with restraint, every muscle coiled and ready to worship the second she let him.

“Drench me,” he breathed. “You’re a fucking goddess like this.”

Her eyes glittered.

She moved lower again.

And he offered himself.

She sat upright, rolling her hips in a torturous rhythm, letting every part of her body rub against his—slick, fevered, trembling with effort.

The candle’s scent was thick enough to taste now.

Clove and cedar, twisted with resin and heat and sweat. Her nose twitched sharply, uncontrollably.

Her breath stuttered mid-grind.

“Hhhihhh—H’ngKTCHhh!”

She sneezed suddenly, explosively, the wet spray misting down over his chest. A second followed fast:

“NngKTsh!”

Rexar groaned, his hips jerking upward hard.

Kriia laughed breathily, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, smearing the mess down her forearm.

“Gods, that got you.”

“That got in my mouth,” he panted.

Her smile turned wicked. “Did it?”

“Yes. Gods, yes.”

She leaned in, dragging her tongue across his lower lip. “Good.”

She was losing control. They both felt it. Her breath was shallower now, more labored. Every little movement made her nose twitch. Every grind of her hips drew out a sniffle, or a gasp, or the threat of another fit.

Kriia moaned as she ground herself harder into him. “Still t-tickling… I cahh—n’t stop it now…”

Her breath hitched again.

Rexar felt her thighs tense, her muscles tighten around him. And then—

“H’ngCHhh! K’tchh! Hh’ngchh!”

The force of it doubled her forward, her hips rocking in a sudden jolt that made him cry out. Her sneezes came mid-thrust, timed with every motion of her body, spraying his neck, his chest, his mouth.

She groaned, voice thick. “I can’t even hHehhh—hold them b-back anymore…”

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t even try.”

Her rhythm stuttered now, no longer perfectly controlled. She moved in erratic rolls, chasing her own breath, riding the edge of the next wave. Every few seconds, her breath would catch, and then:

“NgkTCHh!—K’pttchh!—hh’gTShhh!”

His face was wet with it.

And he wanted it.

Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her nose running now without pause. She rubbed it messily against his throat, letting the congestion smear as she moaned and bit him lightly in the crook of his neck.

Rexar grabbed her hips and held tight, guiding her rhythm now—but not in dominance. Not fully.

In desperation.

“You’re incredible,” he gasped.

“I’m disgusting,” she laughed, voice slurred with congestion.

“You’re perfect.”

She kissed him, sloppy and wet, breathless and raw.

Then broke the kiss with another fit, right against his cheek.

“H’Nxtchh!—Hh’gSCHhh!”

Rexar’s fingers dug into her thighs.

She growled, low and hot. “You gonna cum just from this?”

“I—I think so—fuck—Krii…”

She started grinding faster now, chasing friction with abandon. Her breath came fast and shallow, her moans blending with half-hitched build-ups.

Every few seconds she’d pause—nose twitching, brows furrowing—and let out another sneeze mid-movement:

“Hn’KCHhh! K’tshh! NnkCHhh! Hh’Ngsh!”

The unpredictability drove him wild. The wetness, the mess, her stuttering loss of control—it all built and built and built.

He bucked up harder, chasing it.

Kriia’s voice was barely a whisper now, heavy with arousal and allergy haze. “I’m gonna r-ride you through it—gonna c-cum on you, cover you—hhn’CHHkktt!”

The sneeze broke her words, made her hips stutter. Her skin shimmered faintly with sweat in the dim candlelight, hips rocking in slow, teasing circles against his.

Every motion made his cock twitch beneath her—slick, trapped between their bodies, painted with heat and mess and shadowlight.

“Still with me?” she murmured, voice hoarse, her nose brushing the underside of his jaw.

Rexar’s fingers dug into her thighs again, less from force now, more from anchoring. “Barely.”

“Good,” Kriia whispered. “Stay right there.”

She kissed him once—slow, open-mouthed, deep with adoration. Her lips tasted like salt, like want, like the last hour of teasing and torment and surrender. She shifted up, bracing herself with one arm beside his head.

Then—without fanfare—she lowered herself onto him.

Rexar choked on his breath.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t quick.

She took him inch by inch, wet and flushed and utterly intentional, letting every curve of her body mold to him like shadow over flame. Her head tipped back as she settled fully, the warmth of him seated deep inside her. A slow groan spilled from her throat, thick and low, and her hips gave a gentle, involuntary twitch.

Rexar’s mouth fell open.

“Ff—fuck, babygirl…”

Her eyes were heavy-lidded, glowing slightly in the candlelight. “I can feel you,” she murmured. “All of you. Every pulse…”

He could only nod.

She sat there for a moment, hips pressed flush to his, letting their bodies memorize the shape of each other—letting the moment draw long and slow. Her breath hitched again, this time unplanned, and her nostrils twitched mid-exhale.

“Ohh… mmnnh, fuck… I c–can’t stop it now…”

She tried to grind again, slow and steady—but her breath caught halfway through, and her body jolted as a sneeze ripped free without warning.

“Nng’tchh!”

It rocked them together.

Rexar gasped.

Kriia let out a half-laugh, half-moan, then braced herself better.

“I warned you…”

She moved again—rocking forward—and another sneeze wracked her, snapping her body into his.

“K’tchhh!—ohhh gods—ng’CHHhh!”

The momentum of each sneeze jolted her hips, shoved Rexar deeper into her, the messy pressure overwhelming him in flashes of pleasure and helplessness. His hands balled into fists the sheets now, voice gone breathless.

“Princess—I can’t—gods, I’m gonna—fuck—”

She exhaled sharply and moved harder.

Her rhythm wasn’t smooth now—it was unpredictable, ruled by breath and reflex. She’d grind into him, her pace erratic, her body jerking every time the next fit bubbled up inside her. Her nose was running openly now, flushed bright pink, and her breath trembled constantly.

She whimpered against his throat. “Can’t… can’t even f-fight them…”

And then—another burst:

“Nk’chh! Hh’NGchh!—NgKCHh!”

Rexar sobbed, a sound caught between a cry and a moan. “Yes—babygirl, fuck—please—don’t stop—”

She didn't.

She rode him in frantic fits and starts, every movement accompanied by sniffles, shallow moans, and the tension of buildup that never got a chance to resolve. Her voice cracked around every word.

“This is… hhhahh—so filthy—g-gods, you feel—hhuhh—so good—”

Each sneeze sent her crashing forward, bracing on his chest, her hair falling around their faces like a curtain.

“Nchh! H’tsshkT! NnK’tchh!”

Some sprayed his chest. Some his neck. One landed directly across his cheek—and instead of flinching, he moaned, nearly bucking off the bed.

“I’m gonna—Babygirl, I’m gonna cum—please—”

“Together,” she gasped.

She clutched his shoulders and moved faster—raw, desperate. The slick mess between them grew unbearable, friction melting into fire. Her breath was nothing but hitching now, fit after fit crashing into her in erratic bursts:

“Ktchh!—Nkt’chhh!—hh’gSsshkkkt!!—ffuck—Rex—Nn’gTCHHh!!”

Their bodies met again and again, soaking each other in pleasure and ruin, scent and sweat and sound.

When it came—it was everything.

Rexar’s back arched, hips driving into her as his body gave out in a wave of pulsing, hot release. He growled her name, voice cracked and reverent. His hands clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Kriia shattered seconds later.

Not quietly. Not gently.

Her orgasm hit between sneezes—explosive and deep—her thighs tightening around him, her entire body pulsing with it as she uttered a near-pornstar-esque moan, half-laughed, half-sobbed into his throat.

She sneezed through it.

“Hh—! H’NNgtchh!—aAAHhh—fuhhhckk—hh’GSCHH!!”

And still she moved, wringing every last second of pleasure from both of them, hips slowing only when they could no longer do more than twitch.

She collapsed against him.

Their bodies stuck together with heat and slick and breathlessness.

Neither spoke.

They couldn’t yet.

Only the candle spoke now, soft and steady in the dark, its smoke curling gently above them like the last thread of ritual incense.

The only sound was the slowing, syncopated rhythm of their breath—Rexar’s chest rising beneath Kriia’s cheek, her soft sniffles echoing in the candlelit silence. Their bodies were sticky with sweat, smeared with every spasm of pleasure and mess, and absolutely motionless. Melted into one another.

Kriia exhaled, a lazy puff of warmth across his ribs.

Rexar shifted just slightly beneath her, his arms curling around her bare back like a cocoon. His palms were still trembling—barely—but he pressed them to her skin as if grounding himself to her was the only thing keeping his soul from wandering.

Kriia was the first to move. Slowly, languidly, she rubbed her nose—still twitching—against his sternum and let out a sleepy, gurgling sniffle. Then, with no ceremony, she wiped her face against his chest, smearing the wetness she’d left behind further across him like the world’s most intimate signature.

Rexar huffed a breathy laugh, more air than sound.

“That,” he murmured, voice still shaky, “might’ve been the filthiest thing we’ve ever done.”

Kriia just hummed, congested and content. “You say that every time we do this.”

His hand came up to brush damp hair from her face, fingers gentle, reverent. He cupped her cheek in his palm, his thumb stroking the edge of her jaw.

“You get prettier every time it happens,” he said softly. “it’s not fair.”

Her lips curved against his skin. “Even like this?”

“Especially like this.”

Her nose twitched again. “Gods. I still f-feel it.”

“I can tell. Here.” He leaned up and kissed her forehead—slow, soft, and lingering, before reaching out with one hand and stuffing the lid of the candle over the flame, snuffing out the culprit. Her skin was fever-warm, her breath catching under his lips. “Still tickling?”

“Mmm,” she sniffled, eyes half-lidded. “Like it settled in now. Deep.”

“Then we definitely did it right.”

She groaned in mock horror and curled into him tighter, throwing a leg over his hip. “Stop. No more compliments. My soul’s melting.”

He smirked against her hair. “Next time, I’m lighting two candles.”

Kriia shoved at his chest with a pitiful little whine. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare.”

“I will explode.”

“You already diiiiiid.”

She giggled softly and coughed into his neck. Her voice was barely a whisper now—raspy and exhausted, but warm. “You’re such a menace.”

He just held her tighter. “You’re my chaos.”

They lay like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not moving. The scent of the candle had settled into the sheets, into their skin, woven into every lazy breath they took. Rexar pressed little kisses to her temple, her cheek, her shoulder. No urgency. Just reverence.

Kriia purred, her hand trailing slow spirals over his chest. “Didn’t think it’d be that good.”

“I did,” he said simply.

Her lips twitched. “Cocky.”

“No.” He turned her chin gently so she was looking at him. His voice lowered. “I just know what happens when you let go.”

Her throat bobbed.

He kissed her again, softer this time. Almost shy. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you fall apart.”

Kriia’s lashes fluttered. Her fingers curled around his wrist.

“You’re not bad at worshipping, you know,” she whispered.

“I had a good teacher.”

“Mmm. You’re still mine, you know. Next time, I want to edge you with just breath. No hands. No hips. Just me sniffing and sneezing until you beg.”

His eyes fluttered shut with a shiver. “Gods.”

“And you’re lighting the candle again.”

He groaned. “Thought you said you’d explode.”

“I will. That’s the fun.”

He kissed her again, a smile against her lips. “Then I’ll hold you while you do.”

Her eyes drifted shut again, slow and heavy. The adrenaline had worn off. The shadows in the room stretched like long arms, curling slowly over the bed, wrapping them in quiet warmth.

Kriia sighed into the silence. “We should shower.”

“Mmm.”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoed.

She coughed once, a soft sound in the hush.

Rexar smoothed a hand down her spine, slow and loving. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Just floaty.”

“Good floaty?”

She nodded against his shoulder. “Perfect floaty.”

He pulled the blanket up over her slowly, covering the mess instead of wiping it away. “Stay right there.”

“I wasn’t planning to move.”

The candle flickered again, the shadows deepening.

Kriia nuzzled against him, her fingers still resting against the center of his chest where she’d pressed her nose earlier. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

They lay in silence, heartbeats aligned. No more teasing. No more words. Just two kinksters, spent and tangled, adoring and adored, held in a sacred ruin of their own making.

And when Rexar was finally able to catch his breath, Kriia was already half-asleep in his arms, snoring softly with a stuffy nose.

Rexar kissed her hair one last time, fingers stroking gently through the damp strands tangled around her sharply pointed elven ears.

“I love you, menace,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Kriia made a sound in reply—low and congested, but unmistakably fond.

“Love you more,” she rasped, thick with sleep and aftermath.

A quiet stillness settled between them. Not empty. Just full.

The kind of silence that came after worship, after ritual, after bodies had been bared in every way that mattered. Kriia’s shadows curled around the edges of the bed like a barrier, like a spell meant to preserve this moment for just the two of them.

A faint trail of smoke still lingered in the room, mingling with sweat and shadowfire and the warm, fading scent of clove.

Rexar didn’t sleep right away. He watched her—her features soft in sleep, her breath catching slightly with the last traces of congestion, her brows twitching faintly in some half-dreamed memory of chaos. He ran his thumb across her cheekbone, kissed her temple, and tucked her tighter against him.

Only then did he let himself drift.

Time passed without measure.

Somewhere between night and not-quite-morning, Kriia stirred.

A soft, restless groan pushed from her lips as she blinked awake, sluggish and fuzzy, nestled in the shelter of Rexar’s arms. Her head felt heavy and warm, skin damp and sticky beneath the blankets, and her sinuses still buzzed faintly from the aftermath.

She sniffled once, then again—wet and involuntary—and gave a pathetic little whimper.

“Mmh.” She buried her face deeper into his chest, voice muffled and thick. “I’m gross.”

Rexar stirred, still half-asleep, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“You’re ethereal,” he murmured, voice low and full of sleep.

“Ethereal and snot-covered,” she mumbled, sniffling.

“Exactly.” He sat up slowly, sweeping strands of damp hair off her cheek. His touch was feather-light. Devoted. “Which is why it’s time.”

Kriia cracked one bleary eye. “Time?”

“For your royal bath.”

Her snort turned into a congested cough. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m reverent,” he corrected. “And you, High Priestess of Wrecked Temples and Allergic Destruction, are overdue for a cleansing.”

She groaned as he lifted her bridal-style from the mattress, ignoring the stickiness between their bodies, the mess streaked across their torsos, and the still-lingering scent of clove and cedar that clung like incense after ritual.

The bathroom was already dim-lit—Kriia’s shadows moving ahead of them, curling fluidly around knobs, adjusting the water, guiding steam up into the air like ritual smoke. The scent here was different. Clean, soft, herbal. Something calming. Free of clove.

“You planned this,” Kriia accused, resting against his shoulder with a lazy smirk.

“Always,” Rexar said simply, the low flick of fire still simmering in his hands as he kissed her hair.

He set her on the tile like she was made of glass, one hand steady at her waist as he pulled off what little she still wore—bra, thigh straps, the remnants of her god-tier persona now drooping with moisture and aftermath.

The water was perfect—hot, but not scalding, steam rising in long fingers as he coaxed her beneath it.

Kriia let out a choked sigh as the first jets hit her back. Her eyes slipped closed, and her shoulders sagged.

“Mmh gods, yes…”

Rexar moved behind her without a word, reaching for a cloth and soaking it in the streaming warmth. He started with her shoulders—gentle, slow circles—wiping away sweat, stickiness, candle smoke remnants. Then her back. Down her spine. Across her hips.

Every motion was quiet worship.

He kissed the nape of her neck, lips trailing to her shoulder as he worked. “You’ve never looked more ruined.”

“Flatterer,” she whispered, congested but melting.

Then came her arms. Her thighs. Her calves. He touched her like she was something sacred, not just his lover but his altar.

“Turn,” he said softly.

She did.

Her eyes met his—glassier than usual, rimmed pink, but still sharp with the faded edge of mischief.

“You’re a mess,” he murmured, brushing his thumb gently beneath her eye, catching the smudge of tears and exhaustion.

“Feel like one,” she rasped. “Those damn candles hit hard…”

“Let me take care of it.”

He lifted her chin with reverence, then leaned in and kissed her—slow, soft, nothing hungry. Just contact. Just breath and closeness, like a balm whispered across raw skin.

Then he reached for the shampoo.

She gave a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re gonna wash my hair?”

“Yes.”

“Like, hands in it and everything?”

“Especially that part.”

“You’re serious?”

Rexar smiled. “I’m Rexar Fucking Fang. You think I’m letting you go to sleep with a sinus-triggering allergy nest in your hair?”

She laughed harder—wet, sniffling, amused. “Gods, you’re absurd.”

And then she closed her eyes, sighed, and tilted her head back in surrender.

“Okay then, Sparky. Make me feel like royalty.”

So he did.

His fingers slid into her hair with reverence, working through the knots, massaging her scalp with gentle, rhythmic motions. Bubbles bloomed between his hands, thick and aromatic, carrying away sweat, smoke, and the last whisper of the candle’s evil magic.

Kriia moaned.

Soft. Happy. Almost drowsy.

“Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he said.

He rinsed the shampoo in slow, soaking waves, watching the lather flow down the curve of her back. Then came conditioner, and he took his time, rubbing it through strand by strand, careful to avoid tugging or pulling.

When her hair was clean, he turned his attention to her face.

“Can I?”

She blinked at him. “I must look a disaster.”

“You look like a goddess who just conquered a continent.”

She snorted again. “Sure. Conquered it with snot.”

He smiled, so tender it made her breath catch.

“Let me take care of you.”

She nodded once.

He wet a fresh cloth and cupped her jaw in one hand, dabbing around her nose, her lips, her cheeks. Cleaning what her sneeze fits had left behind. She didn’t even flinch. She let him. Let herself be seen. Be cleaned.

“Blow,” he whispered.

She did, a productive blow gurgling thickly into the cloth with zero shame.

He kissed her temple as she finished.

“You’re perfect,” he said against her hair.

“I’m disgusting.”

“Both can be true.”

Her smile faded into something softer.

“Why do you like this part so much?” she asked quietly. “The mess. The chaos. Me, like this…”

He paused, letting his hand rest against her cheek. “Because it’s you unfiltered. Because every twitch, every sneeze, every breath—it’s you letting go. Giving yourself to me.”

Her eyes welled up—not with allergies this time.

“I do give myself to you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder. He hugged her back, warm water cascading over them both. Her shadows flickered along the tiles, curling close.

They stood like that until the steam began to cool, until the moment had stretched long and full and whole.

Then Rexar reached out with one hand and turned off the water.

“Bed?” he murmured.

“Mmh. Blankets. Cuddles. Praise.”

“All of it.”

He lifted her again—this time wrapped in a thick towel—and carried her back through the dimly bedroom. The scent was almost gone now. Their bodies had been purified, the shadows receding, the ritual closed.

He laid her gently on the bed and crawled in beside her, tugging the covers up around them both.

“Comfy?”

“Like a queen.”

He tucked her in tighter, curling himself around her back. “My queen.”

She sighed, boneless.

“Rex?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For the mess. And the bath. And… everything.”

He pressed a kiss behind her ear. “Always.”

The End ✨

[urrmomzfavorite]

LESSONS LEARNED? TIME TO CASH THE FUCK IN 💸 pac

PILE ONE : THE WAIT IS OVER—TIME TO CASH YOUR DIVINE CHECK 🏦✨

You're not ready, you don't see it coming. I'm seeing someone waiting for so long wondering if their blessings will ever come. Questioning their faith. Maybe the gods aren't real, maybe there's only suffering. Why do you always suffer and it feels like it would never end? This weight on your shoulders, this knot in your heart. You've been waiting so long, patiently and I know your intuition is telling you to stay a little longer, to hold for a little while... But again? They've been asking you to wait for your "moment" for years. You are expecting a bouquet of flowers, not realizing that the universe was growing a garden in your honour, every good deed was a new seed planted. Every time you stood up for yourself despite the fear that should've froze you. You rise again and again and every single time you did my love, a seed, a plant, the bees were coming to pollinate your blessings and spread them all over this garden making sure you will prosper. We are finally here, you had to wait but it's because they are coming to you, with your carriage, ready to get you out of whatever you find yourself right now and go to your oasis of peace, serenity and wealth.

You can try and imagine the abundance coming your way right now and I guarantee you love, it's still not even close to what we have in store for you. You will never worry about money again, these nights wondering how you will pay your rent, your bills, your medication? It's done, you don't even have to think about it. Everything is taken care of. It sounds weird to imagine cause you've been the one taking care of everything. Tending to everyone's needs, making sure no one ever feel excluded, alone, that they feel heard. You've made sure to make space for everyone you encounter, to give them grace and a listening ear, to give them courage and hope, to give them a sanctuary, for a fleeting moment.

You did good, amazing actually, aced the test like they say lol. So now love, get comfortable to receive and stop thinking about what you can do for the next person but start thinking about what you can do for yourself. We are giving you the resources to take care of yourself properly.

Please keep this success secret at least for a while, the time you get everything well grounded. I know you have this urge of sharing but just enjoy the fruits of YOUR hardwork first. Not everyone deserve to be part of your gardening club, be discerning, now that you have wealth you'll have to face more snakes than ever. Remember who was there for you during this whole ordeal and keep your circle small.

I love you, you deserve it, enjoy 😘

✨💖 Heyyy cuties! 💖✨ Don’t be shy, take a little peek at my other posts—you know you wanna!

PILE TWO: YOUR ‘HARD-KNOCK LIFE’ JUST HIT THE JACKPOT 🎰💋

Wealth is coming in all the forms for you pile two! I'm seeing people celebrating around a cake and your friends hugging you. You're crying tears of joy and gratitude. Good. This happiness you've been daydreaming about for years is taking shape. The love, the house, the money, the stability.

You've been like a little bee pollinating this world with your energy and light. Despite all the vampires trying to drain you, the narcissists trying to put you down and the insecure people projecting on you, you kept going.

You're the baddest.

You're beautiful, strong and resilient, confronting your demons and shadows like it's nothing. Learning to love yourself despite a world who was teaching you not to. It's hard, and you've prevailed, you've done it. And babe the outfits were slaying the whole time too ��🏿 Like!?!?! People want to know how you do it? How do you go through the worst moment of your life and still looking fresh out of a runway. Your style is really admired from a lot of people. The way you put clothes together is envied by a lot too.

There were a lot of distractions, bad habits, some codependency you had to get rid of before we could present it to you. Your dream husband/wife the one you've made a wish for when you were a little lad. (I hope you read this part with a British accent 🇬🇧) (I'm sorry if you're Irish 😅)

Ok but seriously, your ability to laugh it off was greatly admired by your guides. You put the smile back on people's faces when they are sad. Thank you so much for this, you have no idea how many times this was needed and you delivered.

Your personal endeavours are going to succeed, whatever you are working on your Midas touch will propel it to enormous amounts of money. You have the it factor, that star quality that makes people want to watch you, help you, be you. (Pls be careful) and it's paying off greatly. The actual new year has started and your clean plate is getting filled with gifts, love, laughs, a shit ton of funny and a whole lot of freedom.

You deserve every single gift and blessing that is on its way.

*Knock knock*

You're hearing this love?

They've finally arrived 🎁💸💍

✨💖 Heyyy cuties! 💖✨ Don’t be shy, take a little peek at my other posts—you know you wanna!

[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

🕶️ Headcanon: William Afton Wears Glasses

When & Why? William doesn’t wear them all the time. He doesn’t need to. But for fine-tuned work—blueprints, delicate mechanical details, writing tiny script in old, tattered notebooks—he needs precision. That’s when he reaches for them, usually muttering something like, “Bloody hell, where did I put those…” with a hand half-rummaging through clutter.

And when he does wear them, it’s game over.

He’s not flashy, but he's deliberate. Think:

Slim, wire-frame glasses — slightly vintage, gold or black. Something that makes him look like he stepped out of a 70s lab but in a good way.

The shape? Round or oval—a little old-fashioned, definitely intellectual.

There might even be small scratches on the lenses or bent arms he hasn't bothered to fix. He’s sentimental like that.

You can totally picture him pushing them up with his knuckle while deep in thought, or biting the arm of the glasses while reading something over your shoulder.

Level of Attractiveness With Them?

11/10. Devastating. Borderline illegal.💋

There’s something about William with glasses that hits every part of the "dangerous academic" fantasy.

He’s focused. Sharp. Eyebrows slightly drawn together.

You ask him something and he looks up over the rim of his glasses—and there it is.

That look that makes your heart skip a beat. That silver gaze narrowed just slightly, like he’s seeing straight through you, analyzing every inch of your soul.

And when he takes them off? He uses that moment to lean in. Slowly. Smirking. “There. Better?”

You're dead. Buried. RIP.

✨mini scene✨: soft, a little flirty, and way too intimate for two people sitting in an office late at night.

The only light in the room came from the small desk lamp—its warm, amber glow casting long shadows across stacks of paperwork and gears that gleamed faintly under its watch.

William sat hunched forward, brow furrowed, glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose as he scribbled something into the margin of an old blueprint, jaw flexing slightly with concentration.

You watched him in silence from across the desk, chin in your hand, legs curled in the chair like a sleepy cat. His silver eyes darted across the page, following invisible math. Occasionally, he'd let out one of those quiet little “hmm” sounds again, the kind you liked teasing him for—soft and thoughtful, vibrating just under his breath.

Then you couldn’t help yourself.

You leaned forward, fingers light, and before he could stop you—yoink—you plucked the glasses right off his face.

William froze mid-word.

“…Excuse me?” His voice was quiet, controlled, a single brow arching as his eyes blinked to adjust. “Is this mutiny?”

You slipped the glasses onto your own face, trying to mimic his stern look. “Hmph. I’m busy saving the company, you know,” you said in your best faux-British impression, furrowing your brows and pretending to scribble something in the air.

His lips twitched. “You’re mocking me.”

“A little.”

“You’re adorable when you’re insubordinate.”

He leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out casually, eyes locked on you. Even without the glasses, he looked unfairly sharp. His pupils tracked your every movement with the kind of attention that sent a flutter through your chest—like he was analyzing the precise moment your defenses might crumble.

You tilted your head. “You know you look really good with these, right?”

“I know.” His smirk curled slowly, wickedly. “But I like how they look on you even more.”

You blinked.

“Oh.”

Then: Oh no.

He reached out lazily, fingertips brushing under your chin. “Keep them, bunny. Just bring them back before I have to squint at another circuit board and accidentally blow up the east wing.”

You coughed a laugh, face warm, fingers tightening around the glasses. “No promises.”

And you thought he was joking.

Honestly, you thought the moment would pass, like so many with him—those throwaway lines laced in velvet and smoke, always half-truths and grins too clever for their own good. But two nights later, when you wandered back into the office after closing, there they were. Sitting on your side of the desk. A new pair of glasses.

They weren’t exactly like his—his were a bit more severe, with squared edges and fine wire frames that framed his face like something too precise to be real.

These… these were still elegant. A little vintage. But softened around the edges. Rounded just enough to flatter your face. Still unmistakably him, though, right down to the faint scent of cigar smoke that clung to the leather case.

A sticky note was tucked inside the lid.

“Since you can’t keep your hands off mine. — W.A.”

Your fingers trembled a little around the note, the corner crinkling where you held it too tightly. The audacity. The calculated charm.

When you finally sat down, William didn't look up from his paperwork. He never had to—he felt you in the room like the slow press of a storm front, anticipation humming in the air.

But he did smirk when you finally said, a little shyly: “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he replied, pen scratching against the margin of something technical. “But you’ve got the face for them.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“You’re just trying to turn me into your little science assistant.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Now he looked up. His eyes were sharp behind his own pair of glasses—he'd swapped back to his favorites. “You already are.”

And then—because he’s William, and because he can never just leave you standing there—

He reached across the desk, pulled you gently forward by the belt loop of your pants, and kissed your forehead with slow deliberation. The kiss didn’t linger, but his fingers did, tracing the hinge of the new frames where they met your temple.

“Keep them on,” he murmured. “I like watching you wear something that used to be mine.”

[xi4oyan]

Hello my dearest and favorite writer... Last request for the month! Unless you want more..?✨

JTTW x 'monster'! Reader. Reader is friend with Huayan, why? Honestly it is one of the wondrous amount of secret in all the planes of existence... Maybe it's because reader and Huayan can relate to each other in a deep meaningful way? Actually, yes, but let go on to the present: Reader's androgynous if you must describe their appearance, they are mostly cast out from the other humans, for their looks or just how they are, so, when the gang and moreso tripitaka get news of demons around a village he goes there, he and the others just see... The demons and reader having a dinner/feast/tea party... Having fun, and after an almost fight, or during fight, tripitaka just talk to reader, and they are just neutral. Just reader feel more comfortable with the group of demons they're befriended (and other humans)

Hope you like

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝐵𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑡𝑜 𝐹𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑆𝑖𝑛𝑔��𝑒 𝑁𝑎𝑚𝑒. - Huayan

There’s a moment in time that sometimes comes to me like an autumn breeze: light, cold on the fingertips, and so full of longing it makes my chest ache. It was back when the skies were still filled with war and whispers, when anything that was different was met with distrust — especially someone like them, who was hard to name.

I say them with care, but honestly… I never cared about that. It didn’t matter whether it was he, she, they, none. They were my Mistflower. That’s what I call them, because they always seemed on the verge of vanishing into the air, like a petal carried by the wind.

We met long before that episode with Tripitaka and the others. They wandered through villages, never staying too long in one place. People didn’t know whether to fear or banish them. Their appearance didn’t help — too beautiful to go unnoticed, too strange to be accepted. There was something of the nighttime breeze in them: eyes like glass under the moonlight, a smile always small, almost shy, and their voice? Their voice sounded like it came from somewhere between sleep and waking. Soft. Gliding through words as if carving them into the air.

I first saw them sitting on a fallen tree, talking with a family of talking raccoons. They were sharing rice, humming a tune none of us recognized. I sat beside them like it was the most natural thing in the world. And they looked at me without fear, only with that light, almost drowsy curiosity. “You have forest beast eyes” they said. And smiled. From then on, we kept meeting again and again.

Mistflower was neutral. In heart, in soul, in their eyes. Neither light nor shadow. Just… present. Existing in their quiet, calm way. Demons respected them because they never judged. Humans avoided them because they didn’t know how to contain them in words. And they accepted that with silent grace.

But let’s get to the story — the one everyone remembers as “the almost ambush” but that was, in truth, just a misread tea party.

We were near a mountain village, where rumors flew about “demons gathering in secret” Tripitaka, with that serious and gentle air of his, decided to investigate. Of course everyone went with him: Sha Wujing, with his deep river calm; Zhu Bajie, always complaining about the journey; and Wukong… well, Wukong was restless as always, wondering if there’d be a fight.

We followed the trail to a hidden clearing behind a waterfall. The sounds came before the sight: muffled laughter, porcelain clinking, the soft crackle of a fire. When we peeked through the bushes… we saw a feast.

Not a demonic orgy, as feared — but a modest celebration. A table made of mossy stone. Hand-stitched cushions. Clay pots, fruit carved into floral shapes, and even a small steaming pot of jasmine tea in the center.

And there they were. My Mistflower. Sitting among horned and fanged demons, telling stories with that soft voice of theirs, while the others listened like children at a storyteller’s feet. A three-eyed demon snored softly after overeating. A bat-fairy was braiding flowers into Mistflower’s hair. And they were smiling.

Wukong jumped forward, staff in hand. The demons growled. The tension snapped tight like a drawn bowstring.

“Stop” Tripitaka’s voice cut the air.

He looked at my friend with uncertain eyes. He saw they weren’t armed, weren’t afraid. They simply stood, light as morning dew slipping off a leaf.

“Are you… human?” he asked.

They looked at him like someone watching a river asking what water is.

“Sometimes”

“You’re with these demons?”

“I’m not against them”

Silence. Only the tea still steamed. The soft breeze made bamboo wind chimes tinkle in the trees.

Mistflower turned and saw me in the bushes. Gave me that small smile — the one I knew well — and waved. Not a defensive gesture, but an invitation.

And Tripitaka… sighed.

“So there’s no fight today. Just… tea?”

They nodded. “And a little red bean sweet, if you’d like.”

It was the first time we all sat together without weapons or spells. One of the demons even offered Bajie some cakes, which he devoured before realizing they were smiling at him.

Tripitaka spoke with Mistflower for a long time. About doctrine, neutrality, suffering and choice. And they answered with that way of speaking in simple riddles.

“It’s just that here… I can breathe. Without needing to explain”

He understood. Not everything. But enough.

Since then, they show up sometimes. At a bend in the road, among the trees, or in the middle of a market selling dried flowers and handmade sweets. And I always recognize them, even if they’re disguised. Because mist has a scent. And they always carry theirs.

They are my friend. My sister of silence. My Mistflower. A secret between realms, yes… but not a bad one. Just… something too beautiful to fit in a single name.

[10byten]

Hey 🖤 I’m starting a story with vampires, interesting creatures and all the chaos that comes with it. It might be a couple parts, maybe more. I’ve got this idea for Yuta, and I thought, “Why not?”. Just trying something new. Hope you like it! ✨

★ Words : 1.6K

- You’ve spent your whole life trapped in this dead-end town, dreaming of something—anything—out of the ordinary. Then he walks in. all long hair, silver rings, and a gaze that pins you to the earth like gravity itself. one accidental touch, and suddenly the world tilts. your heart stutters. the air crackles. he looks at you like he’s just found something he’s spent lifetimes searching for. And he’s not leaving without figuring out why.-

-

Living in a boring, nothing-ever-happens small town had always felt like the curse of your life. Or maybe some kind of cosmic punishment for a crime you don’t remember committing in another lifetime. Most people here were painfully average and weirdly content with their little drama-free lives. Ever since supernatural creatures had gone public, you’d been secretly hoping at least one person in town would turn out to be something interesting—a werewolf, a siren, anything with cool abilities. But nope. No thrilling secrets, no exciting new faces. Just the same old crowd. At least you had Danielle and Jungwoo, your two ride-or-die besties. Growing up together had bonded you forever, and they were the only reason you hadn’t died of sheer boredom yet. Well, them and your job at the town’s coffee shop/bookstore—a literal sanctuary for a bookworm like you. Life felt… stable. Predictable. Too peaceful. Or so you thought.

Jungwoo leaned against your counter, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I got some tea for you.”

“You always have tea for me.” You didn’t even look up from what you were doing.

“This one’s different. Big.”

“Oh, in that case, I’m dying to know.” The sarcasm dripped.

He bumped you with his hip. “You won’t be so cocky when you hear this.”

“Alright, spill before I actually die of suspense.”

“Jessica Rey slept with a vampire last night. Here. In our town.”

You blinked. “What? No way. No vampire would willingly step foot in this hellhole.”

“She met him at a bar in Duskford and, apparently, wasted zero time bringing him home. Never cared much for her, but honestly? Respect. That’s a power move.”

You smirked. “Would you do it?”

“Babe, please. Hell yes. Though I’d rather he be my snack than the other way around.”

“Just don’t get yourself killed over some random hookup.”

“Not just any hookup. The best hookup of my life.”

“Control yourself if you wanna keep hanging out with me.”

“Sorry, love. Once you start, you can’t stop. You’ll understand when it happens.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. Truthfully, you had no idea what sex with someone else could even do to you—no one in this town had ever caught your attention. No one deserved it.

“So... does this mean vampires are just around now?”

“No clue. But honestly? I wouldn’t mind. That said, I’m walking you home tonight. Just in case.”

“Jungwoo, please. You’re cuter than me, you should be worried.”

“Yeah, but baby, I have a weapon on me. No debate.”

“Fine. If you insist.”

You were wiping down the counter when the bell rang. You looked up, expecting your last customer of the night. Then you saw him.

Your heart skipped. Hard.

Tall, dark hair falling in soft waves, nails painted black, fingers adorned with gorgeous rings. A gleaming earring caught the light. His lips were obscenely perfect—heart-shaped, his nose sharp and elegant, high cheekbones casting shadows like he walked straight out of a Renaissance painting. And his eyes—lined in black, deep as an entire galaxy.

You literally forgot how to breathe.

“Good evening.”

His voice was deep, smooth, with that kind of lazy confidence that made your skin prickle. And that smile, oh my—devastating.

You snapped out of it, clearing your throat. “Good evening. Can I get you—uh, serve you something?”

His lips twitched, like he was amused. His gaze lingered. Like he was studying you. “If it’s not too late, an iced Americano. To go.”

You might have sounded a little disappointed at the “to go,” but whatever. It was closing time.

“Of course. Have a seat, I’ll bring it right over.”

Jungwoo was too caught up on his phone to notice him. Probably for the best. Because the whole time you made his drink, you felt it. Even from across the room, his eyes were on you. You swore you could feel his gaze on your skin, burning, searching. You risked another glance. Yep. Still staring. And smirking, like he knew something you didn’t. For a split second, you swore his eyes flashed silver. Oh, you're so screwed.

Like he was looking at you the way someone looks at a meal.

Swallowing hard, you walked over and set his drink down. He slid a bill onto the table. “Keep the change,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours as he reached for the cup. 

It’s just a fleeting touch, nothing really— But it feels like someone just ran an electric current straight down your spine. Your heart skips a beat, and a deep, static hum rings in your ears. Something pulls at you, but you don’t know what. The room tilts, takes on a strange reddish hue, like the air itself is thickening around you. It’s suffocating. Like a storm just erupted inside your skull. Your legs give out. You reach for the back of a chair, desperate for balance— And then, an arm catches you. The moment his skin meets yours again, the sensation slams into you like a tidal wave— Hot. Intense. Overwhelming. Your breath hitches. Fear flashes in your eyes as you look at him, but no words come out. And for a split second—you’re not the only one affected. At your touch, he stumbles too, almost collapsing with you. His brows furrow, like he’s just been hit with something sharp and unpleasant. You’re practically on the floor now, and he’s bent over you, staring. Accusing. Like he’s demanding an answer for whatever the hell just happened. Like you did this to him. You don’t know what he’s expecting you to say. You don’t even know if you’ll ever be able to speak again. Then—his breath catches. His eyes flutter shut. He inhales. His face dips closer to your hair, his grip on you tightening. He breathes you in like you’re the most intoxicating thing he’s ever smelled. A low groan of pleasure rumbled from his throat. His arm tightened, pulling you closer.

You barely registered how close his face was to yours until you felt his breath on your lips.

His mouth parts. "Who are you?" His voice is low. Soft. Laced with something dangerously close to desire.

"I—I…" But nothing comes out.

He tried to move, but his body seemed frozen in place. His fingers slid into your hair, his touch feather-light yet possessive. He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole.

And, god, a part of you wanted him to.

A shaky breath left your lips as his fingers brushed your neck, and you instinctively gripped his arm. Your body wasn’t your own anymore—too warm, too lightheaded, too pulled toward him—do something.

His forehead pressed against yours as he whispered “I don’t know if it’s you doing this... but if you want me to help you up, you need to stop.”

His voice was like a spell, dragging you deeper under. And it wrecks you. Your head falls back, a helpless sound escaping your throat. You want it to stop. You need it to stop. And yet— A part of you wants him to stay like this forever. It’s too good. It feels like he’s unraveling you from the inside out.

The second he feels you relax, he knows.

He knows it’s time.

With effortless strength, he lifts you like you weigh nothing and sets you down onto the table behind him. Your mind is spinning. Too fast. Too much. He cups your chin, tilting your face up to his. Your eyes are hazy. Dazed. Strands of your hair have fallen across your face. And he just stares. Like he’s never seen anything like you before. Like you’re otherworldly.

"Who are you?" he murmured again.

"My name is… Y/N." You mumble, barely audible.

“Y/n,” he repeated, like he was testing how your name felt on his tongue. "But...what are you?" His fingers ghost over your cheek. "Why do you make me feel like this?"

His fingers ghosted over your cheek—

Before you could answer, Jungwoo’s voice shattered the trance.

“Oh my god, Y/n, are you okay?”

Jungwoo rushes over, placing a hand on your back. Yuta’s gaze flicks to him, assessing. Who is this guy to you ? But he senses no threat. So he answers, calm and composed. "She just had a little episode. You should get her some water."

Jungwoo hesitates, eyes flicking between you two. But he nods. "Yeah, okay—I'll be right back."

The moment he’s gone, Yuta’s hands frame your face, holding you there. Just looking. Like he’s memorizing you.

"Well." A smirk tugs at his lips. "It was an absolute pleasure meeting you, Y/N, I’m Yuta." His voice drops, softer. "I have to go. Urgent business calls. But don’t worry…" His fingers trace your wrist as he takes your hand. "I’ll be back for you."

You barely manage to shake your head. You don’t want him to go. You need him to stay. You don’t know why.

He caught your wrist, lifting it to his lips. The ghost of a kiss burned into your skin—another shockwave—and then— He was gone.

-

Later, lying on Jungwoo’s couch, you could still feel it. His touch. His eyes on you. The way the whole world had tilted. Jungwoo flopped down beside you.

“Sooo. You gonna tell me who the hell that was?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Are you gonna look for him?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think I need to.” You smile, replaying his words in your head.

Jungwoo raised an eyebrow.

“He said he’d come back for me.”

And somehow, you knew he would.

-

I’d love to know what you think about it, don’t hesitate to share your thoughts ! 💭