#ach binding threads

[sil3ntm0thart]

[badathumanemotions]

Marked By Fate

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

MDNI MasterList CW: Soulmates, Awkward Soulmate Mark Placement, Accidental Groping, Slapstick, Awkward Spencer, Clumsy Spencer, BAU Reader, Awkward Romance, Smut, Fingering, Oral (f rec), Vaginal Sex, Creampie. WC: 21,798

You've always hated your soulmark, mostly because of it's placement. Knowing that's where your soulmate would first touch you left you dreading the day you'd meet. At least it'd be a funny story one day…probably. (Not Proof Read)

Spencer had always believed in soulmates. Not just in the theoretical sense, the way one might believe in gravity or quantum entanglement, but in the deep, unwavering way that only a hopeless romantic could.

His mother, an English literature professor, used to tell him stories about fate, about invisible strings tying people together across time and distance. She read him Tristan and Isolde, Chaucer, and Shakespeare, filling his childhood with grand tales of love and destiny. He had clung to those stories, even when the world made it hard to believe in them.

His soulmark had appeared the same as everyone else’s, soft, golden, shimmering like trapped stardust against his skin. It had settled onto his left hand when he was young, a delicate glow across his palm. A promise. A certainty. Proof that somewhere out there, someone was waiting for him.

But knowing that hadn’t made the waiting any easier.

The mark had been both a comfort and a quiet ache. It was proof that someone out there was meant for him, but it didn’t make the loneliness any easier. He had always felt a step out of sync with the world, his thoughts moving too fast, his words landing awkwardly, his presence somehow too much and not enough at the same time. He had been the kid buried in books while others played, the one who rattled off facts when people expected small talk.

But through it all, his soulmark had remained, gleaming softly under the light, reminding him that someday, someone would touch his palm, and they would be *his*. Someone would reach for him, hold him, connect with him in a way no one else ever had.

He had dreamed about it more times than he could count. Would it be a gentle touch, fingers slotting between his? Would it be an accident, someone catching his hand in a crowded room? Would he recognize them immediately, or would it take time?

He had spent years turning the possibilities over in his mind, longing for the moment it would happen.

—

Soulmates were supposed to be romantic. A cosmic thread binding two people together, ensuring that out of the billions of people on the planet, you’d find the one meant for you. For most people, it was a beautiful thing. Something to be cherished. Something to be shown off.

For you? It was a nightmare.

Everyone else had sweet, poetic stories about their marks. A brush of fingers across a wrist. A guiding hand on a shoulder. A reassuring touch at the small of the back. Cute, wholesome, normal. You had grown up surrounded by people who proudly displayed their marks, eager to imagine the moment their fated person would finally arrive. Kids in school would trace theirs absentmindedly, daydreaming about the love story that would unfold when they met their soulmate. You had done the exact opposite.

You had spent your whole life covering yours up, never wanting anyone to know where it was.

Because your mark—the physical sign of where your soulmate would first touch you—was right on your right boob.

And no matter how many times you tried to spin it, there was no way to make that romantic.

It was embarrassing. Mortifying, even. While your friends talked about their dream scenarios, you avoided the subject entirely. You became a master of misdirection, dodging curious questions and changing the topic whenever soulmarks came up. You kept it covered at all times, never letting anyone see even a glimpse of it. The idea of someone realizing where it was? Horrifying.

And as the years passed, the worry only got worse. How would it even happen? What kind of scenario would lead to someone’s first touch being *there*? You didn’t want to think about it. The possibilities ranged from awkward to downright humiliating, and you weren’t eager to find out which one fate had in store for you.

You had resigned yourself to dreading the inevitable. To constantly living with the anxiety of an unpredictable, embarrassing first contact.

And then, in the span of a single day, it happened and it was even worse than you ever could have imagined.

The elevator ride up to the BAU was smooth, but your nerves weren’t. You inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and resisted the urge to fidget with the strap of your bag. New job, new team, no big deal, right? You’d done this before. Well, not this exactly, but how different could it be from any other first day?

The doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the bullpen, busy but not overwhelming. Agents moved between desks, chatting, sipping coffee, typing away at computers. The place had a steady energy, something just shy of chaotic but still purposeful.

You stepped out and caught the attention of the first person who didn’t look like they were sprinting between tasks. “Excuse me, can you tell me where Agent Hotchner’s office is?”

The man barely looked up from his coffee. “Up the stairs.”

“Thanks.”

You adjusted your bag and started weaving your way through the bullpen, eyes scanning the space as you walked. It was all standard office stuff, desks, computers, a board covered in what looked like case notes. But then, about halfway across the room, your gaze snagged on something or rather, someone.

A man, standing near a desk, gesturing as he spoke to someone. Tall, lean, with soft brown curls that curled just slightly at the ends. His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing like he was sorting through his own thoughts in real time. He had this nervous energy about him, but not in a bad way, it was almost endearing.

You didn’t mean to slow down, but your feet betrayed you for half a step. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that were far more attractive than they had any right to be. His lips parted slightly like he was about to say something else, but then he hesitated, head tilting just a fraction as if reconsidering his phrasing.

Oh no. He was adorable.

You forced your eyes forward and picked up your pace before you could get caught staring like some kind of weirdo. You weren’t here to develop a workplace crush within five minutes of arriving.

Reaching the stairs, you made your way up to the offices, stopping at the last door on the right. Taking a quick breath, you knocked.

Reaching the stairs, you made your way up to the offices, stopping at the last door on the right. Taking a quick breath, you knocked.

“Come in,” came the voice from inside.

You stepped into the office to find Aaron Hotchner standing behind his desk, his expression serious but not unwelcoming. He was taller than you expected, somehow even more imposing in person, though not in an intimidating way, more like he exuded authority without trying.

“Agent,” he greeted, extending a hand.

You stepped forward and shook it, his grip firm, professional. “Sir. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

He gave a short nod, releasing your hand as he gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

You sat as he picked up a neat stack of paperwork and set it in front of you. “Just a few things to sign. Standard HR documents, confidentiality agreements.”

You nodded, picking up the pen he offered and quickly scanning through the forms. The usual legal jargon, nothing surprising. As you signed, Hotch watched you with the same careful scrutiny you imagined he used in interrogations.

“So,” he said as you finished the last signature, “I trust you’ve been briefed on the expectations here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We deal with difficult cases. It’s not always easy work, but it’s important. We rely on each other here, you’ll find this team is more like a family than anything else.”

You glanced up at him. “That’s good to hear.”

He studied you for a second longer, then nodded in approval. “I’ll introduce you to the team.”

And just like that, your stomach flipped. You smoothed your hands over your pants, bracing yourself as you stood and followed him back out the door, back down the stairs, into the bullpen, where everyone was waiting.

As you followed Hotch down the stairs, you could feel a dozen pairs of eyes flicking toward you, agents sizing you up as you entered the bullpen. Your stomach did a nervous little flip, but you kept your posture straight, your expression steady.

“This is the team,” Hotch said, his voice calm but carrying enough authority to command the room’s attention.

He stopped just short of the gathered group, and you quickly took stock of them, each one distinct, each one watching you with varying levels of curiosity.

“Jennifer Jareau, communications liaison,” Hotch started, motioning toward a blonde woman with warm eyes and an easy smile.

“JJ,” she corrected, stepping forward to shake your hand. Her grip was firm but friendly. “Nice to meet you. You’re in good hands here.”

Next was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a knowing smirk that practically screamed trouble—in a good way. “Derek Morgan,” Hotch introduced.

Morgan took your hand but didn’t shake it right away. Instead, he held onto it just a second longer than necessary, flashing you a dazzling grin. “Now, how come Hotch didn’t mention we were getting someone this gorgeous?” His voice was warm, teasing, and effortlessly charming.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “That line work on a lot of people?”

Morgan chuckled. “You tell me.”

With a playful smile, you finally pulled your hand back, and he winked before stepping aside.

Next was Emily, who smirked and gave you a firm shake. “Hope you’re ready,” she said, her tone light but teasing. “This place has a way of keeping things… interesting.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage,” you replied, grinning back.

David Rossi, the older man standing beside her, had a knowing smirk before you even reached him. Rossi stepped up next, shaking your hand with a knowing smirk. “Welcome to the team. If you’ve heard any rumours about me, don’t believe a word.”

“Oh?” you said, raising a brow. “Not one?”

“Not unless they’re good,” he said smoothly.

Then, there was the woman who had been practically vibrating with excitement the moment she laid eyes on you. She had neon-bright clothes, chunky rings, and an energy that could only be described as infectious.

“Oh, aren’t you just a vision?” she gushed, taking your hands instead of shaking them. “We are so going to be besties, I just know it. And if anyone gives you trouble, you just tell me, I have access to all the databases, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

You grinned, already knowing you’d love her.

And then, finally—

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid,” Hotch said.

Up close, Spencer was even cuter. His eyes were wide, warm hazel with flecks of gold, his hair a little messy like he’d been running his fingers through it absentmindedly. He had that awkward, gangly charm, the kind that made him look both brilliant and completely out of his depth at the same time.

And right now, he looked very out of his depth.

Spencer stepped forward, moving faster than he seemed to be thinking. “It’s, um—hi. I mean, I’m Spencer��”

And then, it happened.

His foot caught on the leg of a chair.

For a split second, you could see it happening in slow motion—the way his body pitched forward, the way his arms flailed uselessly. His hands shot out on instinct, and—

Oh. Oh no.

One of them landed. Squarely. On. Your. Boob.

A tingling sensation shot through you.

Not just any tingling, the kind that sent an involuntary shockwave down your spine, that made your breath hitch in a way that was entirely inappropriate for a workplace setting.

Your brain barely had time to register the mortifying zap of pleasure before Spencer, in his frantic attempt to not grope you, lost what little balance he had left.

His eyes went impossibly wide, his mouth opening in a silent oh no, and then—

Gravity won.

He collapsed onto you.

There was no graceful way to go down. One moment you were standing, and the next, you were flat on your back, crushed under the full weight of a long-limbed genius.

The bullpen went silent.

For a single, excruciating second, no one moved.

Spencer was on top of you. His face was hovering inches from yours, his body pressed against you in a way that should never happen in front of new coworkers. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and panicked.

And worst of all?

His hand was still on your boob.

A strangled noise escaped his throat as the realization hit. He jerked his hand back so fast you half expected it to break the sound barrier. “I—I didn’t—oh my god—I swear—I didn’t mean—”

You, meanwhile, were malfunctioning. Your brain had shut down. Your soulmark—the one you had spent years pretending didn’t exist—was buzzing, sending little pulses of heat straight through you.

Your breath hitched.

Before you could even think about how to respond, something even worse happened.

A soft, golden glow lit up the room.

Not from just Spencer.

From you, too.

Beneath your clothes, under layers of fabric, you felt it glow, bright and undeniable.

You were still trying to will yourself into nonexistence when the entire team’s eyes snapped to Spencer’s hand, where his mark was completely visible, shimmering bright gold against his palm.

Another beat of silence.

Then—

“Ohhhhh my god,” Garcia shrieked.

You scrambled to get up, which only made things so much worse because Spencer was still on top of you, and in his panic, he tried to move at the same time, which led to a disastrous tangle of limbs.

“Kid,” Morgan choked, wheezing with laughter. “Did you just—”

“I DIDN’T—” Spencer’s voice cracked as he flung himself off of you like you were made of fire. He scrambled back so fast he nearly tripped again, his hands flailing uselessly in the air as he tried to word.

You, meanwhile, were dying.

Actually dying.

Because you were pretty sure your face had caught on fire, and everyone was staring at you, and Spencer Reid, your new coworker, had just met you in the most horrifically inappropriate way possible.

Your brain refused to form words, refused to process that this was how you found your soulmate.

JJ, eyes wide, pressed a hand to her mouth like she was holding in a gasp.

Emily covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Rossi just smirked knowingly, because of course he did.

Garcia practically vibrated with excitement, clasping her hands together. “Oh. My. God. This is amazing!” she squealed, bouncing on her heels. “Boy genius finally meets his soulmate, and it’s happening right in front of us! This is better than I ever could have imagined!”

Morgan, still laughing, clapped Spencer on the back. “You move fast, pretty boy.”

Spencer made a noise that was somewhere between a wheeze and a whimper.

Hotch, to his credit, remained utterly stoic as he calmly clasped his hands behind his back and said, “Well.”

You turned to him, desperately hoping he would restore some order to the situation.

Instead, he deadpanned, “That was not the introduction I had planned.”

Spencer, still wide-eyed and looking like he wanted to sink into the floor, ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I—I just want to clarify that I did not mean to—” His voice cracked, and he coughed, his hand flying up to adjust his tie like it might somehow fix the situation. “It was purely accidental. I mean, statistically speaking, the likelihood of me tripping at that exact moment, at that exact trajectory, in a way that would cause my hand to—” He floundered, gesturing wildly, “—land there of all places is astronomically low.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “You don’t have to—”

“I mean, I—I don’t go around touching people’s—” He made a vague, frantic motion toward your chest before realizing what he was doing and immediately aborting it. His face somehow got even redder. “I have never—! I wouldn’t—! Not that I don’t want to touch—NO! That’s not—”

“Spencer.” You held up a hand, your voice dangerously close to a plea. “Please. Stop talking.”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“I mean, obviously, I will touch them, statistically speaking, at some point in our relationship—not that I’m assuming we’re going to have a relationship! I mean, soulmates don’t have to be romantic. There are plenty of cases where soulmates are just platonic or even completely uninterested in—”

Morgan wheezed. “Kid, shut up.”

“I can’t,” Spencer blurted helplessly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Oh my god.”

There was no coming back from this. You were going to have to quit, change your name, and move to a remote island where no one knew what had just happened.

Spencer was spiralling fast. “I just—I want to be clear that I wasn’t trying to make a first impression this way! I had a whole range of hypothetical scenarios mapped out for meeting my soulmate, and none of them involved—” He gestured between the two of you before groaning and dropping his hands like he’d officially given up on controlling them. “This is literally worst-case scenario. No—this is worse than worst-case scenario because even in my worst-case scenario calculations, I didn’t account for—” He hesitated. “Accidental second-base.”

Morgan choked. Garcia gasped like someone in a telenovela.

You, on the other hand, wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

“Spencer,” Emily chimed in. “I am begging you to shut up.”

“I mean, I’m just saying that biologically—!”

You turned sharply to Hotch, your last hope for salvation. “Sir, with all due respect, can we please pretend this never happened and move on with our lives?”

Hotch stared at you. Then at Spencer. Then at the rest of the team, all barely containing various degrees of amusement. After a long, excruciating moment, he exhaled through his nose and said, “Get back to work.”

That was apparently everyone’s cue to start snickering openly as they dispersed. You, however, remained frozen, still reeling from what had just transpired.

Spencer shifted awkwardly beside you. “…So. Uh.” He swallowed. “Welcome to the BAU?”

As the team filtered back into their individual desks, you followed Hotch as he walked you through the bullpen. The sound of keyboards clacking and phones ringing filled the air, but it felt oddly... comforting. Hotch gave you a reassuring smile.

“Your desk is right here,” he said, gesturing to a spot directly across from Spencer’s.

You blinked.

“Oh,” you muttered, dread settling in your stomach. "I... I see."

To your horror, the desk Hotch had led you to was positioned directly across from Spencer’s. You were now squarely within his line of sight at all times.

Spencer, who had been sitting hunched over his desk with a pen in hand, suddenly looked up at you. His wide eyes locked on yours, and you both froze for a moment. There was a brief, awkward silence before he cleared his throat, looking more like he was trying to reassemble his entire sense of self rather than just continue working.

Morgan, who had been watching this exchange from his desk, immediately straightened up, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He threw a glance toward Hotch, then back at Spencer.

“Well, well,” Morgan drawled, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “Looks like you two are gonna be real cozy, huh?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and he almost choked on his own breath. “It’s—it’s just a coincidence,” he sputtered, clearly flustered.

Morgan only smirked, raising an eyebrow. “A coincidence, huh? Funny how that works out. So, Hotch, who’s gonna show our new friend the ropes?”

Hotch glanced over at the team, then back at Spencer. He sighed, clearly understanding where this was headed but deciding to go with it. “Spencer, why don’t you help her out? Show her around, make sure she’s settled in, whatever she needs.”

Spencer, looking both surprised and horrified, opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed it. There was no way he was getting out of this. He gave a stiff nod. “Right. Sure. I can do that.”

Morgan leaned forward, not even trying to hide his amusement. “Good choice, Hotch. I’m sure she’ll be in good hands with Spencer,” he teased, practically grinning ear to ear.

The rest of the team was barely able to contain their snickers as they returned to their work, but not before Garcia shot Spencer a wink and Emily gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up.

With a final look at Spencer, Hotch turned back toward his office.

Spencer stood there, his face as red as ever, clearly unsure whether to laugh, cry, or run for the nearest exit. He turned to you, his eyes wide. “Uh, so... coffee machine's this way, I guess?” He began to move toward the break room, clearly desperate to get something, anything, done to distract from the absurdity of the situation.

You followed as he led you through the bullpen, his posture a little too rigid, like he was manually controlling every movement. You weren’t sure why he was the one acting like he’d been groped in public, but at this point, you were too tired to question it.

The break room was empty when you entered, thank god for small mercies. Spencer exhaled like he’d narrowly escaped death and immediately went to the coffee pot, reaching for it.

You stepped forward at the same time.

Your hands brushed.

Spencer yanked his hand back like he’d been electrocuted. “Sorry! You—uh—you go first.”

You couldn’t help but notice how strong the pull between you felt just then. It was subtle but undeniable, a strange connection drawing you both closer, but the awkwardness was still thick in the air.

You eyed him. “…It’s just coffee, man.”

“Yes. Coffee.” He clasped his hands behind his back, as if he needed to physically restrain himself from further accidental contact. “A normal workplace beverage.”

You grabbed the pot before he could overanalyze hot bean juice any further and poured yourself a cup. Spencer, still standing there like he wasn’t sure how to exist in this room with you, cleared his throat again.

“So. Do you, um. Enjoy coffee?”

You turned to stare at him. “I—yes?”

“Right. Of course.” He nodded rapidly. “Most people do. Statistically speaking, caffeine consumption is highly common among FBI agents due to demanding work hours and the need for heightened cognitive function.”

You took a slow sip of your drink. “…So that’s a yes on the coffee, then?”

“Yes.”

An awkward beat passed.

“…Would you like some?” you offered.

He startled like you’d just reminded him of the reason he’d brought you here in the first place. “Yes! Right. I’ll—I’ll just—” He reached for a mug, hesitated, then grabbed a different one, seemingly putting way too much thought into the choice. You caught a glimpse of the one he’d originally gone for.

Hot Stuff was printed across the front in big, flashy letters.

He cleared his throat so aggressively you thought he might hurt himself and quickly busied himself with pouring coffee. You decided to let him have that small dignity.

Unfortunately, fate was not so kind.

Just as he turned with his full mug, you shifted toward the sugar packets, and the two of you nearly collided. Spencer flinched, jerking back too fast. His coffee sloshed, spilling right over the rim of his cup—

And directly onto his tie.

He made a strangled noise.

“I’m fine!” he blurted, already yanking out a napkin like it might somehow erase the entire situation. “This is—fine! Totally fine! Very normal, in fact!”

You watched him with a mixture of sympathy and quiet amusement, the whole situation too awkward and funny to ignore, but also... strangely endearing. You could feel the bond, the unspoken connection drawing you toward him even more as you both fumbled through this moment.

You could feel your own heart rate picking up, not from panic, but from something else you couldn’t quite place.

Spencer, still trying to dab at his tie like he could somehow make it all go away with sheer willpower, cleared his throat again. “Uh. Right. I think we should—”

He paused, his eyes darting between you and his coffee-stained tie. It was like the connection between you two was too much to ignore, but neither of you were brave enough to act on it yet.

Spencer sighed. “Okay. Let's move on. Shall we?”

He tossed the napkin into the trash, and you both decided to leave your mugs behind. There was no point in finishing them now—both of you too distracted by the moment to care about the coffee anymore.

You nodded in agreement.

It was going to be a long day.

You followed as he led you through the halls, his pace brisk, like he was trying to outrun the mortifying events of the morning.

“This,” he said, gesturing stiffly as you passed a door, “is the copy room. If you need to print, scan, or make copies, the machines are all in here.”

You peeked inside. A row of printers and copiers hummed softly, an overflowing bin of discarded printouts shoved into the corner. “Got it.”

Spencer nodded, then pivoted so fast you barely kept up. “Restrooms are down this hall, men’s on the left, women’s on the right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Not gonna walk me in? Thought you were supposed to be helping me with everything.”

He visibly choked. “That would be highly inappropriate!”

You barely contained a smirk. “Relax, I was kidding.”

Spencer made a noise suspiciously close to a huff and muttered something under his breath that sounded like why is it always me? before motioning for you to keep following.

He led you further down the hall before stopping at a plain, unmarked door. He knocked twice, then pushed it open.

“This is Garcia’s office.”

The room inside was an explosion of colour, trinkets, figurines, and twinkling string lights surrounded an impressive setup of monitors. Penelope Garcia turned from her screens, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw you both.

“Oh, look who it is!” she cooed. “If it isn’t my favourite pair of soulmates, stumbling through the day together.”

Spencer sighed. “We’re just—”

“Existing in the same space? Yeah, I know.” She smirked. “Listen, newbie, if you ever need help navigating the BAU—real help, not whatever awkward crash course this one’s giving you—my door is always open.”

You smiled. “Appreciate it.”

Spencer, clearly done with this interaction, turned on his heel. “We’re leaving.”

Garcia waggled her fingers at you in a good luck sort of way as you followed him out.

After a few more hallways and a very dry explanation of where the case files were stored, you finally made it back to the bullpen.

Spencer exhaled like he’d just completed a physically exhausting task. “That concludes the tour.”

You gave a mock salute. “Appreciate it.”

Morgan, who had clearly been waiting for your return, smirked from his desk. “So? How’d our boy do? Make you feel nice and welcome?”

You opened your mouth, but Spencer cut in before you could answer.

“She is now fully briefed on the layout of the building and equipped with all necessary information to function efficiently in the workplace,” he rattled off in a clipped, robotic tone.

Morgan blinked. Then grinned. “Well, damn. Sounds like she got the deluxe tour.”

You snorted. Spencer scowled.

Across the bullpen, Emily and JJ were blatantly watching, thinly veiled amusement written all over their faces.

As you settled into your desk, Spencer hesitated for a moment, clearly trying to figure out how to start this next part of your “orientation.” He cleared his throat once more, probably for the hundredth time that day.

“So,” he said, pulling a chair out beside you, “this is, uh, the part where you’ll be doing a lot of the, well, paperwork. It’s not exactly glamorous, but it’s important.”

“Let's start with something simple,” Spencer said, flipping open a file with way more urgency than necessary. “These are reports from precincts around the country requesting a profile. Our job is to go through them, assess and start a preliminary profile then send it back with recommendations.”

You grabbed one of the files, skimming over the first page. “Okay, got it. So, I just—” You reached for a pen at the same time Spencer did, your hands colliding.

Both of you pulled back immediately.

“Oh—sorry—”

“No, you—go ahead—”

Spencer hesitated, then went for the pen again at the exact moment you did. Another collision.

You both froze.

From across the bullpen, Morgan let out a low chuckle. “Man, this is painful to watch.”

Emily, who had been mid-coffee sip, grinned. “It’s like a nature documentary. Two very awkward creatures trying to establish dominance over a writing utensil.”

JJ, passing by with a file, smirked. “Should we intervene, or just let it play out?”

Spencer, determined to regain some semblance of control, cleared his throat. “Right. Uh. Let’s—” He reached again, but you had the same idea, and somehow, in a tragic display of poor coordination, his elbow swung outward—straight into your chest.

You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening. Spencer, face going so pale it was almost impressive, snapped his arm back like he’d been burned.

“Oh my god—I—” His voice pitched slightly. “That wasn���t— I didn’t mean—”

In his panic to put some distance between you, he pushed off the desk a little too hard. The chair, already slightly unsteady from his sudden movement, tipped dangerously backward.

The chair fully went over, taking Spencer with it. He hit the floor in a spectacular mess of limbs, momentum sending him rolling straight into an empty chair nearby, which immediately toppled over onto him.

The bullpen went silent.

Heat flooded your face. Your hands hovered uselessly in the air, unsure whether to help him or pretend this wasn’t happening.

Morgan let out a wheeze before cracking up. “Oh, hell no. Did that just happen?”

Emily had a hand pressed to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. JJ, pausing mid-step, blinked. “…Is he alive?”

Spencer, from under the chair, let out a weak, “Unfortunately.”

That was enough to set Morgan off. “Man, this is gold. I’ve never seen him go down that hard in my life.”

Your entire body was burning with secondhand embarrassment. “Should I—uh—” You half-stood, awkwardly gesturing toward the disaster zone.

Spencer, seemingly deciding he’d rather die than accept help, pushed himself upright, shoving the fallen chair away. His face was crimson. “I’m fine. That was—just—another minor miscalculation.”

JJ snorted. “Looked more like a full system failure.”

Morgan grinned. “Guess soulmate proximity messes with your equilibrium, huh?”

Your stomach twisted at that, embarrassment doubling. “Okay—um—can we not?”

Spencer shot Morgan a glare that was about as threatening as a wet cat. “Yes. Let’s not.”

Morgan just held up his hands, still grinning.

Spencer, still refusing to make eye contact with anyone, sat back down—carefully this time.

You hesitated, then picked up the pen, the cause of this entire disaster, and cleared your throat. “…So. Paperwork?”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Yes. Paperwork.”

JJ patted his shoulder as she passed. “You’ll bounce back.”

Spencer muttered something under his breath.

You just exhaled, still trying to will away the heat in your face.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, casting a glance over at you. He'd helped you get settled with the paperwork, but now the silence between you was becoming almost unbearable. He cleared his throat again, the sound almost too loud in the quiet office.

"Well," he said, standing up a little too quickly, "I think you’ve got the hang of things here. If you need anything, I’ll be at my desk."

You glanced up, catching the way he looked at you—still flustered, but maybe a little more composed than before. He hesitated for a split second, his eyes darting between you and his desk, before he finally walked away, leaving you alone with your files.

As Spencer made his way back to his desk, you felt the weight of the connection between you both linger in the air.

Spencer sat back at his desk, his movements careful, like he was hyperaware of every single one. He stared at his screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, but he wasn’t typing. His pen, previously abandoned, found its way back into his hands, spinning between his fingers in a nervous rhythm.

You settled into your own work, flipping through the files. Every so often, your gaze drifted, just for a second, toward him. He was pretending to focus, but you could see the way his shoulders tensed whenever you shifted in your chair, like he was resisting the urge to look over.

Eventually, he did. Just a quick glance, but enough for your eyes to meet.

Spencer snapped his attention back to his monitor so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

Spencer sat at his desk, his notes scattered in front of him, trying to focus on the paperwork. The awkwardness from earlier hadn’t quite settled. It lingered in the air between you, thick and palpable. He adjusted the papers in front of him, trying to make himself look busy, but his eyes kept flicking toward you.

You felt it too. The pull, the strange connection that seemed to tie you to Spencer. Every time you looked up, you’d catch him looking at you, his gaze darting away so quickly that you wondered if you’d imagined it. Was he doing it on purpose? Did he feel it, too?

There was no way to avoid it. He was your soulmate. The bond was there, shimmering between you, even if neither of you was ready to admit it out loud. He was just as awkward as you, maybe more so, which somehow made the whole situation even more complicated.

You tried to focus on the papers in front of you, but Spencer was impossible to ignore. The more you tried to get lost in the task at hand, the more aware you became of the pull between you. Your thoughts kept straying back to him, wondering what he was thinking, whether he was struggling with the same feelings you were. What did he think of you? Did he feel as attracted to you as you did to him?

Spencer shifted in his seat, turning his attention back to his papers, but the tension in the room was too much to ignore. He cleared his throat, glancing up just as you happened to do the same. His eyes met yours for a split second before you both quickly looked away, as if the gaze itself had burned.

The silence continued on between you, both of you trying to pretend that everything was fine, that there was nothing to this strange, electric pull you were both feeling.

At one point you both stood at the same time. The movement was so synchronized it almost felt rehearsed, but neither of you had planned it. You both glanced at each other as you pushed back from your desks, eyes widening in surprise.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, standing awkwardly in place. “Uh… coffee?” he mumbled, as though he needed to confirm the very simple action.

You nodded, a little too quickly, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “Yeah… coffee.”

Neither of you moved right away, both standing there awkwardly, like you were trying to figure out what to do next. The whole moment felt ridiculous, and neither of you seemed willing to take the first step.

Finally, Spencer cleared his throat again, a sound that seemed to break the tension just enough. Prompting you both to move.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke, both of you walking side by side but not quite together, the space between you almost suffocating. Neither of you had said a word, but the attraction was there, simmering just beneath the surface, as if the bond had wrapped itself around you both without either of you willing to acknowledge it just yet.

As you entered the break room, the sense of awkwardness only deepened, and you both stood there, pretending to be focused on something as simple as making coffee. You avoided making eye contact, each of you trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy while the rest of the world hummed around you, completely oblivious to the tension that had overtaken the two of you.

The entire thing felt like an elaborate dance. One that neither of you knew the steps to, but somehow it was drawing you closer, whether you liked it or not.

The coffee break didn’t last long. Both of you seemed to realize at the same time that standing in silence, avoiding eye contact while sipping coffee, wasn’t doing either of you any favours. So, with an awkward shuffle and a few too many polite nods, you both turned back toward the bullpen.

The walk back to your desks was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of movement as you each settled back into your respective spaces. You slid into your chair, exhaling slowly as you picked up a pen, trying to will yourself to focus. Spencer did the same, tapping his fingers against the desk, his leg bouncing slightly beneath it.

For a while, you both managed to maintain the illusion of productivity. The tension hadn’t disappeared, but at least it wasn’t suffocating.

At some point, you stood up to grab a folder from the nearby cabinet, stretching slightly as you reached for it. And that was when it happened.

Spencer didn’t mean to. He really, truly didn’t. But his eyes betrayed him before his brain could catch up. His gaze dipped lower, drawn to the curve of your ass, the way your slacks fit just right. It was a fleeting look, barely a second, but in that second, his brain short-circuited. His grip tightened on his pen, his face burned, and a thousand panicked thoughts flooded his mind at once.

Then, horror of horrors, you turned.

You caught him.

The second your eyes met, his face went completely red. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He looked like he’d been caught committing a federal crime.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the smirk threatening to creep onto your lips.

Spencer made a strangled noise, immediately ducking his head down, suddenly very interested in the absolute nonsense scribbled on his page. His ears were burning, his entire body stiff with the sheer force of his embarrassment.

You let the moment stretch, watching him squirm for just a beat longer before finally deciding to take pity on him. With a small hum, you sat back down, not saying a word.

Spencer, still looking anywhere but at you, cleared his throat—loudly. “I—I wasn’t—uh—I just—” He exhaled sharply and gripped his pen tighter. “Never mind.”

The next hour dragged on in a haze of forced focus and pointed avoidance. You worked through your files, sneaking glances at Spencer just to see if he had recovered. He hadn't.

Spencer was sitting impossibly still, his entire body rigid with what could only be described as a masterclass in sheer mortification. His eyes were glued to the papers in front of him, but he wasn’t reading them. His pen hovered over the page, unmoving. It was as if he had decided that any sudden movements might make the ground swallow him whole.

You bit back another smirk.

At some point, you had to stand again, stretching your legs and reaching for another file. This time, you did it slowly, just to see if he’d risk another glance.

He didn’t.

If anything, he overcorrected so hard that his head turned in the opposite direction, eyes trained on the most uninteresting corner of the room like it was the key to solving life’s greatest mysteries. His hand twitched, gripping his pen so tightly you were mildly concerned it might snap.

Alright, maybe you shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. But after everything, the fall, the soulmate marks, the tension—it was kind of nice to be on the other side of the awkwardness for once.

You sat back down, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He still refused to look at you.

The bullpen had settled into a steady rhythm, but Spencer still looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. The stiffness in his posture remained, his eyes locked onto his paperwork like sheer focus alone could erase the last hour.

For you, everything still felt off. The quiet murmur of the team working, the soft rustle of papers being shuffled, the distant sound of a printer. It should’ve been easy to focus. It wasn’t.

Across from you, Spencer sat at his desk, his eyes flicking between his notes and his paperwork in a clear attempt to look busy. He wasn’t. You could tell. Every few moments, his pen stilled, his fingers drumming absently against the page like his mind was anywhere but on the work in front of him.

You weren’t doing much better.

The awareness of him had settled over you like a weight, something pressing at the edge of your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to shake it. It wasn’t just the fact that he was there. It was the bond, the pull, the quiet way his presence wrapped around yours like an invisible thread you couldn’t loosen.

You could feel when he looked at you.

And sometimes, you caught him.

It wasn’t obvious, not really. It was quick, subtle. A flicker of movement as he glanced up, his gaze barely landing on you before darting away. But the more it happened, the more you noticed. He wasn’t doing it on purpose. It was like his eyes had a mind of their own, betraying him before he could stop himself.

And every time it happened, your stomach tightened.

It was getting harder to ignore how attractive he was. You’d thought it from the moment you met him, but it was different now. More intense. He had this way of being awkward and endearing all at once, like he was constantly fighting against himself, caught between wanting to hide and being unable to look away.

And it was affecting you.

Every time he adjusted his tie, every time he ran a hand through his hair, every time his lips parted like he was about to say something but didn’t, you felt it. A pull, an ache, something unspoken that settled deep in your chest.

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you almost didn’t notice when Spencer shifted in his chair, exhaling sharply like he was trying to physically shake himself out of whatever was going on in his head.

And whatever was going on in his head… was a mess.

Spencer had given up on pretending to focus. He knew it was useless. His mind had been running in circles all day, stuck on an endless loop that always brought him back to you.

It wasn’t just the soulmate thing, although, God, that was enough to keep his brain short-circuiting. It was everything. The way you moved, the way you talked, the way you existed in the space across from him like you’d always belonged there.

The bond was pulling at him, making him too aware of you.

Every time you shifted, every time you sighed, every time your pen scratched against the paper, he felt it. It was like his entire body had attuned itself to you, responding to the smallest movements without him meaning to.

And the worst part? You were beautiful.

He’d noticed before, of course. He wasn’t blind. But now, it was like his brain refused to let him think about anything else. Every detail was burned into his mind, the shape of your lips, the curve of your cheek, the way you furrowed your brow in concentration.

And then there was earlier.

Spencer swallowed hard, forcing his eyes down to his papers.

She caught me staring at her ass.

His face burned at the memory, the mortification still fresh. He had looked for one second. One stupid second, and now it was all he could think about. He hadn’t even meant to! His brain had just… done it, and now he wanted to disappear into the floor.

Had you noticed how red he’d gotten? Had you thought he was a creep? God, what if you thought he was a pervert—

No, no, no, stop.

He clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose. He needed to get it together. He needed to focus.

He picked up his pen.

It immediately slipped from his fingers.

Spencer closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if pleading with the universe to give him a break.

It didn’t.

Because the second he opened them, his gaze landed on you again. And this time, you were already looking at him.

His heart stopped.

Your eyes met, and neither of you looked away.

It was so brief. Barely a second. But in that second, the air shifted, something unspoken settled between you.

Then, just as quickly, Spencer tore his gaze away, his entire body stiff.

His mind was a whirlwind, and his breath caught. He couldn’t afford to focus on this right now. The bond was already too much. It was making it harder to get through the day.

So he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out everything except the work in front of him. The one thing he could still control.

The rest of the day passed without further incident. You focused on your work, occasionally catching glimpses of Spencer doing the same, both of you settling into the rhythm of the office. The initial awkwardness lingered, but with the steady hum of productivity around you, it was easier to push aside.

Now, as the workday wound down, the bullpen grew quieter. Desks were cleared, conversations turned to evening plans, and the weight of the day began to lift.

You gathered your things, telling yourself you had officially survived day one. But even as you slung your bag over your shoulder, a feeling of unfinished business settled over you, lingering like an unspoken question.

Across from you, Spencer was… lingering too.

His bag was packed, his work was done, but he wasn’t moving. Instead, he hovered near his desk, shifting his weight, fingers twitching like his own thoughts were betraying him.

He wanted to say something.

He needed to say something.

But every time he tried to open his mouth, his brain helpfully supplied the worst possible ways to start this conversation.

'So, about earlier when I—uh—accidentally groped you…'

No. Absolutely not.

'We should discuss our predestined spiritual and emotional connection…'

Nope. Horrifying.

You glanced up just as he let out a slow exhale, rubbing at his temple like he was trying to force his thoughts into order. The way he kept fidgeting made you pause.

“You okay?”

Spencer startled like you’d caught him committing a crime. “What? Yes! Completely. Totally.”

A beat.

“Actually… no.”

He shifted from foot to foot, adjusting the strap of his satchel like it might give him confidence. “I—uh—I was wondering if we could talk.”

You blinked. “Aren’t we talking now?”

His throat bobbed. “Yes, but—I meant tomorrow. Before work. Somewhere private.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh.”

“Not that—uh—! Not that it has to be—” He made a flailing gesture, his face going red. “I just want to have a conversation. A real one. So I can—um—gather my thoughts first.”

You studied him. He looked so nervous, but there was sincerity behind it. A genuine desire to approach this properly.

The bond between you hummed—like an unspoken thread pulling you closer.

You found yourself nodding. “Okay.”

His relief was immediate. “Okay.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

He hesitated, then straightened slightly, as if he’d just remembered an important fact. “There’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks from here. It’s quiet in the mornings. We could meet there before heading in.”

You nodded. “That works.”

Spencer exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Great.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “It’s a date.”

Spencer froze.

“Not a—!” You backtracked, laughing at his full-body panic. “Not a date-date. Just… you know. A conversation.”

Spencer let out a breath like he’d been holding it for an hour. “Right. Of course. A normal, casual discussion between two people who happen to be soulmates.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Super normal.”

“Completely.”

You shook your head fondly. “See you in the morning, Spencer.”

He swallowed hard, nodded stiffly, and then practically bolted before he could embarrass himself further.

You drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes, rolling your shoulders as you step into your apartment. Day one was over. You survived. You should be relieved. But as you move through the motions of settling in for the night, your mind refuses to let go of the one thing that has lingered with you all day.

Spencer.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you flop onto the couch. You should be exhausted, but instead, you’re restless. Too aware of the way his presence still clings to your thoughts. The way he fidgeted when he spoke, adjusting his bag strap like it might hold him together. The way he tapped his fingers against the desk when he was thinking. The way his hair curled at the ends, falling into his eyes when he forgot to smooth it back.

And the way he looked at you.

It was subtle, but you caught it more than once. A flicker of his gaze before he forced himself to look away, like he was fighting something he wasn’t ready to face.

Maybe you were, too.

You exhale, stretching out against the cushions. He wants to talk tomorrow. In private. The thought sends a nervous thrill through you. What is he going to say? What does he think about all of this?

Because for all his awkwardness, all his nervous rambling, one thing is clear—he feels it, too.

Spencer stares at the ceiling of his apartment, arms folded behind his head, willing his brain to slow down. It doesn’t. It never does.

Today was a disaster. Well, not a complete disaster. He could have done without the public soulmate revelation via accidental groping. Could have done without the mortifying moment when he got caught staring at your ass. Could have done without the entire day feeling like an out-of-body experience.

But still. There were moments. Little things that kept looping in his head.

The way your lips pursed when you were focused. The way your fingers skimmed absently over the edge of your notebook as you listened. The way you smiled when you talked to the others, easy and warm.

The way you looked at him when you caught him staring.

You didn’t look annoyed. Or uncomfortable. If anything, you seemed just as caught in this strange, magnetic pull as he was.

Spencer continues to stare, unseeing.

What is he supposed to say to you tomorrow?

He rubs a hand over his face. He needs a plan. He needs to say something that isn’t completely humiliating.

'Hey, so, I’ve been thinking about you all day—'

No. That sounds obsessive.

'I believe we should establish an open dialogue about the nature of our soulmate connection—'

Too clinical.

'I don’t want things to be weird between us, but I also can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know what to do with that.'

Too honest.

Spencer groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He’s overthinking. He knows he’s overthinking. But how could he not? You’re his soulmate. He’s spent his entire life wondering about his soulmate. Fantasizing about the moment he'd meet you, the way it would feel, the certainty of it.

And now that you’re here, he has no idea what he’s doing.

Tomorrow. He’ll figure it out tomorrow.

…Hopefully.

The coffee shop is quiet, just as Spencer had promised. It’s the kind of place meant for lingering, for hushed conversations and slow sips of something warm. You step inside, your stomach tight with nerves, scanning the space until your eyes land on him.

He’s already here, seated at a corner table, hands wrapped around a to-go cup of coffee that’s barely been touched. Another cup sits in front of him, waiting. His fingers tap anxiously against the cardboard sleeve, a restless rhythm that betrays the thoughts undoubtedly racing in his head.

When he spots you, he straightens instinctively, like he’s bracing himself.

You take a breath, steadying yourself as you make your way over and slide into the seat across from him. Your eyes flick to the second cup, and he follows your gaze.

“I, um—” He clears his throat. “I got you a coffee. The way you like it.”

Surprise flickers through you, quickly followed by something warmer. You reach for the cup, fingers curling around it. The heat seeps through, grounding you. “Thanks,” you say softly.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. There’s an odd weight between you, something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

Spencer forces himself to take a steady breath. He spent all night overthinking this conversation, running through a hundred different ways it could go, and yet, now that you’re sitting in front of him, he feels utterly unprepared.

Then Spencer clears his throat. “Thanks for meeting me.”

You nod, wrapping your hands around your own drink, grounding yourself in its warmth. “Yeah. I think we need this.”

He exhales, shoulders rising and falling as he gathers his thoughts. “I don’t want to rush into anything just because of the soulmate bond,” he says carefully, like he’s testing the words as they leave his mouth. “I want to get to know you—really get to know you—before we decide what this means for us.”

Your eyes study him for a moment, unreadable, and for a brief second, doubt prickles at the back of his mind. What if you don’t feel the same way? What if you expected more, something immediate and undeniable? What if he’s already ruining this.

But then you exhale, nodding slightly.

“I do too,” you admit. “Honestly, I’ve always been worried that my soulmate would expect something right away. That they’d take one look at where my mark is and assume that’s all this is supposed to be about.”

Spencer’s chest tightens.

You hesitate, fingers pressing into the side of your coffee cup. “I was afraid of being seen as just… a cosmic guarantee of sex instead of a person.”

Spencer inhales sharply, something in his expression twisting. “I would never—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head, forcing the words out more carefully. “I don’t see you that way. I never would.”

You look at him then, really look at him, and something in your gaze softens.

“I know,” you say quietly.

And the worst part? You do know. Because Spencer Reid, for all his fumbling awkwardness, has done nothing but try to keep his distance—to not make this weirder than it already is.

Still, the fact that you had to carry that fear at all…

Spencer grips his cup a little tighter. “I always wondered what meeting my soulmate would be like,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I spent a lot of time thinking about how it would happen, how it would feel.” He lets out a small, breathless laugh. “I didn’t expect it to be—” He gestures vaguely between you. “—this.”

You laugh too, because what else can you do?

“You and me both.”

Spencer exhales, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t completely ease. “I guess part of me was scared I wouldn’t live up to whatever expectations you might have had.”

Your brows pull together. “Spencer…”

He shakes his head quickly, like he doesn’t want you to try and reassure him. “I just—I don’t want this to be something dictated by fate alone. I want it to be our choice, not just something that’s happening to us.” His fingers tap against his cup. “And I don’t want to mess it up.”

Your breath catches slightly, because that, that is something you hadn’t realized you needed to hear.

“I get it,” you say softly. “I don’t want to mess it up either.”

He looks at you then, eyes searching, like he’s trying to make sure you really mean it.

And you do.

Because even though there’s a pull between you, something almost magnetic, you don’t want to rush into it. You don’t want to make this something predetermined. You want it to be real.

You let out a slow breath. “Friends first?”

Spencer blinks, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it first.

But then his shoulders loosen, just slightly, and he nods. “Friends first.”

The words settle between you, a quiet agreement, but the bond doesn’t lessen its grip. If anything, you’re more aware of it now. The way the air between you crackles, the way every glance lingers just a little too long.

But at least now, you know you’re not alone in this.

Spencer watches you, his fingers still tapping absent patterns against his coffee cup. He wants to say something else, something reassuring maybe. But instead, he just nods, more to himself than to you.

As you both move to stand, your hands nearly brush, and for a split second, Spencer wonders what it would feel like to just give in. To let the bond take over, to find out exactly what fate has tied him to.

But he clenches his jaw, stuffing his hands into his pockets like it’ll stop the impulse.

You smirk slightly, amused by his obvious effort.

“See you at work, Spencer.”

His ears go red.

“…See you at work.”

You step out of the coffee shop, the cool morning air a stark contrast to the warmth lingering in your chest. As the door swings shut behind you, you take a breath, steadying yourself. That conversation had been… good, you think. Necessary. And yet, the undeniable hum of the soulmate bond still lingers beneath your skin, a quiet reminder that no matter how much you both insist on taking things slow, something bigger than either of you is already in motion.

You glance over your shoulder but the coffee shop window only shows Spencer still sitting at the table, his hands wrapped around his cup, staring at it like it holds all the answers to the universe. You smirk to yourself. For all his brilliance, he’s painfully obvious.

Still, you appreciate the effort. You both knew walking to work together would’ve been too much. Too soon. So, instead, he’s staying behind, waiting until enough time has passed for you to be comfortably apart by the time he leaves. It’s thoughtful in the most awkward way possible, so distinctly him that you find yourself shaking your head, amused.

With one last glance at the coffee shop, you turn forward and start walking. You don’t know what today will bring, but one thing is certain.

This thing between you and Spencer? It’s not going away anytime soon.

The bullpen hums with the usual morning energy. Agents shuffling papers, murmuring about last night’s game or the latest headlines, the scent of coffee lingering in the air. It should be like any other day, except for the way Spencer’s mind keeps circling back to you.

He tells himself it’s fine. He got here on time, sat down at his desk, and started working just like he always does. No one suspects a thing.

Except when he glances up, you’re there, sitting at your desk, sipping from the drink he ordered for you that morning. The sight of it in your hands sends a strange sort of satisfaction curling through him. He looks away fast, focusing on his paperwork.

Normal. He just has to act normal.

But the universe seems determined to make that impossible.

The bullpen moves around you like a well-oiled machine. Phones ringing, keys clacking, agents exchanging gossip and weekend plans between mouthfuls of burnt coffee. On the surface, it’s a normal morning. But the moment you sit down and take a sip from the drink Spencer ordered you, the illusion cracks.

You don’t even look up right away. You feel him.

When you finally do glance over, he’s at his desk, head down, flipping through a case file like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Which might be believable, if he weren’t holding the pages upside down.

Your lips twitch.

You’d laugh, but you’re not doing much better. Your brain keeps looping back to the coffee shop, the almost-touch, the way he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he should say goodbye or sprint into traffic to avoid it.

He showed up after you. Purposefully, obviously. It doesn't take a profiler to spot a man avoiding awkwardness at all costs. And really, you don’t blame him. It was weird. You're both still pretending it wasn't.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You make it a whole ten minutes before you need something from the filing cabinet. It’s tucked against the back wall, awkwardly close to the corner of the room, and when you get there, you tug open the heavy drawer, scanning rows of neatly labelled folders.

You hear footsteps behind you and shuffle to the side without looking. A breath later, Spencer slides into the space beside you. He’s reaching for the same drawer, his fingers brushing against yours for a heartbeat before both of you yank your hands back like the other was made of fire.

You glance sideways. He’s staring at the folder like it just insulted his mother.

“…Morning,” you say.

His jaw ticks. “Morning.”

The silence stretches.

You tilt your head, watching the way he’s very pointedly not looking at you. He’s rigid. Like someone wound him up and forgot to let him out of the packaging. You can’t help but wonder if he's always like this, or is it just around you?

Eventually, you grab your folder and step away to spare him whatever internal malfunction he’s experiencing. His relief is palpable.

It’s barely past ten when it happens again.

You step out from behind your desk at the exact same time he does, and you almost collide. Your bodies halt a breath apart, close enough that you can smell the soap on his skin, see the way his pupils flicker wide before he flinches backward in alarm.

This time, he sidesteps so hard he nearly knocks into Rossi.

“Easy there, kid,” Rossi mutters without missing a beat, brushing past with his coffee. Spencer’s halfway to combusting.

You smile, far too amused. “Smooth.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it. His ears do the talking—burning a deep, unmissable red as he mutters something that sounds like an apology before making a swift exit down the hall.

You watch him go, biting back a grin.

By the time you’re back at your desk, you’ve decided the universe must be bored. That’s the only explanation. There’s no way this many accidental run-ins can happen naturally. Not with an office this size. It’s like fate is running a slow-burn sitcom, and you’re the unwilling stars.

You try to focus on your work, but the quiet hum of conversation around the bullpen pulls you in. Morgan’s voice carries first.

Morgan’s voice cuts through first. “Okay, hear me out: stranded on an island, you get to bring one thing. What are you taking?”

“Not this question again,” Emily groans, though she’s already leaning back in her chair to join in.

JJ chimes in without looking up from her notepad. “A book. Something long. Preferably with a happy ending.”

“You’d be bored in five minutes,” Morgan shoots back. “Give me a hatchet or something useful.”

Rossi strolls past, coffee in hand. “I’d bring a bottle of scotch and a box of cigars. If I’m going down, I’m going down in style.”

That earns a round of amused groans.

You glance up just as Spencer looks over. He’s sitting across from you, posture perfect but his fingers are fidgeting slightly, tapping against a closed file. Listening.

Morgan raises an eyebrow in your direction. “Alright, your turn. What’s your one thing?”

You pause, glancing up from the file in your lap. “A survival manual I probably won’t read.”

That earns a few laughs from the bullpen.

You shrug, settling back in your chair. “It’ll make me feel better just having it. False confidence is still confidence.”

Spencer huffs something that might be a laugh, and when you glance at him, he’s watching you. Not mockingly, but with this soft, surprised kind of curiosity.

He speaks, voice measured but soft. “I’d bring a collection of classic literature.”

You raise a brow. “That’s ambitious.”

“It’s practical,” he replies. “You’d want something that lasts. Long narratives. Complex characters. Enough variation to keep your mind engaged.”

That piques your curiosity. “So you wouldn’t get tired of rereading the same stories?”

He shakes his head. “Not if they’re good ones. The kind that let you see something different every time. They grow with you. Or maybe you grow into them.”

You tilt your head. “You sound like someone who’s read them more than a few times.”

He glances down, like he’s not sure whether to be embarrassed or not. “A fair assumption.”

You smile. “So, what’s the appeal? Isn’t a lot of it just old language and people with too many names?”

He laughs, a short, surprised sound. “Sometimes. But that’s not what makes them last.”

You watch him now, genuinely curious.

“Most people approach them academically,” he says. “But that strips them of what makes them human. They’re not puzzles—they’re full of longing and desperation and hope. That’s the point. The imperfections, the contradictions.”

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t that. You watch him for a moment, struck by how earnest he is. How unselfconscious. There’s something quietly compelling about it. His passion laid bare like he didn’t think twice about offering it.

“That’s a lot of feelings for a stranded island situation,” you tease lightly.

He huffs a laugh, ducking his head. “Sorry. I know it sounds dramatic.”

You shake your head. “No, it doesn’t. Just unexpected.”

He looks like he wants to say more, so you let the silence stretch comfortably.

“I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who liked the classics,” you admit. “But I never really connected with them. It felt like I was waiting for them to make sense, and they just… didn’t.”

“That’s not your fault,” Spencer says. “A lot of them weren’t written to be accessible. But sometimes, all it takes is the right one. One that just clicks, and suddenly everything makes sense.”

You smile a little. “You make them sound worth another shot.”

He shrugs, then nods, a bit softer this time. “They are.”

You rest your elbow on the desk and lean in a touch. “Alright, then. What’s your pitch? If I was going to give one a chance.”

Spencer pauses, considering, and there’s something warmer than thoughtfulness in his eyes now. Something quietly delighted.

“I’ll get you a list,” he says.

You grin. “A curated reading experience?”

“Exactly.”

You glance down at your file again, but it’s useless now. The energy between you has shifted—warmer. Quieter. Easier.

Across from you, Spencer doesn’t go back to reading either. He just stays there, like maybe he’s not quite ready to stop talking yet.

And for once, neither are you.

The conversation between you and Spencer seems to flow effortlessly, like two people who’ve known each other for years, even though you’ve barely scratched the surface of your time together. With each laugh, each shared moment, the tension fades a little more. You feel more comfortable, more familiar.

“Wait—hold on. You can remember everything you’ve ever read?” you ask, your voice caught somewhere between awe and playful suspicion.

Spencer shifts in his seat, clearly bashful about it. “I… yeah. I have an eidetic memory. It means I can recall written material almost perfectly.”

You blink at him. “So, like… if you read the back of a cereal box once, it’s just in there forever?”

He gives a sheepish little laugh. “Unfortunately, yes. Even the part about riboflavin.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Okay, so you’re either a genius or a really charming liar.”

Spencer stumbles over his words, his face flushing a bit as he tries to recover. He looks away for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s not sure whether to laugh or be embarrassed. There’s a slight pause before he glances back at you, his eyes narrowed just a little, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re being serious or teasing him. The corners of his mouth pull into a half-smile, but it’s clear he’s still trying to make sense of the situation, clearly flustered but not in an uncomfortable way.

Around you, the office moves with phones ringing, agents chatting, soft shuffling of papers and footsteps. But through it all, the conversation between you and Spencer doesn’t really stop. It shifts and changes, slipping into new territory without either of you needing to steer it. He’s already picked up on how quick you are with a joke, how you tilt your head when you’re genuinely curious. And you’re noticing him too. The way his hands move when he’s explaining something, the way his whole face gets animated when he’s caught up in a thought. Somehow, talking to him feels natural, like you’ve been doing it forever.

“You have how many PhDs?!”

Spencer shifts in his seat, suddenly preoccupied with aligning the edge of a folder. “Three,” he says, quiet but clear.

You blink. “Three. As in... actual, real PhDs? Not like honorary ones they give celebrities sometimes?”

He gives a sheepish nod.

Your lips twitch. “I don’t think I’ve ever committed to anything long enough to earn three of anything.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, ducking his head like he’s trying to hide the way his cheeks go a little pink. He’s not quite sure what to do with your reaction, but there’s something about the way you say it that leaves him slightly off balance—in a way he doesn’t hate.

It’s easy, somehow. The way your conversation keeps going, without effort or awkwardness, like you’ve skipped over the small talk and landed somewhere comfortable. Spencer isn’t quite leaning in, but his shoulders have lost their stiffness, his eyes tracking yours with soft focus. He listens like it’s an art form, picking up on every nuance, every half-smile and curious glance. You catch bits of him in return—how he thinks before he speaks, how he seems both shy and excited when something genuinely interests him. There’s a rhythm forming between you, unspoken but steady, like you’re both tuning into the same frequency.

“You know magic?” you ask, eyebrows raised in open delight. “You have to show me a trick.”

Spencer hesitates, blinking once, twice, like he’s recalibrating. “O-okay,” he says, a little cautious, a little sheepish, as if revealing this part of himself is somehow more vulnerable than anything else he's shared. “Just—don’t laugh.”

You don’t. You couldn’t, even if you tried. You nod, eyes wide, suddenly aware of how close the two of you have drifted without noticing.

His fingers skim the air near your ear, smooth and sure, and your breath catches at the sudden closeness. The office falls away, not literally, but enough that the hum of conversation, the tapping of keys, the distant ring of a phone, all of it fades into a soft, irrelevant blur. It's just you and him.

And then—there it is. A flower in his hand where there hadn’t been one before. Then, without a word, he offers it to you.

Your eyes widen. Your lips part in surprise. You know it’s a trick. It has to be a trick. But for one suspended second, it feels like real magic. You take it carefully, fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. The stem is cool, the petals soft—real. Your brows pull together as you glance down at it, then back up at him. “Wait… this is actually real. How did you—?”

He just smiles, that small, knowing one that doesn’t give anything away. “Magician’s secret.”

And he keeps looking at you, like watching you hold that flower is the best part of the trick. Like you’re the magic he can’t explain.

The flower stays in your hand long after Spencer’s fingers leave it, soft petals warm from where his touch lingered. You glance at it again, half-expecting it to vanish like the illusion it seemed to be. But it’s real and the memory of how it got there keeps playing on a loop in your mind. The look in his eyes, the weight of his focus, the slight curl of his smile like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

You’re definitely not imagining the way things have shifted.

Every glance between you now seems to last a second too long. Every brush of proximity, every slide of his arm as he reaches past you, the heat of him when you lean over the same file, feels electric. There's an unmistakable awareness pulsing in the space between you, something neither of you names but both of you feel.

Spencer is different now. Still the same stammering, brilliant, endearingly awkward man  but there's a spark under the surface. Like he knows what effect he’s having on you and is maybe, just maybe, starting to lean into it. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize every flicker of expression on your face, like he’s mentally cataloguing the sound of your laugh, the way you bite your lip when you’re reading.

And you’re not exactly innocent in this either.

You ask questions you don’t need answers to, just to hear him speak. You tease him for fun, for the way it makes his ears turn red. You pass him things just so your fingers will touch.

It’s subtle the way it builds, slow, simmering, and sweet. But beneath all the half-smiles and sideways glances, there’s something else brewing. Something hungry. The kind of tension that coils low in your belly and makes you hyperaware of every little thing. The timbre of his voice, the slope of his neck, the way he licks his lips when he’s thinking.

You catch him looking at you more than once, his gaze slipping from your eyes to your mouth and back again. And each time, he looks away like he’s been caught but he’s not exactly apologetic about it.

Neither are you.

Because whatever this is, whatever it’s becoming, you don’t want it to stop.

You're trying to focus. You're really, honestly trying. There’s a case file open in front of you, a half-finished note jotted in the margins, and a perfectly good pen in your hand, but none of it is getting through. Your body is warm all over, tingling with leftover tension from the moment Spencer pulled a flower from behind your ear. The petals had brushed your cheek like a kiss. He hadn’t touched you then, not really, but it still felt like he had. Like something had passed between you, unseen but tangible. Electric.

Despite it all, you both manage to get back to work. The pens, the papers, the case files, they’re all still there, demanding your attention. But you’re both distracted, even if you don’t openly acknowledge it. You look back at your notes, trying to make sense of the information in front of you, but your thoughts keep straying back to him, to that moment. And it’s the same for Spencer, you can tell by the occasional glance he throws your way, the brief flicker of his eyes meeting yours.

You push through it, focusing on the task at hand, but there’s an undeniable tension between you now. It’s subtle, but it’s there, building with every shared glance and every small gesture that feels just a little too charged. It’s as though the space between you both has narrowed without either of you realizing it.

It’s been a little while since the moment with Spencer, but things still feel different. The way he looks at you, the way you can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s changed between you. You’re walking down the hallway, file in hand, but your mind is somewhere else. You’re not sure where, really. Just caught up in the way things are now. How it feels like the air between you is a little heavier.

You’re not paying attention to where you’re walking.

You stumble forward, foot catching on the floor, and the momentum pulls you ahead before you can stop it. Your heart leaps. Gravity tips you into motion, too fast to recover. But then, just as the floor rushes up to meet you, he’s there. It’s as if he appeared out of thin air, like some force pulled him into place in the exact second you needed him.

Spencer.

He catches you like he was always meant to be there, like something beyond either of you decided he would arrive in the split second you needed him. One arm loops around your waist from behind, firm and unshakable, halting your fall and drawing you back into the warmth of him. His other hand grips your upper arm, anchoring you, steadying you, like he’s done this before in some forgotten dream.

Then, he moves. Slowly. Purposefully. He turns you in his arms until you’re facing him. The world blurs for a breath as he guides you, but the moment you settle against his chest, everything sharpens. Your chest brushes his, your breath tangling with his. You can feel the strength in him, the control he’s holding onto, the tension thrumming just beneath the surface. His hand slides lower, from your waist to your lower back, moulding you to him with a kind of certainty that makes your stomach flip.

The hand at your arm lingers. His fingers twitch slightly, like they’re reluctant to move on. Then they do. Slowly. Like he's testing the water, like he's giving you every chance to stop him. He traces up the line of your shoulder, so lightly you almost wonder if you imagined it. But you didn’t. Your skin tingles under the weight of his touch, nerves lighting up as his hand drifts across the curve of your collarbone.

When his palm finally cradles your cheek, it feels like the world stills. His hand is warm, fingers curling just slightly, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone with a tenderness that feels almost impossible. He touches you like he’s afraid he’ll break something, but still needs to feel every part of you.  Your breath catches in your throat, not from the stumble, not from surprise, but from the sheer intensity of this moment. This touch. This nearness.

This is the kind of moment you wish had been your first. Not the clumsy mess of limbs and apologies. Not the heat of humiliation or the accidental touch that made your heart sink instead of soar. You wish it had been this. The quiet awe of being seen, the way he steadies you like it matters, the feel of his arms around you like they belong there. Held like you were always meant to find your way to him. Like letting you fall was never even a possibility.  Held like you were something he didn’t want to let go of. The closeness. The heat. The kind of moment that people write about, dream about, crave without even knowing what they’re craving.

Your eyes find his, and the moment shifts. Not soft. Not sweet. Heavy.

The tension that had simmered under the surface all day crests, slow and inevitable. It winds through you now, not subtle, not hidden, but full and real, like the charge before a summer storm. You’re wrapped in his scent, something warm and clean that pulls you in without trying. It clings to your skin and slips beneath your ribs, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Your hands ache with the need to move, to reach for him, to follow the path his fingers traced and answer it with your own. Every inch of you feels pulled toward him, like your body is already making the decision your mind is still catching up to.

His gaze never leaves yours. There’s something in it that steals the breath from your lungs. Something hungry. Something tender. A kind of longing that makes your throat tighten. His thumb slides along your cheekbone, barely a touch, but your knees still threaten to give. You have to lean into him just to stay upright, and maybe that was the point all along.

Neither of you speaks. It would ruin the moment. There are no words big enough anyway. Just this: your bodies pressed together, the hallway holding its breath around you, the quiet hum of something that has been building and building and has finally found its place.

His forehead nearly brushes yours. You can feel his breath, the tension in his jaw, the slight tremble in the hand on your back that betrays the calm he tries to hold. Your own heartbeat pounds, steady and hard, loud enough to drown out the world. Your lips are so close you could lean in without thinking, could kiss him and fall and never look back.

You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he’s standing this still because if he moves, he’ll close the gap. Because he wants to. Because he almost can’t help it.

You don’t know how long you stand like that. Held. Gazing. Wanting. But it’s long enough for the rest of the world to fall away. Long enough for everything else to feel like static.

This is the moment you never thought you’d get. The one that feels like it was written for you.

The silence stretches, hanging between you, fragile and full. His hand is still on your cheek, and your heart is still racing, and you can’t quite believe this is real. You watch the way his lips part, the quiet flicker in his eyes like he’s trying to figure out how to hold onto this just a little longer.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking whatever this is between you.

You nod before you find the breath to answer. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m alright.”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It’s too soft, too quiet, but it makes something flicker in his eyes. His hand lingers just a moment longer, brushing once more against your cheek before he finally begins to pull away.

“Thank you,” you say, voice trembling.

The space between you shifts as he slowly lets go, but there’s a reluctance in it, a hesitance like neither of you truly wants to break apart. His fingers are the last to fall away, brushing your waist like they might change their mind at the last second.

Neither of you moves. Not right away. You’re still in it, whatever this is. The moment hangs between you, soft and charged, like it doesn’t want to end just yet.

Eventually, Spencer steps back. You follow suit. There’s no rush to the way you part, just a quiet understanding that you both have to move, even if neither of you wants to.

You make your way back to your desk, feeling every inch of space that grows between you. It doesn’t settle the way it used to. There’s something different now, something alive beneath the surface. Spencer sits across from you, same as always, but it doesn’t feel the same. Not even close.

You try to focus. You open the file you meant to bring with you, scan the lines, click your pen, jot something down. Your fingers go through the motions, but your thoughts are still there in that hallway. Still tangled in the way his hand moved so gently, so slowly. The way he looked at you like you were something worth catching. Worth holding onto.

Across from you, Spencer doesn’t speak. But every so often, you catch him glancing up. Not obvious, just quick flickers of his gaze, almost like he’s checking to see if you’re still feeling it too.

You are.

The hours pass. Meetings blur. Paperwork piles up. You answer questions. You nod at the right times. But your awareness never quite leaves him. It’s like there’s a hum beneath everything now. A frequency only the two of you can feel.

When someone speaks to him, his voice is just a little softer than usual. When you stand, he notices. When you sit, he shifts. Nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would pick up on, but it’s there. In every small moment. In the way your bodies move in relation to each other. In the looks that pass too quickly to be caught.

And you feel it. The way the tension doesn't fade. It stretches with the day, quietly building. There's a pull in the air between you, subtle but steady. A current. It winds through each breath, each glance, each pause that lasts a beat too long.

By the time the sun dips low enough to cast golden light across the desks, the air feels warmer. Thicker. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. Your chest is tight, but not in a bad way. It’s anticipation. Something waiting at the edge of all this stillness.

You don’t know what happens next.

But the workday is ending. And whatever this is between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

If anything, it’s only just begun.

You don’t know what happens next.

But the workday is ending. And whatever this is between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

If anything, it’s only just begun.

People start to move around you, gathering their things, saying quiet goodnights. Chairs roll back, computers power down. Someone laughs faintly down the hall. You hear it all like it’s happening underwater. Distant. Muffled. None of it really touches you.

You stay seated. So does he.

Neither of you seems in any particular rush to leave, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe you're both hoping the other will wait long enough to make this more than just a day filled with glances and charged silences. You tidy up slowly, stacking papers, capping your pen, adjusting things that don’t need adjusting. Across from you, Spencer shifts his chair back just slightly, like he’s about to stand, then doesn’t.

It’s not choreographed. You don’t plan it. But somehow, you both stand at the same time.

That same quiet beat hits again, that tiny pause when your eyes meet. His bag hangs from one shoulder. Your fingers clutch your strap. The hum between you hasn’t gone anywhere.

You fall into step without speaking.

The office is quieter now. The buzz of fluorescent lights hums low overhead. The faint sound of someone typing carries from far off, but the main floor is mostly cleared out. Just a few stragglers wrapping up the last bits of their day.

You don’t speak as you walk. The silence doesn’t need filling.

When you reach the elevator, he presses the button with the same ease he does everything else, controlled, precise, but there’s a certain tightness in the set of his jaw. Like he’s holding back again. Like there’s something just under the surface he isn’t saying.

The doors slide open with a soft chime. You both step inside.

And just like that, you’re alone. The quiet feels louder now. The close walls, the faint metallic smell, the mirror-polished surfaces that reflect more than you want them to.

The doors close.

You glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

The air shifts.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it happens at the exact same time, a silent agreement neither of you speaks aloud. One second you’re standing still, and the next your back is pressing against the wall of the elevator and his mouth is on yours.

It doesn’t feel planned. It doesn’t feel like either of you made a choice. It’s instinct. Reaction. The natural conclusion to everything that’s been building between you. His hands frame your face, not gentle but not rough, like he needs to be sure you’re real while he’s kissing you like he already knows exactly how. And you don’t hesitate. You’re already reaching for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer still, because distance doesn’t make sense anymore. Not when it feels like your body already knows his.

It’s not just desire. Not just chemistry. It’s something deeper. Something that settles into your chest like recognition. Like you’ve been looking for this without realizing it.

His hand drops to your waist, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. But you’re not going anywhere. Your hands slide higher, over the slope of his shoulders, into his hair, threading through the soft strands like you’ve done it a thousand times. Like you were always meant to.

You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him. It does. It all does. This doesn’t feel new, not really. It feels inevitable.

There’s a hum under your skin, like something golden and electric threading through you both, faint but steady. It’s not the mark. It’s something else. Something internal. Like your soul just leaned forward and said, finally.

His mouth slows against yours, just slightly. Enough for breath to return in shallow, uneven pulls. His forehead presses gently to yours, and for a second, neither of you moves. His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and grounding, like he’s trying to catch his breath and memorize you at the same time.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. You just feel. The weight of his hands. The heat in your chest. The way everything around you has faded into something quiet and golden.

When he kisses you again, it’s different. Softer. Not because the want is gone, but because now it’s threaded with something else. Curiosity. Wonder. That ache that says I could get lost in this if you let me.

Your hand slides back down to his chest, resting over his heartbeat, and you finally look up at him.

“Spencer,” you breathe, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

His eyes flicker open, gaze already on you. There’s nothing rushed in the way he looks at you. Nothing uncertain. Just that steady, focused kind of attention that makes it feel like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Can we…” You trail off, but he doesn’t press. He waits, his hand still resting warm and steady on your waist.

“Can we go to your place?”

There’s a pause, not hesitation, just a beat where everything between you goes still. Then he nods, slow and sure, like the answer was always going to be yes.

“Yes,” he says, and the word settles between you like a promise.

You don’t move right away. Neither does he. The yes still lingers between you, warm and certain, and your bodies stay close like they haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.

Then your brows pull together, just slightly. There’s something off. A quiet that doesn’t feel right.

Your gaze shifts over his shoulder, past him, toward the panel on the wall.

“Did we…?” you start, and then you see it. All the lights on the buttons are dark.

Spencer glances back, following your eyes. “We didn’t press anything.”

You both stare at the panel for a second before the absurdity of it sinks in, and your lips twitch, the beginning of a laugh bubbling up in your chest.

He exhales a soft breath of disbelief, a crooked smile forming as he reaches over and presses the button. “Right. Small detail.”

The elevator hums to life at last, and your laughter lingers in the space between you, quiet and breathless.

But the moment doesn’t fade.

It just folds back in on itself, warm and wanting, as he turns back to you. You don’t waste the time. His hands find you again, yours reach for him, and this time when he kisses you, it’s with that same promise in it. That same yes.

You don’t remember the ride. Not really. Just flashes. His hand brushing yours in the car. The quiet tension sitting between you like it might combust. The shared glances that said everything words couldn’t.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You turn toward each other at the same time, like you were pulled by the same invisible thread. And then his hands are on you and yours are on him and it’s like the hallway all over again, only more. No more stopping yourselves. No more reason to.

He kisses you hard enough to make your knees buckle, and you stumble back into the wall behind you. You don’t care. You grip the front of his shirt and pull him closer, needing the weight of him, the heat. He presses into you with a low sound in his throat that you feel more than hear, something rough and quiet that makes your breath catch.

You’re not thinking anymore. Not really. Just feeling. Want. Heat. The ache of being this close and still not close enough.

Your jacket slips from your shoulders, his hands helping it off in a way that feels impatient and reverent all at once. He doesn’t throw it. He lets it fall, then his fingers are back on your hips, your waist, your jaw. Like he can’t choose where to touch you first. Like it’s all too much and still not enough.

His mouth moves to your neck, slow and searching, and your head tips back instinctively. One of your hands finds the back of his neck, the other drifts lower, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to find skin. Warm and tense and real. He exhales hard at the contact, his hips pressing into yours like he’s already forgetting what space is.

You manage to drag his shirt up, your hands clumsy with urgency, and he lifts his arms to help you pull it over his head. It catches for a second, tangled around his wrists, and you both laugh, just once, breathless and surprised, but then it’s gone and so is the pause. His mouth crashes back onto yours and your hands are everywhere again.

He walks you backward through the apartment, guided more by instinct than memory. You bump into a side table, the corner of a bookshelf, and he steadies you with one hand while the other stays pressed between your shoulder blades. You’re trying to get his belt undone, fumbling with the buckle, and he’s got your shirt halfway unbuttoned, his fingers brushing your skin with every movement.

By the time you reach the bedroom, your shirt is hanging open and his trousers are unfastened, and the air between you feels like it’s on fire.

You don’t fall into the bed. You sink, slowly, together, hands still exploring. He kisses you softer now, but it’s no less intense. It’s layered. Tender, hungry, searching. Every brush of his mouth feels like it means something. Like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.

Your fingers thread into his hair again, tugging gently, and he groans against your lips like he’s been waiting for that sound from you. You part long enough for your clothes to come off piece by piece, tossed somewhere you’ll both forget about for now.

There’s no rhythm yet. No plan. Just heat and breath and the kind of touches that feel like they’ve been a long time coming. Like the path to this moment was always winding toward here.

He settles above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing along your ribs like he’s memorizing you. Your hand finds his face, thumb brushing his cheek, and his eyes close at the touch. Not because he’s overwhelmed. Because he’s home.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. It’s there. In the way your bodies move. In the unspoken understanding that this is more than just lust. More than just timing. It’s whatever has been humming between you since the second your marks aligned, now unravelling in real time.

When he lowers his forehead to yours again, your noses brushing, your breath mingling, he whispers your name.

You whisper his back, and it sounds like a vow.

Then he kisses you again, and you let yourself fall.

He finishes removing your open shirt, his fingers sliding along the fabric until it’s pooled around your waist. The cool air hits your skin, and you shiver, but it’s not from cold. It’s from the heat of his gaze as he looks at you.

Then, with the same kind of awe that had coloured his voice earlier, he unclips your bra. It falls away, revealing your chest to him for the first time. You hold your breath, waiting for his reaction. But instead of shock, his eyes fill with something like wonder as they trace over the gold mark on your right breast. It’s a perfect mirror to the one on his palm, a shimmering constellation of flecks of gold that dance together in the dim light of his room.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin as he leans in to press a gentle kiss to the mark. It’s not sensual, not yet. It’s almost reverent. Like he’s worshipping something sacred. His thumb traces the pattern, sending sparks of sensation along your nerves. You bite your lip to hold back a whimper.

You’ve been so self-conscious of this part of you, always hidden away, and now here he is, treating it like a treasure. His eyes never leave the mark as he kisses it again, and then again, like he can’t get enough.

It’s strange, but as he worships this piece of your skin that’s been a source of fear and embarrassment for so long, something shifts within you. You feel your self-consciousness slipping away, replaced with something new. Something like... power. Like you’re not just a person anymore, but something divine.

Your hand slides down his bare back, feeling the muscles shift and twitch beneath your palm. You trace the line of his spine, down to his hip, and you can feel his body tighten with need. You know he’s trying to be gentle, trying to take it slow, but the bond between you is a livewire, electric and demanding.

You arch up to meet him, your skin brushing his, and he groans, the sound vibrating against your mark. It’s like he can feel it too, the power pulsing between you, urging you closer. His kisses become more frantic, his touches less tentative.

Suddenly, it’s not enough. The need to feel him everywhere overwhelms you, and you both rip the rest of your clothes away with the same fervent intensity. It’s a symphony of desperation that fills the room, and you don’t care about the mess. You don’t care about anything except for the warm, bare flesh pressed against yours.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he doesn’t resist. He slots himself against you, his erection pressing into your heat, and you can’t help but rock upward, seeking more contact. Spencer’s eyes darken, and he lets out a shaky breath. His hand slides down to the juncture of your thighs, and you spread them wider in silent invitation.

When his fingers touch you, it’s like a spark catches fire. You arch off the bed with a gasp, your hand flying to cover your mouth. His eyes never leave yours, watching the way your pupils dilate, the way your cheeks flush with colour. He explores you gently at first, learning the shape of you, the way you respond to his touch. You’re soaking wet, and he groans at the slick heat of you, his thumb circling your clit with a pressure that’s just right.

You want to watch him, but the sensation is too much, and you drop your head back, eyes squeezed shut. You can feel the way your body responds to him, the way it’s been waiting for this. His mouth follows the line of your neck, kissing and nipping as he works you closer and closer to the edge. His other hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb stroking over your soulmark. The feeling is indescribable—like he’s touching your very soul.

When he finally pushes two fingers inside you, you bite down on a moan. It’s perfect. He fills you just right, and you can feel yourself clench around him. He starts to move, slow and deliberate, and it’s all you can do not to scream.

You open your eyes to find Spencer watching you with an intensity that’s almost feral. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes dark with desire. His hand is a blur between your thighs, his fingers moving in and out of you with a skill that’s surprisingly gentle for someone who seems so lost in passion.

Every stroke of his fingers sends waves of pleasure crashing through your body, and you can’t help but rock against him, silently begging for more. He reads you like a book as he adjusts his touch just enough to send you spiralling closer to the edge. You can feel your muscles tighten around his digits, the tension in your belly coiling like a spring about to snap.

Spencer’s gaze remains on your face, his eyes devouring every flicker of emotion that passes over your features. It’s like he’s peering into the very essence of your soul, and it’s a heady, exhilarating feeling. It’s as if he’s come face to face with the universe and found it in you. The intensity in his stare is almost too much to handle, but it’s also the most incredible feeling you’ve ever experienced.

And then he shifts down, needing to taste you.

His mouth follows the path his hand has set, kissing your stomach, your hips, and then finally, finally, he’s there. He looks up at you, question in his eyes, and you nod, desperate for him to keep going. So he does, his tongue swiping over your folds in a teasing lick before focusing on your clit.

You bite back a cry as he circles it with the perfect amount of pressure, his fingers still working inside you. It’s like he’s unlocking some secret part of you, something that’s been waiting just for him. You’ve never felt so open, so exposed. So wanted.

His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue a masterful dance that’s driving you insane. You can feel yourself getting closer, closer, until you’re not sure you can hold on anymore. And then he adds another finger, stretching you just enough to make you gasp.

Your nails dig into the sheets, your hips rocking up to meet his mouth. He seems to understand your unspoken pleas, his tongue swirling around your clit in a pattern that’s making your vision swim. You’re so close, so, so close, and all you can do is whimper his name over and over.

The sounds you’re making are obscene, desperate and wanton, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they only spur him on. His tongue flicks and laps, and you can feel the pressure building, building, until it’s a crescendo that’s going to shatter you into a million pieces.

And then he angles his fingers just right, rubbing against your g-spot, and it’s like a dam breaks. You cum with a scream, your body arching off the bed as pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave. Your eyes squeeze shut, stars bursting behind your eyelids, and you clench around him, waves of ecstasy rolling over you.

Spencer’s mouth doesn’t leave you as you come down, his tongue gentle now, soothing. He kisses your thighs, your hips, his way of saying sorry and thank you all at once. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright with satisfaction, a smug little smile playing at his lips.

You lay there, panting, your body humming with aftershocks. It’s a strange sensation, like every nerve ending is vibrating in perfect harmony with your racing heart. You feel alive in a way you haven’t in a long time.

Spencer’s weight shifts, and you feel his body settle beside you. He’s looking at you with a soft smile, his eyes filled with something you can’t quite place—it’s a mix of satisfaction and wonder. He reaches out, his hand hovering over your skin, as if afraid to break the spell.

But you don’t let the moment linger. You beat him to it, grabbing his arm to pull him back on top of you. Your kiss is fierce, demanding. It’s like your bodies are speaking a language that’s been forgotten, and you need to relearn it with every touch, every caress. His mouth crashes against yours, and you revel in the feeling of his warm, firm body pressed against you. The scent of him, the taste of him—it’s intoxicating.

Your hand slides down his back, then lower, cupping his ass and pulling him closer. You can feel his erection, hot and heavy against your thigh, and it sends a bolt of want straight to your core. You need him inside of you. To fill you up. To complete this connection that’s been building between you since the moment you met.

You reach down and wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it with the same urgency he had used on you. He groans, his hips jerking against your palm. You can feel the heat of his breath against your neck, the gentle nibbles turning into kisses, turning into love bites. He’s lost in the sensation, his body responding to yours.

And then he’s moving, aligning himself with your entrance. You can feel the tip of him, pressing against you, and you lift your hips, silently begging for more. He pauses for a moment, his gaze searching yours, making sure you’re okay. You nod, and with one swift thrust, he’s inside you.

You both groan, the sensation of being filled so completely stealing your breath. He’s thick, and the stretch feels incredible. You tighten around him, and he stills, his eyes closing for a moment as he fights for control. You can feel him, all of him, and it’s like your body was made to fit around him.

When he starts to move, it’s slow and deliberate. He’s not taking this lightly. He’s not rushing. It’s like he’s savouring every inch of you, every gasp and shiver that runs through your body. He’s watching you, reading you, learning you like he’s memorizing a new language.

You wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in place, your ankles crossing at the base of his spine. You don’t want him to stop, don’t want this moment to end. You want to live in the feeling of him inside you forever. His strokes are deep and sure, each one hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head.

And through it all, you’re staring into each other’s eyes. It’s as if you’ve found a new way to speak—a silent language that’s more intimate than any words could ever be. You can see his love for you in those hazel depths, the way they darken with passion and burn with a fierce possessiveness that makes your heart race.

You hold on to him like you’ll be ripped away at any moment, like he’s the only anchor keeping you tethered to this world. Your hands dig into his shoulders, your nails leaving little half-moons in his skin, and you can feel the power of the bond pulsing between you like a heartbeat.

“Faster,” you moan, your voice barely recognizable. It’s a demand and a plea all at once, and Spencer seems to understand. His eyes never leave yours as he increases his rhythm, his hips moving in a steady, punishing rhythm that has you crying out with every thrust. He’s not just taking you, he’s claiming you.

You can feel your orgasm building again, the tension coiling in your belly. His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit and applying just the right amount of pressure. It’s like he knows exactly what you need before you do. Your hips buck up to meet him, your body begging for more.

With a sudden shift, Spencer rolls you over so you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you. The new angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and you gasp, your hands braced on his chest. He’s watching you with a fiery gaze, his chest heaving with every breath.

You take control, grinding down onto him with a primal need. The new angle has him hitting places that send sparks racing down your spine, and you can’t help but lean forward to take him even deeper. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, he seems to enjoy the way your body moves, the way your breasts sway with every thrust.

Leaning down, you brace your hands on his chest. You start to set a brutal pace, riding him like you’re afraid it’ll end before you’ve had enough. Your hips move in a frenzied dance, each grind and bounce sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Spencer’s grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your hips as he tries to keep up. His eyes are dark, his teeth bared in a grimace that’s part pleasure, part pain.

Suddenly, his hand slides up, his thumb brushing over your soulmark again. The contact sends a jolt of energy through you, and you throw your head back with a guttural moan. It’s like a switch has been flipped. The room seems to pulse around you, charged with more than just heat and hunger. It’s the bond, the soul-deep connection that’s been growing between you since the moment you found out about your soulmate status.

His other hand moves to play with your breasts, his thumbs circling the sensitive peaks. Each touch feels magnified, the soulmate bond acting as an amplifier for every sensation. The pleasure spirals through you, making your movements erratic as you ride him harder.

Spencer’s eyes never leave yours, even as the sweat gathers on his brow and his breathing turns ragged. His grip on your hip is firm but gentle, guiding you, urging you to take what you need. The way he watches you, with such fierce concentration and care, makes you feel cherished. It’s like he’s worshipping you, and you can’t get enough.

You lean forward, burying your nails into the taut flesh of his chest, and he gasps, the sudden sharpness of pain mixing with pleasure. You revel in the feel of his heart racing beneath your fingertips, the way his abs contract as he thrusts up into you. Your movements become more erratic, driven by a need so intense it’s almost painful. You’re so close, so very close, and you know he is too.

With each stroke, you feel yourself getting lost in the feeling of his cock inside you. The friction is perfect, the angle exquisite. You can feel him everywhere, inside you, on you, all around you. It’s like you’re drowning in him, and you never want to come up for air.

And then, almost as if he knows you’re on the edge, his hand moves. His fingers tease over your clit, and your eyes fly open in surprise. The sensation is intense, a spark of pleasure that ignites your nerves.

You lean back, bracing your hands on his thighs, and you start to move again, your hips rolling in a sensual rhythm that’s all for him. You can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your body on the edge of something massive. You’re so wet, so ready, and every stroke is pure agony in the best possible way.

He groans the second your body shifts, the new angle sending a jolt through him. His hands slip from where they had wandered, only to find their way back to your hips, gripping tighter this time like he’s trying to ground himself, but it’s no use. The view of you above him, flushed and open and moving with purpose, sparks something raw in him. Something primal. His breath stutters, eyes locked on where you take him in again and again, and he can’t look away. It’s not just the way you move. It’s the way you look doing it. Every nerve in his body lights up, hunger curling hot and deep in his gut as the pace you’ve set pushes him closer to the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, the words a rasp torn from his chest. It’s a whisper, but it feels like it echoes around the room. He can feel you tightening around him, and he knows you’re close. So close. His thumb traces lazy circles around your clit, and your hips jerk in response, your eyes fluttering shut. He loves the way you look when you’re lost in pleasure. It’s like watching the stars align.

“I’m... I’m... so close,” you groan, the words dragged from you with each movement of your body. Your voice is thick with need, and the sound of it sends a thrill through him. You’re riding him like you’re trying to outrace your own pleasure, and he can feel it building between you, a storm that’s about to break.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” Spencer whispers, his voice a hoarse rumble that makes your skin prickle. His thumb presses harder against your clit, his hips jerking up to meet your downward strokes. The way he says it, the desperation in his voice, it’s like he’s begging you, and it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever heard.

You can feel it building, the pressure in your core reaching critical mass. Your eyes fly open to meet his, and you realize he’s watching you, his gaze intense, his pupils dilated with lust. “I want to feel you cum on my cock,” he says again, the words a command that sends a shiver down your spine. You can see the anticipation in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches with restrained need.

With a final, purposeful stroke of his thumb, you shatter. The world goes white, and you scream, the sound echoing off the walls. Your vision swims, and all you can feel is the white-hot pleasure ripping through you in waves, stealing your breath. Your body clenches around him, muscles tightening and releasing in a symphony of ecstasy.

The orgasm feels like it lasts forever, your skin a live wire of sensation. Each pulse of pleasure sends a new tremor through your body, making your muscles quiver and your toes curl.

But even as your climax crashes over you, Spencer’s not done. He’s holding on, his eyes begging for something more. “Please,” he whispers, his voice strained with the effort of not letting go. “Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, the word a breathless gasp that’s barely audible. It’s all the permission he needs. Spencer’s eyes clench shut as he starts to move again, his strokes becoming more urgent, more demanding. You can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten with every thrust.

And then it happens. He cums with a roar that fills the room, his release hot and thick inside you. It’s a claiming, a bonding, a promise of forever. You feel yourself contract around him, milking every last drop of pleasure from him. It’s a moment of pure unadulterated connection.

As your orgasm subsides, your body goes limp, and you collapse against his chest, breathless. Your heart is racing, your skin slick with sweat, your body still trembling from the intensity of your climax. Spencer’s arms wrap around you, his embrace strong and steady, as if he’s afraid to let go. You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, in sync with yours, and it’s like your souls are dancing together in a rhythm that only you two know.

Your body is still pressed to his, skin damp, breath slowing as the last of the tremors fade. Neither of you moves. It’s not laziness, not really. It’s more that shifting feels like it might break something delicate that’s settled between you.

Spencer’s chest rises under your cheek, steady but uneven. One of his hands is on your back, palm spread wide, the other tucked gently around your shoulder. His thumb starts to move in slow, absent strokes, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You sigh, soft and almost sleepy, though your mind is anything but quiet.

He hums in response. Not a word, just a sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. It vibrates through your cheek, soothing in a way you didn’t expect.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence feels easy. Not awkward. Not full of things unsaid. Just full.

“I think I forgot how to move,” you mumble into his skin.

Spencer lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “You don’t have to. We can stay like this.”

You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him. “Forever?”

He looks down at you with that little smile of his, the one that’s more genuine when he’s not thinking about it. “Or until we get hungry.”

You huff a soft laugh and let your eyes fall shut again, your fingers curling gently against his ribs.

There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the warmth of his body under yours, his hand on your back, and the quiet, shared understanding that whatever this is, it’s real.

Eventually, the rise and fall of your breathing starts to match his. The world doesn’t feel like it’s tilting anymore. Just warm and quiet, like everything’s settled in its place. You shift slightly, not to move away but just to get a better look at him, your chin resting lightly on his chest.

Spencer’s eyes are half-lidded but focused on you, soft in a way that makes your heart tug a little. His hand is still on your back, thumb brushing lazy lines over your spine. The kind of touch that feels like it’s always been there. Like it belongs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this…” You trail off, searching for the right word.

He doesn’t press you to finish. Just watches you, patient and open.

“…content,” you say finally. “Like I can actually breathe.”

Spencer smiles, small but honest. “Yeah. Me too.”

You trace a slow, aimless circle with your finger against his chest. “I used to wonder what it’d be like. Finding my soulmate. I thought it would be terrifying. Or overwhelming. Some huge moment I wouldn’t know how to handle.”

“It was a little overwhelming,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You laugh, quiet and real. “Okay, yeah. It didn’t exactly start smooth.”

He lifts a hand and tucks some hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. “I used to think I’d be too much. That maybe it wouldn’t happen. Or that if it did, the person on the other end wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

The softness of his voice hits you more than the words.

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “That person would be an idiot.”

Spencer huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it catches on something more. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know it could.”

You let the moment settle between you, full and warm.

“I feel like I’ve known you longer than two days,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says. “It’s strange, but it’s not. You just… fit.”

You nuzzle into him, and he shifts slightly to make room, as if your body was meant to settle right there all along.

“I’m really happy it’s you,” you say.

His arms tighten around you, not possessive, just sure. “Me too.”

You lie there for another beat, your cheek pressed to his chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breathing as it finally begins to settle.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, but not heavy. “I know we’ve only known each other two days. And most of that involved some level of either humiliation or aggressively avoiding eye contact... but I like this.”

You smile into his skin. “Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of you says anything else for a while. There’s no need. You’re wrapped in the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled.

“I should probably get dressed,” you say eventually, not moving at all.

“You should definitely not get dressed,” Spencer replies, his voice dry.

You laugh, turning your face into his neck. “We can’t stay like this forever.”

“Why not?”

“Because eventually I’m going to need water. And food.”

He hums like he’s weighing the pros and cons. “Fine. But I’m still going to sulk about it.”

You finally push yourself upright with a sigh. “My legs forgot how to work.”

Spencer stretches beside you. “I’ll carry you to the kitchen if you want.”

You give him a look. “Bold of you to assume I’d let you carry me anywhere after how we met.”

His laugh is easy, warm. “In my defence, I was tripping over the laws of physics. Not my own two feet.”

“You fell directly into my boobs, Spencer.”

He groans and pulls a pillow over his face. “Please never say that again.”

You’re still grinning as you both get up and pull on enough clothes to be considered decent. The air feels different now, looser somehow. Like the two of you have finally caught up to whatever this thing between you is.

Spencer bumps your shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen. “You haven’t eaten since lunch. I should probably feed you.”

“You say that like I’m a stray you found sniffing around your porch.”

“You asked to come over,” he points out, giving you a look.

“Yeah. Because I was trying to be polite about jumping your bones.”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “Stray behaviour.”

You stare at him.

“I have cereal,” he offers.

“That’s not food. That’s a cry for help.”

“I have three kinds of cereal.”

“You’re not making this better.”

“I also have microwaveable rice.”

“Do you have anything to go with the rice?”

A pause.

“…I have a drawer full of granola bars?”

You groan, leaning your forehead against the nearest cupboard. “I cannot believe I just had sex with a man who lives like a feral academic.”

“I’m very resourceful,” he says, clearly too proud of himself.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Spencer leans against the counter, smug. “I’ll take it.”

You shake your head, still smiling as you pull yourself up. “Guess I’ll have to take over your kitchen. For your own safety.”

“Please do. I’ve been meaning to clean out the fridge, but I’m afraid to open it.”

You pause, halfway to standing. “You’re joking, right?”

Another pause.

“…mostly.”

You both eat something that barely qualifies as a meal, pieced together from the scraps of Spencer’s fridge and the questionable remains of his pantry. It ends up being better than expected, mostly because you’re both too busy laughing to care.

You end up on the couch, not so much by decision as by natural drift, like gravity knows where you belong. The television flickers quietly, casting silver shadows over the room while an old film murmurs in the background. Neither of you picked it out. Spencer just pressed play on something and then handed you the remote like it was a peace offering. Or maybe a thank you.

His fingers trail slowly along your arm, light and absent like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You think maybe you wouldn’t have liked that before, the mindless closeness, the way he keeps reaching for you even when there’s no need. But with him, it just fits. Like the silence doesn’t need filling. Like the stillness between you is full of something instead of empty.

“I feel weirdly… settled,” you murmur, not quite sure why you’re whispering.

“Me too,” Spencer says, lips brushing your hair as he speaks.

The movie carries on, a slow-moving plot that neither of you fully follow. It’s just background now. A reason to stay exactly where you are. Not that either of you needs one. The blanket shifts slightly as he pulls it higher around you both, like that’s all he needs to protect. Just this one corner of the world, this one soft moment.

You don’t mean to say it. The words just slip out, tucked between a breath and the shift of his fingers against your skin.

“I used to hate my soulmark was.”

Spencer doesn’t flinch. He waits, just like he always does.

“It always felt like a joke,” you go on, your voice soft. “Like someone somewhere decided to brand me in the most humiliating spot possible. It was always this… looming thing. Something I had to guard. Something I couldn’t even talk about without it sounding like a punchline.”

Spencer doesn’t speak. His thumb presses a little firmer against your skin, grounding you.

“But now,” you continue, your voice catching just slightly, “it feels... different. Like it’s just a part of me. And you—you're just... you’re more than I could have ever imagined.”

His thumb stills for a moment, but his gaze never leaves yours. “I’m glad it’s not a joke to you anymore. I don’t want you to ever feel like that again.”

You smile, the warmth of it spreading from your chest. “I’m don't. Not anymore.”

His lips press against the top of your head, gentle and steady. He doesn’t rush it. He lets the moment stretch out between you both, filling it with everything unspoken. And you don’t need words now. Not when everything feels so right.

The movie on the screen is forgotten. Time slows down, and in its place, there’s only this: the rhythm of his breathing, the way his arm tightens around you, the sound of your heartbeats blending in the quiet space between you. This ,the two of you together, is enough.

You turn your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his. The faintest smile pulls at the corner of his lips, and you feel your own heart swell with a warmth you hadn’t expected to find. A tenderness, a trust, something deeper than you thought you’d ever feel in such a short time.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say softly, the words almost surprising you as they slip out. “About the future.”

He raises an eyebrow, his hand brushing lightly against your arm. “What about it?”

“About how... how this feels like the start of something. Something real. And how, every day, I’m going to fall more for you. I know that now.” You hesitate for a moment, then add, “I could see us—well, I could see myself... building something with you.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, the depth of his gaze catching you off guard. “You’re not scared of that? Of all the things that come with it?”

You shake your head, a small smile curving your lips. “No. I think I’m ready for it. For whatever comes next with you.”

Spencer’s thumb traces slow circles against your arm, as though he’s still processing what you’ve said, but you can see the certainty in his eyes. “I think we’ll be good at it. At building whatever comes next,” he says, his voice low, but steady. “I want that too. More than I ever thought I would.”

You nestle closer, feeling the steady warmth of his embrace, a comfort that feels like it’s going to last. It’s not just about this moment, but everything that could come after. And for the first time, you realize that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“You know,” you say, the words almost playful as you lean against him. “I never thought I’d be sitting here with my soulmate. Definitely not this quickly.”

Spencer chuckles softly, the sound warm and reassuring. “Yeah, neither did I. But here we are.”

You pull the blanket up a little higher around you both, the room settling into a soft quiet. You know that no matter what happens, tomorrow will be just as good. Every day will be filled with moments like these, moments of connection, of laughter, of love growing quietly between you.

For once, you’re not afraid of the future. It feels like a promise, and all you have to do is keep going, together. You glance up at Spencer, and in his eyes, you see the same certainty you feel in your own chest.

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you,” you whisper.

Spencer’s voice is full of quiet intensity as he responds, “I’ve spent my whole life imagining this. Imagining you. All the little things I didn’t even know I was waiting for. And now that you’re here... you’re more than I could have dreamed. You’re everything I never knew I needed.”

And, as the old movie plays on in the background, neither of you needs anything more than this moment, wrapped up together on the couch, knowing that the days ahead will only bring you closer. That each day, each smile, each touch, will only make you both fall further in love with each other. And for once, you know this is exactly how it’s meant to be.

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR I

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3.6k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: This story is inspired by the 2012 movie This Means War. I went back and forth on whether to write it with a named OC or in reader format—and ultimately decided to try something new and go with reader-insert. I usually write in third person with original characters, so this is a bit of a different style for me. As for who the reader ends up with… I haven’t made a final decision yet—maybe one of them, maybe both. Feel free to let me know who you’re rooting for! Hope you enjoy the chaos! warnings: None so far except for the fact that I don't know anything about neuroscience only what my research brings up, so I'm praying the shit I write makes sense

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The lecture hall smelled like old paper and burnt coffee. You stood at the front, spine straight despite the fatigue threading through your muscles. Behind you, the whiteboard was half-covered in scrawls of chemical structures and dopamine pathways, neatly drawn and precisely labeled. It was the kind of lecture that left half the room wide-eyed with curiosity… and the other half silently praying for mercy.

With a quiet click, you capped your marker and continued. “Neurotransmitter binding is not a one-size-fits-all process,” you said, voice steady as your gaze swept across rows of glazed eyes and frantic scribbles. “It’s dynamic. It’s reactive. It’s shaped by genetics, trauma, medication—even what you ate for breakfast.”

A hand shot up in the second row.

“So… like, can serotonin make you hallucinate?”

You blinked. “No. And if it does, someone’s given you something else—and you should go to the ER. Immediately.”

A ripple of laughter. A few groans.

Another hand rose—this one from a sharp-eyed girl near the back. “In Joker toxin exposure cases, have you ever seen synthetic mimicry of dopamine flood patterns?”

Now that was a question worth respecting.

You’d specialized in Joker toxin during your postgraduate years, had seen firsthand the neurological carnage it left behind. The clown was a madman no doubt—but a dangerously brilliant madman.

Your mouth tugged into a faint smirk. “Yes. And no. But that’s a topic for next week.”

The clock ticked toward the hour. You fielded three more questions—one insightful, two exhausting—before dismissing the class. 

Backpacks zipped. Conversations stirred. As the last student filed out, you finally exhaled. Slowly. The silence was a relief.

Rolling your shoulders, you gathered your coat and bag, the weariness catching up to you in waves as you made your way toward the door—hungry, tired, and vaguely craving something that didn’t taste like caffeine or sugary energy drinks.

Gotham’s streets buzzed with their usual chaos—honking cabs, barking vendors, motorcycles weaving between traffic like they were flirting with death. You walked with familiar ease, the city noise fading beneath the throb behind your eyes and the pressure at the back of your skull.

Your hand drifted up to your bun. It had been tightly wound since six in the morning, and now it felt like a migraine on a countdown. Mercifully, you didn’t have to be in the lab today—no microscopes, no sterile gloves, no post-doc breathing down your neck. Just freedom. Glorious, unwashed, unbothered freedom.

So you didn’t hesitate. One by one, you tugged the pins from your hair, each metallic clink falling into your coat pocket like a tiny rebellion. The strands spilled down, wild and full of indents, but you didn’t care. You tipped your head back, rubbed at your aching scalp with slow, tender fingers, and sighed like you’d been holding your breath all day.

You looked like hell. You felt like hell. But you were done. No lectures. No lab reports. Your appearance be damned you just wanted to spend the rest of the day in comfort. 

Your boots clicked along the sidewalk as you headed toward Café Nero, already imagining the warmth of a latte in your hands—despite your earlier claim about cutting back on caffeine. A lie, obviously. Caffeine was practically your lifeblood— and something carby in your mouth.

But the universe had other plans.

You turned the corner—and nearly collided headfirst with a ghost.

Jake.

Three years of your life bundled into one name, one face. One half-curved smile that looked exactly like it used to and somehow worse now that it was being directed at someone else.

Three years of your life compressed into one name. One face. One irritatingly familiar smirk. His arm was around a tall blonde, her smile radiant and far too trusting. He wore the same smug charm he always had as he said something that had her giggling. 

He noticed you first.

“Hey!” he said, voice way too bright. “Y/N. Wow. You look…” his eyes flicked over your rumpled sweater, your wild hair, “…great. Still at the university? Tinkering away in your little lab?”

You straightened instinctively, spine snapping to attention like your body was trying to make up for the indignity of the moment. Of all the days to run into him.

“I am,” you replied, polite but clipped.

Three years together, and he still couldn’t grasp the importance of your work—or the lives it affected. Your research had been groundbreaking, and he’d always referred to it like you were tinkering with science fair projects.

The blonde leaned into his side with a warm smile. “You didn’t tell me your ex was brilliant and pretty.”

You wanted to hate her. Truly, you did. But unfortunately… she actually seemed sweet.

He laughed. “I forget sometimes.” Then turned back to you with that same infuriatingly casual smirk. “Oh—uh, Y/N, this is my fiancée, Hannah.”

The word hit like a slap.

Fiancée.

Only a year ago, you’d walked in on him and his yoga instructor, limbs tangled and guilt nowhere in sight. He’d thrown away three years with you like it was nothing—and now, not even twelve months later, he’d found someone new and locked her down with a ring so big it probably needed its own insurance policy.

You managed a smile. A real one, for her sake. Sort of. “It’s nice to meet you.” Your eyes dropped to the large, glittering ring on her hand.

“Wow,” you said with a tight smile. “That’s… that’s a big rock.” You let out an awkward laugh, trying muster the slightest bit of enthusiasm you definitely weren’t feeling on the inside. “You’re engaged. To be married.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. Things just… clicked. It was like fate.” Then he reached out and stroked her cheek with the kind of performative tenderness that made your stomach churn. 

God. How had you ever loved this man?

“Isn’t that right, baby?” he murmured.

Someone gag you with a spoon.

You stood there, frozen in place, as Jake pulled Hannah in for a kiss—deep as if he was trying to fit his entire tongue down her throat. Screw you, you thought. Screw you for rubbing her in my face.

You cleared your throat, the sound awkward and a little too loud. “Well, I should get going,” you began—except your mouth didn’t stop there.

Your brain screamed abort, but your tongue had other plans.

“I actually have to go meet my guy. Yeah, he’s a neuroscientist too. We, uh… met at work.” You nodded like that somehow made it more convincing. “Anyway…”

You cleared your throat again, silently begging yourself to shut up.

“It was… great seeing you. And congrats. On the ring. The upcoming wedding. Your whole… life. All of it.” You winced inwardly. “Well… Peace.”

And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, you topped it off by flashing a peace sign like some glitching robot before turning and briskly walking away.

The second you were out of sight, your smile collapsed. You pressed your lips together, debating whether to scream into the sky or crawl into the nearest sewer.

“Someone kill me right now,” you muttered under your breath.

CAFÉ NERO

You finally made it to the café, and with it, your mortification began to loosen its grip. The familiar scent of roasted beans and fresh pastries wrapped around you like a warm blanket, softening the sting of everything that had come before.

Inside, it was calm—the gentle hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of scattered conversations. A peaceful hum that felt like the complete opposite of Jake and his nauseating tongue display.

You slipped into your usual seat at the counter, letting your bag slump to the floor, and leaned against the worn wood like it might hold you up a little longer.

“Ah! Doctora!” Juan greeted you with a bright smile from behind the bar.

He was a sweet kid—maybe nineteen—who’d moved to Gotham from Mexico about six months ago. His English was improving steadily, though every now and then he’d still stumble over a few words. You’d quietly helped where you could. While he knew your name, he aways insisted on calling you Doctora like it was your superhero title. 

You snorted at the thought. You, a superhero? You couldn’t even save yourself from an awkward conversation with your ex.

“The usual?” he asked, already reaching for your cup.

“Si, please,” you nodded.

He glanced up with a curious smile. “Long day?”

You let out a soft groan, dropping your face into your hands. “You have no idea.”

The door chimed behind you, but you didn’t bother looking up. Not until you felt someone hovering a little too close to the seat beside you. 

You prayed your luck wasn’t that shitty.

But of course, it was.

Jake’s familiar chuckle slid into your ears like nails on glass. You closed your eyes for half a second, steeling yourself, before slowly peeling your face from your hands.

“This is too funny,” he said with a grin. “What a coincidence.”

“Right! Absolutely hilarious,” you replied, forcing a smile that you hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt as you saw Jake and Hannah standing there.

“I’m assuming this is your boyfriend’s seat?” Jake asked, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Oh, ye—”

Before you could finish, Juan slid your drink across the counter, cheerful as ever.

“No, Doctora,” he said, accent warm, words slightly clipped at the edges. “Order for one. Always order for one. Seat is free.”

You nearly choked on air.

Hannah giggled while Jake said nothing. Just raised his eyebrows slightly, in that smug little way he used to do when he thought he’d won something.

God, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

You smiled tightly. “It is. I’m meeting him back at work. Just stopped in quick. Juan, I thought I said I needed this to-go?”

Juan frowned, brows pinching together. “Mmm… no, I don’ think so. You say you finish work. You always sit here, like always.”

“Not this time,” you said—too sharp, too fast.

Juan’s face fell a little. Guilt bloomed in your chest like a bruise, he didn’t deserve that. It was your own damn fault for digging the hole in you were now.

You sighed, softer this time. “Lo siento, Juan. Can you make it to-go, please?”

He nodded, already reaching for the paper cup and bag.

You turned back to Jake with a forced laugh. “Seat’s all yours.”

The second Juan handed you the new cup and pastry bag, you thanked him quietly, paid, and practically sprinted for the door—mortified, humiliated, and more than ready to go home and bury yourself under ten layers of shame.

MILO & ANTHONY’S APARTMENT

“Ugh! I wanted to die right then and there,” you groaned, collapsing dramatically onto Milo and Anthony’s couch, a glass of wine already halfway gone. Their apartment was across from yours, and you’d made a beeline for it the second you got home, desperate to drink your embarrassment into submission. “I fucking peaced them.”

Anthony winced. “Yeah, that’s… pretty bad.”

“That’s because you need to go out more,” Milo said, waving his wine glass like a pointer. “Meet someone. Rub him all over Jake’s face like a human flex—same way he’s doing with that girl, Hayley.”

“Hannah,” you corrected automatically. “And she seemed sweet.”

“She could be as sweet as cotton candy dipped in honey and I still wouldn’t give a shit,” Milo snapped. “I give a shit about you. And you cannot keep letting that asshole rent space in your head.”

You opened your mouth, but Milo steamrolled right over you.

“Fine if you’re not ready for anything serious, but girl—you need to go out and get some good dick. That pussy is drier than the Sahara.”

You choked on your wine. “Hey! I get some!”

Milo deadpanned you. “Your vibrator doesn’t count. Honestly, it should start charging you. Thing looks like it’s about to file for workers’ comp.”

You blinked. “Have you been going through my drawers again?!”

He shrugged without shame. “I was looking for your face cream.”

“And you thought I keep that in my underwear drawer?” 

“Look, the point is,” he said, sitting forward, “you need to go out. Date. Even just a casual thing. I hate seeing you mope over that troll.”

“I’m not moping,” you muttered.

Anthony gave you a soft smile—too kind for this earth. “We’re just worried about you. And hey, for the record, we’re glad you moved here. You’re part of our chaos now.”

You exhaled, guilt and warmth stirring in your chest. “I know. It’s just… I can’t believe I was that blind. I nearly gave up everything for him. I even moved back to this shit-hole of a city—where clowns and penguins blow up buildings and guys in capes fight crime in full spandex.”

“Well, at least Gotham has a certain… charm,” Anthony offered.

“I mean, it’s great if your idea of charm is daily arson,” you deadpanned.

“We are happy you’re here,” Milo agreed, his voice softer for once. “But you’ve gotta stop beating yourself up. Even I thought he might’ve been your person—but he wasn’t. That’s on him. His loss, not yours. You’ve gotta move forward, babe.”

“I am dating,” you said weakly.

“No, you’re talking to people. You don’t even give them a real shot.” He raised his brows. “You can’t test chemistry without mixing the liquids.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s more complex than just ‘mixing liquids,’ Milo. There’s neural signaling, oxytocin regulation, attachment frameworks, behavioral conditioning… Timing alone can throw everything off. You can’t just drop two people into a room and expect chemistry. That’s not chemistry—it’s chaos.”

“Why not?” Milo shrugged. “People do it all the time. You’re overthinking it—as usual. But if it helps, just treat it like another one of your experiments.”

“It’s not that simple,” you argued. “My experiments have structure. Charts. Data. Equations. Control groups.”

“Exactly!” Milo clapped his hands. “Which is why you should try online dating. They have charts and shit.”

You let out a snort. “Please. In this city? Knowing my luck, I’d end up matched with a serial killer. Or worse—the Joker.”

Anthony tilted his head thoughtfully. “Does the Joker even online date?”

Milo groaned. “You’re both insane. There are plenty of semi-normal people on those apps. It’s how me and Anthony met.”

You gave him a flat look. “Exactly.”

You gave him a long, pointed look. “Point proven.”

“No.” Milo leaned in. “The point is you need to get back out there. Whether it’s for a wham-bam-thank-you-man kind of night, or you end up calling me crying because you just met the father of your future babies—I don’t care. You just can’t keep living in Jake’s memory. Not everyone is like him.”

You groaned, tipping back the rest of your wine in one go. “I know that.”

He raised an eyebrow, giving you a look.

“I do!” you insisted. “Look, can we table this for now? I just want to drown my feelings and make future-me regret the hangover I’m definitely earning tonight.”

GOTHAM ROOFTOPS

Boots hit the edge of a rooftop with a soft scrape of gravel. Jason Todd scanned the streets below, hands resting at his sides, jacket collar tugged up against the bite of the early spring cold. He moved with restless energy—agitated, impatient, ready for something to go wrong.

“This is a bust,” he muttered into the comms. “Three blocks, no action. Not even a wannabe thug with a pocket knife and poor life choices. I’m starting to think Gotham forgot how to be Gotham.”

There was a beat of silence before Dick’s voice came through, dry and amused.

“Or maybe you’re just scaring the criminals too much, Hood. Ever consider early retirement?”

Jason rolled his eyes behind the mask. “Only if you go first, Nightwing. I thought Blüdhaven was where all the action was—what’re you doing slumming it with us Gotham bottom-feeders?”

“It is,” Dick replied. “But every now and then I like to slum it with my baby brother. Make sure you’re not burning down half the city in my absence.”

Jason snorted. “You’re only older by what, five years and a moral superiority complex?”

Before Dick could answer, Barbara’s voice cut in over the channel, sharp and clear.

“Seems like you’re about to get your wish, Jason. I’ve got eyes on suspicious movement down at the docks—east side, Warehouse Eleven.” Barbara drawled through the comms. 

Jason was already moving, boots hitting gravel as he took off across the rooftop. “Now we’re talking.”

Dick followed a step behind, vaulting over a low pipe with practiced ease. “Arms deal?”

“Most likely,” Barbara confirmed. “Thermal scans show at least four bodies. No confirmed ID yet, but one of them matches a known associate of Black Mask.  “Be smart. And try not to level the building, Jason.”

“No promises,” he said, grin audible.

WAREHOUSE ELEVEN, EAST DOCKS

The docks were dead quiet when they arrived—too quiet. The kind of stillness that always meant something was waiting to go wrong. The air smelled like oil and sea rot, and the only sounds were the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of aging chains swaying in the wind.

Jason crouched at the edge of a container stack, pistols holstered at his thighs, his gaze locked on the warehouse below. His breath clouded in the cool air.

“East lot’s clear,” he murmured into the comms. “Nothing but rats and roaches.”

Dick landed beside him in a soundless roll. “So, your usual crowd.”

Jason didn’t glance over. “That’s twice tonight. Keep it up and I’ll tell everyone you cried during that Pixar movie.”

“I was twelve. And it was Up, you heartless bastard.”

“Still counts.”

They moved in silence, slipping through a broken window high on the warehouse wall. Their boots hit the rafters without a whisper. Below them, four men circled a battered folding table strewn with crates, unmarked cases, and haphazard stacks of cash. A single overhead bulb flickered overhead, casting shifting shadows across the concrete floor.

Jason zoomed in with his HUD. “I know that one—left side. Carlo Mancini. Low-tier runner for Sionis. Looks like he’s about to piss himself.”

“Might mean he knows something,” Dick murmured.

They listened.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Mancini hissed, voice tight and shaky. “It’s gonna be big. Joker-level big.”

One of the others scoffed. “The hell you talkin’ about? Joker’s been off the grid for months.”

“Yeah, and now he’s back. Lookin’ for someone—some guy who used to run with him, then bailed. Word is, he took something. Something important.”

Jason’s fingers curled slowly around the grip of his pistol.

“It’s not his usual stuff either,” Mancini went on, voice dropping to a whisper. “Heard it’s from Scarecrow too. Some freak chemical—don’t kill you right away. Makes you laugh yourself insane. Till your heart gives out.”

A beat of silence.

“No cure for it, either.”

Jason exhaled. “Shit.”

Beside him, Dick’s jaw flexed. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Jason gave a tight nod. “If the Joker and Scarecrow teamed up and made something new—and someone stole it…”

Dick’s voice was grim. “Then Gotham just became a countdown clock. And we’re already late.”

Without another word, they moved.

Jason dropped from the rafters like a shadow cutting through fog, landing hard enough to make one of the thugs flinch. Dick followed a breath behind, graceful and quiet. By the time the first man reached for his weapon, Jason had already disarmed him with a sharp twist of his wrist and sent him sprawling with a solid elbow to the jaw.

Dick swept the legs out from under another, zip-tying his wrists with practiced ease. The other two barely had time to shout before they were taken down—one with a stun baton to the ribs, the other with a boot to the sternum.

Mancini tried to run.

Jason caught him by the collar, slammed him against a crate with just enough force to knock the air from his lungs. “Going somewhere?”

The runner gasped, eyes wide with panic. “I didn’t—look, I don’t know anything!”

“You know enough to be scared,” Jason growled, pressing his forearm into the man’s throat. “So start talking.”

“Okay—okay!” Mancini wheezed, both hands raised in surrender. “I just heard whispers, man. Word on the street is Joker and the ‘crow are lookin’ for someone—most likely one of his old runners. Said he took something. Chemical notes, maybe the whole damn formula. Whatever it is, it’s important. Real important. Joker’s tearing through people trying to get it back.”

Jason’s gaze darkened. “You know who this guy is?”

“No name,” Mancini coughed. “Just that he used to run logistics—backdoor stuff. Quiet type. Smart guy. Kept to himself. Real ghost.”

“Not smart enough if he got himself tangled up with the Joker and Scarecrow,” Dick muttered.

Jason’s hand tightened. For a moment, Dick thought he might snap.

“Jason,” he said, quiet. A reminder.

Jason let go.

Mancini dropped to his knees, coughing and trembling. Jason stepped back into the shadows, tapping his comm.

“You catch all that, Oracle?”

Barbara’s voice filtered in, sharp and efficient. “Every word. Red Robin and B are already digging. If this guy’s in Gotham, we’ll find him. But until then, you two are off the clock. Get some rest.”

Jason exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

Dick shot him a look. “Try to actually listen for once. Not everything has to be solved in one night.” 

With that, he clapped Jason on the shoulder and nudged him toward the exit—just as the distant wail of GCPD sirens broke the silence, growing louder with every passing second. Cleanup crew was on its way.

Jason didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his thoughts already miles ahead—backtracking whispers, dissecting clues, remembering the sound of laughter that still echoed in the corners of his nightmares.

It was rare for the Joker to get invested in anything. He thrived on chaos, not consistency. But if he was serious enough to go out of his way to hunt down some nobody, then whoever had the formula was sitting on a bomb.

Next Chapter →

[anawritez-smutt]

Tom w/ a breeding kink....

“You don’t understand,” he growled, fingers digging into Y/N’s hips like he could mold her into the perfect shape to carry his madness.

The pressure was firm, almost possessive, as if he was claiming not just her body, but her very soul. His touch was cold fire, a contradiction that left her breathless.

“You’re not just mine. I need to leave something in you. Something permanent. Legacy.” His voice was low and dangerous, a promise laced with dark magic.

Y/N trembled beneath him, not from fear but from the way his words wrapped around her like a curse he wanted to cast again and again.

The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with invisible threads of power and obsession.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispered, dragging his lips along the delicate curve of her throat.

His breath was hot, almost scorching against her skin, stirring a fierce hunger in the pit of her stomach.

“Tell me you want to bear my name. My heir.”

Her heart hammered painfully as she swallowed, the weight of his obsession sinking into every fiber of her being.

“Yes,” she gasped, voice trembling but fierce. “I want all of it. You, your darkness, your child.”

His eyes burned with something older than desire something almost sacred, as if this was a ritual written in the stars long before their time.

“Good girl.” The words were a benediction and a command, heavy with promise and inevitability.

Tom’s hands tightened at her hips, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

His lips found hers again, this kiss deeper, hungrier full of possession and an aching, desperate need to bind her to him forever.

[beloveds-embrace]

(p4 of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader | cw: angst | masterlist)

A day came that none of them expected, even if they should have.

The day when the sky itself seemed to hold its breath, when the very walls of the castle leaned inward in aching dread and condensation dripped like tears over the aged stone.

You stood alone in the center of the courtyard, where the last warmth of the afternoon sun pooled around you like woven silk, threading through your hair and gilding your skin with a soft, fading glow. Behind you, the winter roses stretched in riotous, sorrowful bloom- petals like thousand tiny white fires blazing against the creeping gray of the castle stone. Their scent, sharp and sweet, filled the air so heavily it was almost suffocating, and yet you seemed untouched by it, adrift in a world slowly folding in on itself only in your eyes.

The fae and the creatures of the castle gathered without meaning to, summoned not by any spell but by the deep, instinctive pull of grief- small, winged sprites with trembling gossamer wings clinging to the columns, knot-spirits huddled in the ivy with their glowing eyes wide and mournful. Even the ancient dryads, so rarely seen, leaned from the twisted trees, their hair a veil of weeping vines, their mouths open in silent horror as they watched the terrible unmaking of something precious.

You turned in a slow, uncertain circle, the worn hem of your gown brushing softly across the stone, your bare feet tracing arcs in the thin dust. A frown pinched your brow, delicate and confused, and your fingers plucked mindlessly at the fabric gathered at your waist, the nervous gesture of a child lost in the woods. Your eyes, once so brilliant with laughter and cunning and love, were wide and glazed now, reflecting the world around you as if it were already slipping beyond your grasp- as if you were beyond your own grasp.

John was the first to move; his boots made almost no sound on the worn stones as he stepped forward, each step measured, careful, as though approaching a wounded animal who might bolt at the slightest wrong motion.

He smiled a smile so soft and broken it could have melted mountains, could have silenced the wars of old, had it been seen by any creature less consumed by confusion than you were. His arms opened, slow and steady, offering the only thing he had left to give you: his unwavering love- even if it was the chain binding you now.

"[]" he spoke, yet the words came out muddled to your ears, unpleasant and unwanted. The unshed grief in his tone, thus, escaped you. "There you are."

You blinked at him, once, twice, like trying to clear rain from your lashes, then tilted your head just slightly to the side, like a bird puzzled by its reflection in a mirror.

The frown deepened, and a tremor passed visibly through your frame, so fragile and uncertain that even the bravest of the castle's knights could not have borne the sight without flinching.

"...Are you speaking to me?" you asked. The words were soft, high and frightened- a butterfly trapped against glass. And the courtyard magic, already strained near to breaking, shivered under the weight of said words, rippling outward in a wave that left dreadful silence in its wake.

John’s heart thudded painfully once against his ribs, the force of it staggering him a half step forward, hands reaching out for you, always you.

Johnny gave a short, raw bark of laughter- too sharp, too desperate- as if clinging to hope that this was all some cruel jest, that any moment now you would laugh and scold him for being so easily fooled and pretty starpetals would bloom and everything would be fine.

But when your gaze swung to him, wide and unknowing, that flicker of hope died hard and fast and wretched in his chest, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to smother the wounded sound that escaped.

"You," You said again, voice cracking like thin ice. "You keep saying [], but… but I don't know if that's meant for me."

You stared down at your hands, as if they belonged to someone else, as if they might carry the answer hidden in their lifeline scars and soft, faded calluses. You wrung them together, desperate, helpless, a flickering figure of loss against the gathering dusk, and held your face in them. Your voice dropped then, so low, so broken, that the very stones seemed to lean closer to hear the death knell of hope:

"I… I don't even know what my name is anymore."

The courtyard magic buckled violently inward, like a ship struck fatally below the waterline, and the wind shrieked- a high, keening sound that rattled the stained glass windows in their ancient frames. The winter roses, once so proud, wilted black and sagged against their thorned vines, their life snuffed out as if by an unseen hand.

Because in the world of the fae, names are everything.

A name is the blood and the breath and the bone of existence; it is the song written into the fibers of the soul, the anchor to memory, to history, to self. The thread that weaves a soul into the tapestry of life. And without it, you were not merely lost.

You were unraveling.

The castle mourned deep within its foundations, stones weeping bitter, shimmering tears that ran in thin rivulets along the walls. Will-o-wisps, who had danced so joyfully once in your presence, fell from the air like extinguished stars, leaving behind only fading sparks that blinked out one by one- unable to withstand this tragedy. Even the sun, as if unable to bear witness to what was unfolding, slipped behind a mourning veil of silver clouds, casting the world into a dim, mournful twilight.

Thrain came forward then- mighty, ancient Thrain- and the ground trembled beneath his hooves, each step reverberating through the cracked bones of the courtyard. He lowered his vast, crowned head and pressed it gently, reverently to your frail shoulder, thick fur brushing against your skin; it was an offering, a lifeline, an ancient beast’s desperate attempt to anchor you to this world with the only strength he had left.

You barely noticed, your hands lifting only weakly to tangle in his fur, your eyes staring sightlessly beyond him.

Your men could only watch, helpless and hollowed out.

Johnny pressed his fists to his mouth, biting down so hard that the sharp tang of blood filled his mouth, but it wasn’t enough to ground him, wasn’t enough to stop the trembling.

Kyle, who had spent hours weaving a crown of meadowflowers to coax a smile from you, dropped it from numb fingers, the blossoms scattering at his feet like spilled blood.

Simon turned away from the sight of you, broad shoulders heaving once, a hand braced against the stone wall as if the weight of the moment had finally driven him to his knees.

But John stood very, very still; as though if he moved too fast, too wrong, you might vanish entirely.

He crossed the space between you with slow, reverent steps, falling to his knees before you in the dying light. The winter roses brushed against his shoulders, and where they touched him, their petals blackened and withered, unable to survive the depth of the sorrow bleeding from his soul.

"Listen to me." He begged, his voice rough, ragged, almost unrecognizable from the weight of his grief.

You turned your gaze to him then, confused, and John felt the last stronghold of his heart crumble to dust.

"You are you," he said fiercely, as if sheer force of will might weave your fraying soul back together. "You are ours. You are mine. You are not lost. I don't care what name you remember- your soul knows me. I swear it."

You lifted a hand, trembling, uncertain, and brushed your fingertips lightly through his beard, as though trying to remember what kindness felt like- and then you smiled.

A small, confused, heartbreakingly tender smile.

"I like you." You whispered, so simple.

It was the final blow; John the unshakable, the immovable, the king who had ended wars and torn down gods- folded forward, pressing his forehead to your lap, and wept, his shoulders breaking under the ache.

Not the quiet, dignified tears of mortal men. No, this was the weeping of ancient kings, of gods laid low. Ragged, broken, soul-deep sobs that tore free from him like the very earth breaking open, shaking him down to the marrow.

And all around you, the castle mourned with him: torches sputtered and went out; hearths dimmed to embers, and the very air turned heavy and thick, until even the wind could no longer bear to move. The creatures covered their eyes with their tiny, trembling hands, and the dryads wept openly, their tears falling like pearls onto the cracked stone.

And even Thrain bowed his great head lower still, his breath smoking in the chill air, his ancient heart breaking with yours.

That night, the castle was silent; no music drifted from the high towers, no dances lit the green halls and the stars themselves bent low over the ruined earth, their silver light dim and broken, as though mourning what was slipping away.

And only John lay curled around you in the vast, cold bed, the heavy silence broken only by his shattered voice whispering into your hair:

"I love you," he said, again and again, as if the words might build a bridge back to you even if he damn knew better. “I love you, even if you forget me. I love you, even if you forget yourself. I love you, even if the stars forget to rise. I will cure you, even if I must tear my own love apart and you’d hate me for the rest of eternity.”

And you, soft and small, lost and beloved- slept on, nameless and dreamless, but still, somehow, still wrapped safely in the arms of the man who would carry your memory when you no longer could.

Always.

p5

[chewnotchoke]

like no one else can

ೃ࿐ boynextdoor as your situationship

this was fun to write,,i was wondering if i should make individual fics abt this...what do yall think? ^__^ feedbacks and comments are appreciated ! and also my ask is always open if u wnna chitty chat <3

warnings: fluff, intense pining, light angst, signs of red flags

wc per member: ~250-400

sungho

“i’m trying to understand what am i to you?”

𓍯 situationship with sungho would be filled with a lot of "almosts" that keep you guessing, excitement, and unexpected outcomes. he would have this easygoing, carefree attitude as if he truly enjoyed your time together, but he’s also hard to pin down. he would bring you as his ‘plus one’ to parties or events and he has once invited you to a family outing “as a friend”

𓍯 sungho likes to do actions that you couldn’t help but assign meanings to these little things. he would give you a bite of his food in between laughter and throw tiny comments such as “i thought about you the other day.” the way he laughs at your jokes, recalls small details you mention, and checks up on you in between classes makes you question if he does the same with other people. if you didn't witness him opening doors for people, helping classmates with their homework, and giving the same endearing smile to anyone in need, it would be quite easy to convince yourself that the things he did to you meant something.

𓍯 when you mention being cold, he casually throws his hoodie over your shoulders and says, "just give it back whenever." yet it stays with you for days and he doesn't bring it up either, as if sharing his hoodie has become a relationship between you two. but when you decide to give it back, your heart aches to see another girl wearing his hoodie.

𓍯 the combination of highs and unanswered questions would be thrilling, and his charm would entice you to return for more. but the question “what am i to you” hangs in the open air because then, if you really meant something to him, he wouldn’t have treated others the same way he did to you.

𓍯 was it mutual at some point? maybe, or maybe not.

riwoo

“i know it’s casual but i look for you in a room full of people”

𓍯 likes having alone time with you. plans a hang out with your friends to watch a movie but the truth is he didn't invite anyone else just so he could watch the movie and spend time alone together. at the end of the movie, you'd just be wiping off your lips because you spent the whole time making out.

𓍯 situationship with riwoo is almost like a secret. he knows how to pull you towards him, and the relationship has you on chokehold. most of the time, he makes moves that make you question the very foundation of your relationship. he acts like he likes you. but does he actually do?

𓍯 during a chill drinking celebration at your friends' house, both of you always find a reason to text each other even if you're literally in the same room. that one time when you were seated a little too far from him, he pulls out his phone, typing under the table making sure no one gets a peak of his message, he would send you, "you're too far from me :(" it seems as though the thread that binds you is stronger than everything else, and every communication feels like a secret that only the two of you know. you'd look up from your phone to give him a glance and he gives you a subtle look—the look that even when you try to look away, you could feel his eyes settled on you.

𓍯 his red flag would probably be saying things like, "would you be jealous if i went out with someone else?" or talking about his ex. but right when he gives you enough reasons that he's not good for you, he pulls the "what would it take for us to stop pretending this isn’t more than casual?" card.

jaehyun

“you say we’re just friends but why do you look at me like that when no one’s around?”

𓍯 when you clearly don’t look like you’re just friends but it’s becoming a running joke now–jaehyun responds without skipping a beat whenever someone arches an eyebrow and asks if there is more going on between you and him. he casually replies, “we’re just friends.” and each time you force a smile that falls short of your eyes, you nod along.

𓍯 jaehyun has this habit of leaning towards you whenever he laughs, sometimes his head falls on your shoulder for a moment which kinda makes you flinch during the first few times but now that you’re used to it, you let your heads touch each other when you laugh together.

𓍯 when he spots you alone leaning outside the glass door at a party, you feel his presence slowly approaching you and then he simply stands there in comforting silence, staring at you in that familiar way, without saying anything at first. when you told him that you get more comfortable attending parties because he’s around, he’d flash a smirk, and his eyes return to the expression he always gives you when no one else is there. jaehyun looks intensely at your face as if he’s searching for something–searching for a sign.

𓍯 you can’t resist yourself to ask him a question if he’s sure about it. “sure about what?” his tone is gentle, and the corner of his mouth twitches as if he clearly understands what you are saying. “sure that we’re just friends…” you replied. jaehyun pauses before responding. he just looks at you, his eyes darting to your lips and back to your eyes, a spark there that he tries to conceal but can't quite get rid of. he lets out a tense and nervous laugh. “yeah, we’re just friends.” but his words were laced with hesitation and uncertainty. and there you thought, maybe the look he gives you is enough, for now.

taesan

“you treat me like this because you know you're my weakness.”

𓍯 taesan knows how flustered you get when he touches you. during lunchtime with your other friends, you tried to ignore how he sat closer to you than usual. when your friends make a joke and others laugh along, you try so hard to focus but you just can’t seem to grasp the fact that his knees and yours were touching. then, his fingertips lightly touched your leg, so gentle at first that you nearly questioned whether it was an accident. however, taesan’s hand becomes steady and warm, and you can only sense his calm presence. you attempt to maintain a neutral appearance on the outside as your heart twitches and your mind attempts to process the unexpected sensation. his smile is as laid-back as ever, and he continues to laugh with the group as if this is nothing unusual.

𓍯 situationship with taesan can be a little frustrating. he likes to give you mixed signals. he’s mostly all about you most of the time and he holds eye contact like you’re the only person he could see. but then the next day, he barely acknowledges your presence. he’s quiet and doesn’t speak to you. but you know what’s bad for you? the fact that you'd fold immediately bcs he really just knows how to give you butterflies right when you think he’s not interested. taesan would come up behind you, whispering to your ear saying, “i missed you today.” and you would quickly fold like you didn't just question everything about him.

𓍯 at some point, the feelings were mutual. but you got tired of going around in circles waiting for nothing to happen, so you just decided to move on and bury your feelings just to keep the friendship.

leehan

“teach me how to not care about these feelings that keep me up at night for nothing.”

𓍯 you don’t talk everyday but that’s what makes everything thrilling. and when you do talk, texting usually lasts until 3am. although you can feel the weight of your eyelids by this time, you try to stay awake just to converse with him. conversations with leehan are almost raw, something about each message is intimate—one you probably wouldn’t hear in the daylight. the thought that he actually also stays up with you makes you wonder how much he’s also feeling.

𓍯 leehan has the subtlest way of making you laugh. he’s nonchalant but he’s the type to make you intrigued without fully committing. with that being said, he knows when to pull back when he thinks you’re getting a little too attached over a situationship even if he's the one responsible for making you feel that way

𓍯 after dates, goodbyes often linger in the air. both of you enjoyed too much to actually walk away and go back home. when he stands close enough to hug you, you could feel his hand linger on your back like he’s in no rush to go back home. both of you stood there quiet, glancing at each other, enough to decipher by the look of your eyes that there are still unsaid words. “i’ll text you when i get back home.” he holds both of your hands as they slightly brush away from yours whenever he takes a step back. you know yourself you want something more from this situationship which causes your heart to ache.

𓍯 leehan is still not letting go of your hand even at the point where your fingertips are only touching each other. “let’s do that next time.” he says and adds, “sleep over.”

𓍯 and when he actually gets back home, you don't receive a text from him at all, and talked again the following days like nothing happened.

woonhak

"why does it feel like we’re both waiting for the other to make the first move?"

𓍯 it’s painfully obvious that both of you like each other. neither of you just couldn’t bring yourself up to confess. there’s always this tension that hangs heavy in the air when you’re with him. you're lounging on his couch while watching a film. with his shoulder almost touching yours, he is closer than friends should be. the couch's modest size is a flimsy excuse, but you both know there's more to it. woonhak’s arm occasionally moves, grazing yours and giving you a shiver, but he doesn't pull away. both of you are dancing around that invisible line, on the brink. his hand is getting closer and closer till your fingers would touch if you both moved even a little.

𓍯 every time you're together, you experience this torturous pulling, waiting for the other to finally release the tension that has been building for weeks. his hand moves next to yours, his fingers flexing as though he wants to grab you but isn't quite brave enough. and you can't help but wonder whether you're both simply waiting for a sign, anything that would eventually allow one of you to cross that line.

𓍯 woonhak constantly teases you, looking for excuses to rub your hair or bump into your shoulder, and he enjoys seeing how you respond to his pranks. he says something, though, that takes you entirely by surprise just when you think it's all a friendly act.

𓍯 “i feel like we’re both good at being complicated.” he chuckles. you can sense that you're both still holding back and skirting the truth because you're afraid of altering something that feels so near-perfect. but when you meet his eyes, you can see that this isn't the end of it because of the little warmth that remains in his smile.

[moonlitstoriess]

You Were Mine First- Lucien x fem!reader (1/2)

Summary: For one hundred years, Y/N carried the weight of a bond Lucien never felt. Then, one day, it was gone—severed, rewritten, given to another. She thought she could endure it. Thought she could live unseen, unnoticed. Until the day Lucien walked into her shop… and fate forced them face to face.

See masterlist

Next part

Warnings: angst, heartbreak, miscommunication, elain is quite the character in this one😟 also, not proofread but will be soon

The bond had been a quiet thing.

Not gentle, not kind, but quiet—woven into her like the steady hum of the ocean, like the distant whisper of a song she was never meant to hear in full. It had been there for as long as she could remember, a presence just beneath her skin, a pulse separate from her own heartbeat.

She had felt it for a hundred years. Lived with the knowledge that somewhere out there, Lucien Vanserra existed, and he was hers.

Except he wasn’t.

Because one day, the bond was gone.

It wasn’t like cutting a thread. It wasn’t like a slow, fraying unraveling.

It was a severing.

Sharp. Sudden. Irreversible.

One moment, it was there, humming in her chest like it always had, and the next, it collapsed in on itself. The connection that had been a constant presence in her life, the tether that had stretched across time and space, binding her to a male she had never even met—vanished.

And it hurt.

Gods, it hurt.

She had collapsed to the floor of her shop, fingers clutching at her ribs, nails digging into her skin as if she could physically hold in the ache of something that was never tangible to begin with. Her breath had come in sharp, shallow gasps, her vision swimming as she tried to comprehend the loss of something she had never even gotten to have.

It was like being gutted from the inside out. Like some cruel hand had reached into her soul and ripped away a part of her she’d never even touched.

She had thought—he knows.

Lucien must have found out about the bond.

And he cut it off.

She had sat there for hours. Just sat there, staring at the floor, willing herself to breathe through the crushing weight of something she could never prove, never explain.

Because it was his choice.

He must have felt it, realized it, and rejected it.

Maybe he had seen her in a vision. Maybe the Mother herself had whispered it in his ear. Maybe he had sensed the invisible tether and recoiled in disgust.

Maybe—maybe he had simply decided she was not what he wanted.

The thought lodged itself into her ribs like a rusted dagger.

But Y/N had not cried that night.

She had cleaned the broken glass from where she’d knocked over a display, locked up her shop, and gone home to an empty bed.

The next morning, she had continued on.

A hundred years of knowing.

Three years of silence.

Y/N had not spoken a word of it to anyone, had never once whispered her secret into the smoke-filled air of her shop, had never let it become real outside of herself.

It was over.

Lucien Vanserra had made his choice.

And she had made hers: to let him go.

Her life had not changed much in the three years since the bond had disappeared.

She still ran her shop, still worked until her fingers ached, still sold perfumes and oils and delicate trinkets to the people of Velaris without them ever knowing that once, her entire world had unraveled between her ribs.

She told herself that she was fine.

That she had never needed him.

That the pain had dulled, the ache had numbed, that she had sewn herself back together without him.

And maybe she had believed it.

Until—

The door to her shop swung open.

The world had cracked open beneath him.

One moment, he had been standing in that damned throne room in Hybern, his heart hammering in his chest, watching in horror as Elain Archeron was dragged toward the Cauldron. The next—

Mate.

The word slammed into him, rattling through his bones like a death knell.

It was instant. It was overwhelming.

Lucien had felt his soul lurch, had felt something snap into place deep in his chest, an unyielding chain that wrapped around his ribs and locked there. He swayed on his feet, unable to do anything but watch—watch as Elain, wide-eyed and fragile, disappeared beneath that inky black water.

A distant, roaring sound filled his ears. No. No. No.

His instincts had screamed at him to move, to shove past the guards, to do something—but he stood frozen. Because even as his body begged him to lunge forward, another force—a deeper, ancient force—held him back.

The Cauldron. The bond.

It pulsed through him like a second heartbeat.

And gods above, it hurt.

He had known pain before. Had lived through agony that most would crumble under. He had felt flesh burn and bones snap, had known the deep, rotting ache of grief and loss.

But this—

This was something else.

This was a tether being forged in real time, a connection being branded onto his very soul.

Elain surfaced.

Lucien barely breathed.

The world had shrunk down to the space between them, to the droplets clinging to her lashes as she gasped for air, to the tremor in her small hands as she tried to steady herself.

His mate.

His mate.

The pull was instantaneous.

A sharp, visceral need that made his fingers twitch at his sides, that sent fire licking down his spine. He had heard of it—of the way the mating bond could ignite in an instant, how it could take hold of a male so suddenly, so violently, that it rewrote the very fabric of his being.

But knowing it in theory was nothing like feeling it.

Lucien had spent centuries believing he had already been shattered into all the pieces he could possibly break into. That he had already endured the worst of it, that he had already lost everything.

And then the Cauldron had given him this. Her.

It had given him something new to ache for.

He tried to breathe. To think.

The rational part of him, the part that still had some grasp on reality, knew this was not the time. Not the place.

But none of that mattered.

Not when Elain was staring straight ahead, unfocused, dazed. Not when she looked like a baby deer standing on shaking legs, not when that first sharp pang of emotion raked through him—

Protect.

It whispered through his bones, through his blood.

He had to get to her.

Had to take her away from this cursed place, had to make sure she was safe. That was all that had mattered.

Lucien had taken half a step forward—

And then the Cauldron roared again.

His breath punched from his lungs as Nesta was dragged forward, as she thrashed and fought and screamed.

Lucien had felt his own body seize at the sound of it, but his attention remained locked on Elain.

He could barely focus on anything else. The King of Hybern had spoken, someone else had shouted, Cassian was bleeding out on the floor, but Elain.

She was trembling.

He wanted to go to her. Wanted to pick her up and carry her far, far away from all of this.

But he couldn’t move.

His muscles were stone, his mind had fogged with a haze he had no hope of piercing through.

Because this bond, this thing now tying him to Elain, was stronger than anything he had ever known.

And it would never go away.

Not now. Not ever.

The thought had nearly brought him to his knees.

Lucien had learned something in these past few years.

A bond could exist. It could pull and ache and whisper in the quiet of the night.

But it meant nothing if it was not accepted.

For three years, he had come and gone from Velaris, carried there on nothing but a fragile, flickering hope. A hope that dulled a little more with every visit, every unanswered offering, every polite but distant gaze.

He had tried.

Tried to be patient. Tried to be gentle. Tried to show her, in every small way he could, that he would never demand anything from her. That he would never ask her to give more than she was willing.

He had brought her gifts—small things, thoughtful things. A book of poetry, its words as soft and delicate as the way she watched the garden in the early morning light. A delicate necklace of woven gold and pearl, handcrafted by a skilled artisan in the Dawn Court, because he thought she might like something beautiful, something made with care.

He had spent hours searching for the perfect flowers before learning, with no small amount of embarrassment, that she preferred to grow them herself. That she took joy in nurturing life rather than simply receiving it.

So he adjusted. Adapted.

He spent time in the greenhouse, learning the names of each bloom, the way their roots intertwined in the soil, the seasons in which they thrived. He let his fingers brush over petals and stems and thought—this. This is what I must do.

Not pluck something whole from the ground and place it in her hands, expecting her to take it with a smile.

But tend to it.

Let it grow. Let it reach for the sunlight at its own pace.

Let her bloom in whatever direction she wished, without trying to steer her toward him.

And yet—

Nothing.

Each time he left Velaris, he did so with nothing but a quiet, polite smile from her and a new weight pressing against his ribs.

She did not reject him.

But she did not accept him, either.

And gods, it was worse.

Lucien could handle rage. He could handle being turned away, shouted at, hated.

But the silence.

The hesitation.

The careful, measured distance she always kept between them.

It killed him.

Because he had seen, once, what an accepted bond looked like.

He had watched as Rhysand and Feyre moved through the world with an ease, a certainty, that left no room for question.

He had seen the way Azriel looked at Mor, the quiet longing buried beneath years of silence, the way he endured and endured because there was nothing else to do.

Lucien had sworn he would not be like that.

That he would never allow himself to become a shadow lingering at the edges of her world.

And yet—

Yet he still came back. Like a fool.

Like a male who still believed in something that had never truly belonged to him.

“Not to pry,” Jurian said one evening, propping his feet up on the edge of the low table between them, “but have you ever considered not torturing yourself?”

Lucien, who had been nursing his drink, sighed. “What are you on about now?”

“I mean,” Jurian gestured vaguely, “the whole tragic pining thing. Really, Lucien, it’s getting embarrassing.”

Lucien gave him a flat look. “Remind me again why I agreed to spend time with you?”

Jurian grinned, unapologetic. “Because I’m the only one who tells you the truth.”

Lucien rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “What do you want, Jurian?”

“Nothing.” He took a sip of his drink. “Well. Actually, I was going to mention a shop in Velaris that might be of interest to you. Since, you know, you’re so desperately trying to impress a certain Lady of Flowers.”

Lucien arched a brow. “A shop?”

Jurian nodded. “Y/N’s shop. She sells perfumes, oils, little trinkets. Apparently, every female who sets foot in there leaves raving about how perfect it is. If you’re going to keep throwing gifts at Elain in hopes she’ll finally look at you like you’re not some lost puppy, you might as well get something she’d actually want.”

Lucien exhaled sharply. “Your faith in me is astounding.”

Jurian smirked. “Just looking out for you, Vanserra.”

Lucien shook his head, but something about the name—Y/N—stuck in his mind.

Maybe it was because he had spent years grasping at anything, any small hope, that might help bridge the gap between him and Elain. Maybe it was because he was tired. Tired of trying and failing.

Or maybe it was just that he had nothing else left to lose.

So the next time he found himself in Velaris, before making his way to the Archeron estate, he wandered through the city, searching for that shop.

It was easy enough to find.

Tucked between two larger buildings, Y/N’s shop was small but elegant. The glass windows glowed with warm, golden light, and the scent of something rich and enticing drifted through the cracks of the door. The sign above was simple, written in delicate, swirling letters.

There was something… welcoming about it.

Lucien stood outside for a long moment, staring at the entrance.

Then, with a slow, steadying breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The bell above the shop door chimed softly, its familiar, delicate ring signaling the arrival of a new customer. Y/N barely glanced up from the shelf she was organizing, her fingers deftly adjusting the small glass vials of perfume that lined the wooden display. The scent of jasmine and bergamot filled the air, mingling with the rich undertones of amber and cedar.

She had long since learned to temper her expectations—to stop hoping for something, for someone, who would never come.

But then, a voice, warm and smooth, cut through the quiet hum of the shop.

“Excuse me. Is...is this Y/N's shop?"

Her heart stopped.

That voice—his voice.

She turned, slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment hanging between them. And there he was. Lucien Vanserra.

Standing just inside her shop, his tall frame poised with a careful, easy grace, though there was something slightly hesitant in the way he held himself, as if he wasn’t quite sure he belonged here. The golden glow of the lanterns bathed him in soft light, catching the rich red of his hair, the burnished gleam of his eye—his singular russet eye. The other, the golden mechanical one, whirred almost imperceptibly as he scanned the space around him.

Y/N felt the breath she had been holding slip from her lips.

He knows her name?

It had been years since she had seen him up close. Years of watching from afar, of wondering, of aching in silence.

And now, he was here.

She swallowed against the sharp, bitter weight of that realization and forced her voice into something steady, something detached.

“Yes, can I help you?”

Lucien’s gaze landed on her, polite but indifferent, his expression unreadable.

“Yes,” he said, offering a small, formal smile. “I was told this shop might have something I need. A gift, actually. A meaningful one.”

Y/N’s breath hitched—just for a moment, just long enough for hope to bloom wild and reckless in her chest.

A gift.

A meaningful gift.

Had he—could he possibly—?

“For my beloved,” he added casually.

Beloved.

And just like that, hope shriveled and died inside her, shrank into something tight and painful that pressed against her ribs like a knife.

Of course.

Of course.

Because he hadn’t come here for her. He had come here for another.

She didn’t let the hurt show. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, feigning a mild, professional interest.

“I see,” she murmured, turning back toward the counter, forcing her limbs to move, forcing herself to breathe past the tightness in her throat. “What kind of female is she?”

Lucien hesitated for only a moment before responding.

“She’s gentle,” he said, his voice softer now, thoughtful. “Quiet, but… not weak. She sees things in a way others don’t. Notices the details others overlook.”

Y/N forced herself to nod, her fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.

“She enjoys nature,” he continued. “Gardens, especially. She likes to grow things, to tend to them. She has a kindness about her that’s—” He exhaled, a small, distant smile curving his lips. “It’s rare.”

Y/N felt something crack deep inside her.

Every word was another stone added to the weight already crushing her chest.

And yet she couldn’t stop looking at him—the way his features softened, the way his expression grew distant, lost in some memory of the girl, as if she were some delicate, untouchable dream.

Y/N swallowed the bitterness creeping up her throat and forced a smile—polished and pretty, an elegant mask.

“Well,” she said, her voice even, smooth. “It sounds like she would appreciate something soft. Something delicate and thoughtful.”

She moved past him, toward the shelves lined with handcrafted items, her fingers brushing over the carved wooden boxes that housed carefully blended oils and perfumes.

“These,” she said, selecting one of the small, glass bottles. “A floral blend—rose, lilac, and a touch of honeysuckle. Light, natural, and not overpowering.”

Lucien reached for it, his long fingers grazing hers as he took the bottle. Y/N ignored the way the touch burned.

He uncorked the bottle, inhaling lightly.

“It’s nice,” he admitted, nodding in approval. “Subtle.”

She forced a small, knowing smile. “She doesn’t like strong scents, does she?”

Lucien blinked, glancing up at her. “No. She doesn’t.”

Y/N turned away before he could see the way her throat constricted. Instead, she gestured toward another shelf.

“There’s also this,” she said, lifting a small, intricately crafted gold locket. “A piece of jewelry—simple, elegant. You can place a pressed flower inside, something personal.”

Lucien ran his fingers over the delicate engraving. “She’d like that,” he murmured.

Y/N swallowed past the lump in her throat. Of course she would.

She kept moving, kept showing him options—anything to fill the silence, to drown out the aching hollowness expanding in her chest.

And all the while, she drank in the sight of him—the curve of his lips as he considered each item, the quiet, pensive way he studied every detail. She had never been this close to him before.

She never wanted it to end.

But eventually, he made his choice. The locket.

And then, far too soon, he was standing at the counter, waiting.

Y/N wrapped the gift carefully, precisely, her fingers trembling only slightly as she tied the ribbon. She set it before him, forcing herself to meet his gaze as she murmured, “I hope she likes it.”

Lucien’s polite smile returned, easy and effortless. “Thank you.”

He slid a few coins across the counter, and she took them without a word.

And then—just like that—he turned to leave.

Y/N stood frozen, watching as he reached the door, as his fingers brushed the handle.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

Then he glanced back at her, offering one last, polite, meaningless smile.

“Have a good evening,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The door shut behind him, the bell chiming its soft, hollow note.

Y/N exhaled shakily, staring at the empty space where he had stood.

The silence in the shop felt suffocating, heavy with something she didn’t have the strength to name.

Her fingers curled against the counter, her breath uneven.

She had spent years imagining what it would be like to finally stand before him.

Never once had she imagined it would feel like this.

It happened two days later.

Y/N was walking home from the market, arms full of bags and bundled goods, weaving through the crowd of busy pedestrians that filled the bustling city street. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the cobblestones, and the energy in the air was high, as if the entire town was preparing for something important. The noise of merchants shouting out their prices, children running past, and carts clattering by made it nearly impossible to focus on anything for too long.

She moved quickly, eager to get home and put her mind at ease after the long day. But just as she rounded a corner, her foot caught on a loose stone, and she stumbled, her bags slipping from her hands.

“Cauldron!” she hissed, barely catching herself before tumbling into the ground.

Her goods scattered everywhere—potatoes rolled away, fabric bundles slid into the street, and small jars tipped over, clinking noisily. She froze for a moment, stunned by her clumsiness, hands scrambling to gather the mess. She was so focused on the spilled items that she didn’t notice the figure approaching.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Ma'm, are you okay?”

Y/N jumped, looking up quickly, ready to apologize for her mishap and scramble for her things—but she stopped short.

It was him.

Lucien.

He was standing just a few feet away, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and recognition. The shock on his face quickly turned into a grin, that wide, infectious smile that always seemed to make her heart skip a beat. She had no idea how he had gotten so close so quickly—there was too much going on in the street, too much chaos for her to have seen him coming.

“Y/N, hey!” he exclaimed, stepping forward as he crouched down beside her without hesitation. “I didn’t see you there, but I’m glad I did. Here, let me help.”

Before she could even process his presence, he was already gathering her spilled goods with a swift motion, his hands moving with the ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Y/N’s face heated up. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you—” She trailed off, the words feeling weak and useless.

“No need to apologize,” Lucien laughed lightly, his voice full of warmth, and he flashed that smile at her again. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry about it.”

She couldn’t help the small, relieved exhale that left her lips as he placed the last of the items back into her arms. His touch was light but firm, like he knew exactly how much to hold and where to place everything. It wasn’t just practical; it was almost… considerate.

But then, as he helped her stand up, the reality of the situation hit her. She took a step back, quickly readjusting the bags in her arms.

“I—thank you,” she stammered, clearly caught off guard. She glanced at him, a little unsure of how to handle this unexpected turn of events. The warmth of his presence lingered, making her feel like maybe this was more than just a simple accident. “I can take it from here. Really.”

Lucien shook his head, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Not a chance. I’m walking you home. It’s not a far walk, right? I’ll help you carry everything.”

Y/N hesitated, the idea of someone accompanying her home—not to mention Lucien, who made her feel like her emotions were caught in a whirlwind—wasn’t something she had planned for. She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him she was fine, that she didn’t need his help. But the words didn’t come.

His smile, persistent and almost childishly happy, was too bright, too eager for her to deny.

“I insist,” he added, without giving her a chance to respond. He didn’t wait for her permission either, already starting to walk beside her, his pace matching hers effortlessly.

As they walked, his excitement didn’t fade. He babbled on, his voice light and full of joy, “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve been thinking about the last time I was in your shop. Honestly, it was exactly what I was looking for, Y/N. You’re a true artist. A genius, even. I don’t know how you do it. The way you just know what someone needs? It’s incredible. I’ll be coming back for sure, more than once. My beloved, she...she loved the gift!”

He trailed off for a second, as though realizing how much he was talking, but when he caught her eye, that familiar grin returned. “I guess I just really appreciate what you did. She has finally enjoyed a gift of mine. Truly."

Y/N didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t used to hearing this kind of praise—especially not from someone who looked at her like she was something extraordinary, like she was special. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it. It was just… so much. Too much.

Her mind was a whirl of confusion, a mess of thoughts she couldn’t quite sort out. On one hand, his words were kind, genuine even, but on the other, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was just being polite. If it was all just a formality, a friendly exchange, one he didn’t mean to be anything more than surface level.

But the way he kept talking, the way he was so genuine about it, made her heart beat a little faster. She felt herself start to soften, to lower the walls she had built around herself.

“I really do mean it,” Lucien continued, oblivious to the internal turmoil she was experiencing. “It’s rare to find someone who actually cares about their work like you do. It’s so rare, and it’s refreshing. My beloved thinks so too, she said how skilled and considerate you are to make such intimate, meaningful gifts."

Y/N swallowed hard, unsure of how to deal with the pain in her heart.

Lucien’s words lingered in the air as they continued their walk through the bustling street, the crowd swirling around them, but somehow, in that moment, Y/N couldn’t focus on anything but him. His voice, light and full of praise, filled her ears, but it was his tone—so earnest, so full of admiration—that made it difficult to breathe properly. Her heart raced faster than she cared to admit, and her palms felt clammy, despite the cool evening air.

She adjusted the bags in her arms, suddenly feeling as if they were too heavy. Not physically, but emotionally. It was as if the weight of the situation had shifted in a way she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t used to being the center of someone’s genuine attention. And certainly not from someone like Lucien, who had this way of making everything feel... different.

“I’ll be coming back soon enough,” he said, his voice almost playful, as if the idea was already a certainty. “I want to see what else you’ve got for her. You’ve got a real talent, Y/N. The kind of talent that can make something as simple as a piece of jewelry feel like the most treasured possession in the world. She loved it, I’m telling you. And if I’m honest, I think she’ll want more of what you can do.”

Y/N’s breath caught at his words. There it was again—the mention of his “beloved.” She tried not to flinch, but it was hard. It felt like a cold, sharp dagger in her chest, no matter how gently he said it. Every mention of his relationship with someone else was like a reminder that she was just someone passing by in his life, someone who was only there for his business, for his orders, nothing more.

Yet, despite the ache that echoed in her chest, she couldn’t bring herself to push him away. His words—those damn words—had this way of making her feel... seen. They made her feel as though, maybe, for just a moment, she wasn’t just a shopkeeper in the middle of a crowded city. She was someone worth talking to, someone worth valuing.

Her fingers clenched around the handles of her bags, the fabric bunching in her grasp as her pulse raced. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to him without sounding like a fool. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, either. She didn’t even know why his words were affecting her so much. It was just Lucien—just another customer, right? Another male who would leave once his business was done, and she would go back to her quiet life, her work.

“You’ll be back?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly, though she hoped he didn’t notice. Her heart felt heavy in her chest as she spoke. “To see more? For more gifts?”

Lucien’s grin widened, that easy, carefree grin that made everything else fade away for a brief second. “Of course,” he replied, almost as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, how could I not? There’s no one else who could do what you do. No one who could make something so... meaningful, so perfect. She’s never received anything like it.”

His words, the praise that seemed to pour out of him without a second thought, made her stomach twist in a mixture of delight and unease. It was hard to tell which emotion was winning.

As they neared the turn that would lead her to her home, the words began to settle on her in a way that almost felt like a weight. The streets around them seemed to grow quieter, the bustle of the city fading into the background as she focused on the way his voice still lingered in her mind.

“I’ll come back soon enough,” Lucien continued, as if he hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere between them. “Maybe next time, we can talk more. I’d like to see what other ideas you have, Y/N. You’ve got a talent for making things that speak to people. Not everyone has that.”

It took everything in Y/N to keep walking, to keep herself composed. But his words—they kept echoing, over and over again, in her mind. He didn’t know it, but the way he said them... the way he made her feel as though what she did mattered, as if she mattered, was something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I’d like that,” she managed, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

Lucien turned to her, his smile softening, though the brightness never fully left his face. He was a man who wore his emotions openly, without hesitation, and Y/N couldn’t help but admire him for that. It felt almost... freeing, the way he was so sure of himself, so certain of the path he walked. She wished, in that moment, she could feel as confident as he did.

As they reached her door, Lucien paused, standing a little too close, a little too warm. The air between them felt charged, alive with unsaid words and unsaid feelings.

“Well, here we are,” he said, glancing down at her bags once more. 

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from herself. All she knew was that in that moment, standing on her doorstep with Lucien’s warmth radiating off of him, she didn’t want this feeling to go away.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible as she finally looked up at him.

“Anytime,” Lucien replied, giving her one last smile before turning to leave, the evening sun casting a golden glow over the two of them as he disappeared into the street.

Y/N stood there for a long moment, watching him go, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. She hadn’t realized until he was gone just how much she had wanted him to stay.

Lucien sat across from Elain, the soft glow of the firelight illuminating her features. It had been a quiet day, but one that seemed to stretch on endlessly as the quiet intimacy between them grew more tangible. Elain sat delicately, her fingers brushing the smooth gold chain of the locket he'd given her. She had worn it all day, something he noted with quiet satisfaction.

She lifted the locket, turning it over in her hands, the elegant, subtle design catching the light. It was simple—gold, a slight curve, a soft engraving of leaves on the surface. But its true value, he thought, was in the tiny compartment inside, perfect for a pressed flower, a piece of her soul captured in something as delicate and beautiful as her. His fingers itched with the memory of creating it. It had been carefully crafted, just as his feelings for her had been.

"It’s... it’s perfect," Elain said, her voice soft, but her eyes shining as she looked at him. The locket hung from her neck, resting delicately against her collarbone. "I haven't taken it off since you gave it to me. I know I’ve thanked you a thousand times already, but… thank you. It’s beautiful."

Lucien’s heart skipped a beat. She had thanked him a thousand times, and each time, his smile had grown a little wider. He leaned back in his chair, watching her, the soft light making her appear even more ethereal than she already was.

"Seems you really like it," Lucien said, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think it would win you over so easily.”

Elain laughed softly, her lips curving into a smile that made his heart flutter. "Oh, yes. I haven’t taken it off since the moment you gave it to me." She paused, her fingers lightly brushing the gold, the motion tender. "I wear it every day. I can’t stop thinking about it."

"Good," Lucien said, his voice low, his eyes fixed on her. "It means a lot to me that you like it. I wanted it to be something meaningful, something personal for you."

Elain’s expression softened, her eyes flickering with warmth. "You really do put thought into everything you do, don’t you?" She glanced at him through the strands of her hair, almost shy. "It’s one of the things I like most about you."

Lucien’s chest tightened at her words. "You’re too kind," he murmured, though inwardly, he swelled with pride. To see her finally appreciating his efforts, to see her wear something he’d sought out with such care—it felt like a victory. His happiness wasn’t in the locket itself, but in knowing that she was accepting him, piece by piece.

But then, something flickered in his mind—a shadow, an intrusion of a memory that threatened to pull him away from the moment. It was a flash of Y/N, her face, her eyes. He had spent the entire afternoon helping her, picking up the pieces of her scattered goods. He remembered the small smile she’d given him, but there had been something in her eyes that made his stomach twist.

She had seemed so guarded. Like she was fighting against something, even as she thanked him. Something about the way she had looked at him—it wasn’t warmth or trust. It was as if she was trying to keep herself safe, distant.

He pushed the thought aside, but it lingered, like a distant whisper. Had he done something to wrong her? Had he said or done something that made her shut him out?

But no, that didn’t make sense. He hadn’t done anything to her, not really. It was just a fleeting moment.

"Lucien?" Elain’s voice brought him back, the soft sound of his name grounding him.

He blinked and looked up, meeting her eyes. Her gaze was steady, warm, a slight tilt to her lips. "I’m sorry, I was just thinking," he said, a bit embarrassed at how easily he had become lost in his own mind.

Elain tilted her head, the smile on her lips still lingering. "What were you thinking about?"

Lucien hesitated, then shook his head with a small laugh. "Nothing important," he said, brushing it off. "Just... my work. You know, trying to figure out what to do next."

Her eyes softened in understanding. "I can imagine you’ve been busy lately. You always seem to have a thousand things to do."

He chuckled. "It’s true. But I don’t mind. It keeps me distracted."

Elain leaned back in her chair, her hands folded delicately in her lap. "Distracted from what?" she asked gently, her voice soft, but curious.

Lucien paused, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he answered. "From the thoughts that linger. Things that I can’t always control." His voice was quieter now, more reflective.

She returned his smile, and for a moment, the weight of his thoughts disappeared. There was just the quiet warmth between them, the kind of comfortable silence that only came with being around someone who truly understood.

And yet, in the back of his mind, that small flicker of a thought—the image of Y/N, her guarded smile, and the soft sting of her distance—remained. Why? They had never met until two days earlier anyway, why was she so guarded?

But for now, he would push it aside. He was here with Elain, and he would not let the shadows of other thoughts mar this small, precious moment.

"I’m glad you like the locket," he said softly, his voice full of sincerity. "I want you to have something special, something just for you."

Elain gave him a small smile, "Thank you, Lucien. For being interested enough to learn more about me. I appreciate it."

And for the first time, he truly believed it.

The shop smelled of old paper and cinnamon, the comforting scent wrapping around Y/N like a familiar embrace. The soft hum of the fireplace in the corner crackled in contrast to the steady rain tapping against the windowpanes. It was peaceful—until her grandmother decided to ruin it.

"I told you, I can handle it on my own," Y/N huffed, arms crossed as she watched the older woman sort through a pile of newly arrived books. "You just got over a fever. You should be resting, not coming back here a day after getting out of bed."

Her grandmother, Arlena, snorted, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Oh, please. I had a fever, not one foot in the grave." She adjusted her reading glasses and peered at Y/N over the rim. "Besides, if I leave you alone any longer, you'll turn this place into a monastery with all your brooding. We’d have to start selling candles and prayer books."

Y/N groaned. "Grandma—"

"I bet you've been sighing dramatically all day," Arlena continued, clearly not done tormenting her. "Scaring customers off with that tragic heroine look."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "You are insufferable."

"And you are overly dramatic."

Before Y/N could argue, the bell above the door chimed, signaling a new customer. She immediately straightened, smoothing out her expression into something polite and professional. But the second she turned toward the entrance, that careful mask nearly cracked.

Lucien.

Of course.

The comfortable warmth of the shop suddenly felt suffocating as the heaviness settled in her chest. Still, she plastered on the most well-practiced smile she had, the one meant for customers who didn't need to see the turmoil twisting inside her.

Lucien approached with easy confidence, his russet-red hair glinting under the golden light, his sharp features relaxed yet unreadable. He dipped his head slightly in greeting, his golden eye gleaming with its usual sharpness.

"Good evening," he greeted, voice smooth as ever.

"Good evening," Y/N returned, her voice polite but distant. "Looking for anything in particular?"

Lucien’s lips twitched slightly. "Got anything else that might make a good gift?"

Y/N nodded toward the back of the shop. "You can take a look at our collection of specialty items. I’ll be with you in a moment."

Lucien inclined his head in thanks before heading in that direction, the warmth of his presence lingering even as he moved away.

The second he was out of earshot, Arlena let out a low whistle, arms crossed as she watched him disappear behind the shelves. "You know what? Maybe it’s time for you to rest, dearest. I can handle customers like him very well."

Y/N hissed in embarrassment, nudging her grandmother with her elbow. "Grandma!"

Arlena smirked, clearly enjoying herself. "What? He’s got the whole ‘handsome yet brooding’ thing going for him. I could charm a discount out of him in five minutes."

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she reluctantly made her way toward Lucien, who was already examining some of the handcrafted gifts on display.

She folded her hands behind her back, keeping her posture composed. "Anything catch your eye?"

Lucien glanced at her, then back at the delicate selection of items. His fingers brushed over a carved wooden box, then a small silver quill set. "You’ve got an interesting collection here," he murmured. "Everything feels… personal."

"That’s the goal," Y/N said simply.

Lucien hummed in thought before picking up a set of delicately embroidered bookmarks. "These are nice. Who makes them?"

"Local artisans," Y/N replied. "We try to source from people around town. Everything here has a story behind it."

Lucien nodded thoughtfully before moving to another table where an ornate, hand-painted music box sat. He ran his fingers along the smooth surface, his expression unreadable. "And this?"

Y/N kept her hands clasped in front of her, her professionalism unwavering. "It plays a lullaby originally composed for the Spring Court’s faelings," she explained. "The design is inspired by an old legend about firebirds."

Lucien smiled wryly. "Sounds nostalgic."

"It’s meant to be," she replied, tilting her head slightly. "Memories tend to sell well."

Lucien studied her for a moment before finally exhaling and picking up the music box. "I’ll take this one."

"Good choice," Y/N said, though inwardly, she just wanted this whole interaction to be over.

She reached for the music box to take it from him, but Lucien’s fingers tightened around it, holding it in place.

Y/N’s brow lifted in confusion. "Yes?"

He hesitated, his golden eye scanning her face, as if searching for something. Then, quietly, he asked, "Have we met before?"

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

Lucien exhaled, looking almost… frustrated. "I mean, did I—did I ever do something bad to you?" His voice was careful, uncertain. "I keep getting this feeling, like—like maybe I did something, and I don’t remember."

For a brief moment, Y/N’s mind stilled.

Did he know? Did he sense it?

The years of hurt, of disappointment, of feeling invisible in a way she never quite had the words to describe. Did he really not see it?

But then, Y/N’s lips curved into her most practiced, fake smile. The one she wore when she wanted to shut everything down.

"No," she said smoothly, voice dripping with false lightness. She ripped the music box from his grip, her fingers tightening around it. "Why would I ever be hurt by you? I mean, you and I are strangers, right? So what could you have possibly done to hurt me?"

Lucien stared at her for a long moment, something flickering in his expression. But then he let out a small, hesitant laugh, shaking his head. "Right," he muttered. "Nothing, I suppose. My mind fooled me once more."

Y/N merely turned on her heel, leading him toward the counter for checkout.

As she started wrapping the music box, her grandmother leaned forward on the counter, watching Lucien with an amused glint in her eyes. "You know, for someone who’s only been here twice, you sure have my granddaughter looking like she’s about to combust."

Y/N nearly dropped the music box. "Grandma!"

Lucien let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Arlena grinned. "Oh, you should. I haven’t seen her this flustered in years."

Y/N glared at her grandmother, her jaw tightening. "I am not flustered."

Arlena winked at Lucien. "She’s flustered."

Lucien chuckled as Y/N shoved the wrapped gift into his hands, eager to get him out of here. "Enjoy your music box."

Lucien inclined his head, still amused. "I will. Thank you, Y/N."

And then, with one last knowing glance from Arlena, he left.

The moment the door shut, Y/N turned and tossed the nearest soft object—a small pillow from the chair—directly at her grandmother.

"Grandma! What the hell was that?!"

Arlena cackled, dodging the pillow with ease. "That, dearest, was me making your life a little more interesting."

Y/N groaned, rubbing her temples. "I cannot believe you."

"Believe it, sweetheart." Arlena patted her on the shoulder before disappearing into the back room.

And Y/N… was left alone.

With her thoughts.

The city streets were quieter now, the late evening washing everything in a muted glow. The lamps lining the cobbled roads flickered in the gentle breeze, their golden light stretching long shadows across the stone. Y/N pulled her cloak tighter around herself, her breath steady as she walked.

She hadn’t left the shop intending to wander, but after the long day—after him—she needed out. Needed space from the shop’s small walls, from the lingering weight of Lucien’s presence and the way his gaze had felt too… probing. Too curious.

Y/N exhaled sharply. It was nothing. It should have been nothing.

Then she turned the corner and saw him.

Lucien stood beneath the glow of a nearby lantern, his copper hair catching the light like embers. But he wasn’t alone.

Elain Archeron.

Y/N stopped walking.

Everyone knew of the Archeron sisters. The human girls who had been Made, their fates forever changed.

Feyre, the youngest, had become High Lady—a force to be reckoned with, a warrior forged through hardship. Y/N had no personal connection to her, but there was a level of respect, even admiration, for what she had endured.

Nesta, the eldest, had been the city’s whispered scandal. Sharp-tongued and untamed, a woman who did not bend, who did not break, no matter how much the world might have tried. Y/N understood that sort of resilience.

But Elain…

Y/N had never given her much thought.

She had seen her in passing before—always soft-spoken, always delicate. A gentle soul, some would say. But Y/N never knew what to make of her. She wasn’t like her sisters.

And yet, she was the one standing with Lucien now.

The realization struck like a physical thing.

Lucien’s beloved.

Y/N didn’t know what she had expected, but it hadn’t been her.

Something tightened in her chest, something sharp and unwelcome.

Elain’s fingers absently brushed over the locket around her neck—intricately crafted gold, simple yet elegant. A piece of jewelry that Lucien must have given her.

A gift. The one she helped him pick out.

Y/N swallowed, forcing her expression into something blank, something indifferent, though she doubted either of them had noticed her yet.

Elain spoke softly, her voice barely carrying over the distance, but Lucien—he listened, watching her with that unwavering attentiveness of his. His face was unreadable, his posture relaxed. No tension. No hesitation.

Why should there be?

This was his beloved. 

Y/N should not care.

And yet, she lingered.

It wasn’t jealousy—not in the way one might assume. It wasn’t some petty envy or longing for what Elain had.

It was the ache of something unspoken. The reminder of what she had always known.

She was nothing to him.

And that truth shouldn’t sting, but it did.

As if sensing something, Lucien’s gaze suddenly flicked up.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Their eyes met.

His expression didn’t shift. The faintest flicker of surprise, there and gone too quickly to be sure it had even been there at all. He held her gaze, studying her, as if trying to place something—trying to understand something.

But Y/N refused to be the one to look away first.

So she let her lips curve into something polite. Something detached. Then she turned and walked past them, her steps measured, her spine straight.

Lucien didn’t call out.

Didn’t stop her.

But even as she disappeared down the street, she could feel his gaze lingering.

And for some reason, even after she was gone, he found himself glancing around.

As if searching for something.

As if searching for her.

Y/N had grown used to Lucien’s presence in her shop. Too used to it.

It was his third visit in what felt like an insultingly short span of time, and she found herself more irritated than ever as she carefully wrapped another one of his purchases. She had expected—no, hoped—that he wouldn’t return after the second.

And yet, here he was.

"Seems like Lady Elain has truly liked the gifts if you’re already on your third visit," she muttered, voice deliberately flat as she secured the wrapping with a ribbon.

Lucien, lounging against the counter as if he had all the time in the world, let out a low chuckle. "Well, I do aim to please."

She didn’t respond, instead focusing on adjusting the twine around the package.

But Lucien wasn’t done.

"You have no idea how much your meaningful trinkets have gotten her to finally open up to me."

Y/N’s hands stilled for the briefest moment before she forced herself to keep working. She didn’t roll her eyes, didn’t scoff aloud—but inwardly? Cauldron save me from this nonsense.

Meaningful trinkets.

As if her work was merely some tool in his desperate attempts to win over his mate.

She didn’t care. She didn’t.

But something about the way he said it, about the way he sounded so damn pleased with himself, made her fingers tighten around the edge of the package.

She slid it across the counter toward him, waiting for him to take it. But before Lucien could, a voice chimed in from the back of the shop.

"Dear, when will you be taking the package to Day Court again?"

Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose. Not now, Grandma.

She flicked her eyes toward the elderly female standing in the doorway, her hands idly dusting off an old book. Then, deliberately, she glanced at Lucien—who was not paying attention, seemingly distracted by something on the shelf behind her.

At least, that’s what she thought.

But the moment she turned back to bagging another order, his voice cut through the air.

"You have a package to deliver to Day Court?"

Y/N stilled, then sighed. "Yes. And?"

Lucien crossed his arms. "Do you know your way around there?"

She didn’t answer at first, simply shook her head slowly as she resumed packing the next order. "No," she admitted. "It’s the first time a customer from there has placed an order."

"And not just any customer," Arlena added cheerfully, much to Y/N’s growing irritation. "It’s Lord Calion, one of High Lord Helion’s closest confidants."

Y/N shot her grandmother a sharp, warning look, but it was too late.

Lucien had already perked up, his amber eye gleaming with recognition. "Oh? Him? I know him very well. Personally,too. He’s close with Helion."

Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly, surprised despite herself. "Helion, as in High Lord Helion?"

Lucien nodded, a small smile curling on his lips.

She wanted to say something—wanted to press further—but she caught herself, biting her tongue. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her business.

Instead, she focused on tying up the next package, gathering Lucien’s order as quickly as possible. When she finally held it out to him, expecting him to take it and leave, he didn’t move.

Instead, he asked, "How will you go there?"

Y/N clenched her jaw. "That doesn’t concern you. Have a good day."

She shoved the package toward him, but he still didn’t budge.

His golden eye gleamed as he murmured, "It seems like you can’t winnow, either. Can you?"

Y/N was seconds away from snapping at him, but her grandmother—traitorous as ever—let out a dramatic sigh and announced, "Nope! She can’t."

Y/N shot her a glare, but the old female only grinned before adding, "A shame, really. Guess the gift of winnowing just skips certain generations. Disappointing, isn't it?"

Y/N hissed, "Keep talking, Grandmother, and I’ll start selling your beloved tea set piece by piece."

Lucien only laughed, shaking his head in amusement. "You know, I could help you."

Y/N raised a brow. "What?"

Lucien shrugged, casual as ever. "Well, I did just say I know Calion personally. And I’m close with Helion, too." He gestured vaguely. "Not to mention, I can winnow you there and back. Easy."

She stared at him, completely indifferent. "No thanks."

He blinked. "But—"

"Don't you have a beloved, sir?" she cut in smoothly, tilting her head.

Lucien’s lips parted slightly, his entire body stilling at the remark.

Y/N didn’t give him the chance to respond before continuing, "And besides, you aren’t the only one who can winnow. Plenty of my friends can do so, too. I do not need your help."

Lucien’s jaw flexed, but he forced himself to remain polite, nodding slightly as if to say, Suit yourself.

Y/N didn’t wait for him to come up with a reply. She simply shoved the package into his hands and turned away, effectively dismissing him.

Lucien lingered for half a second before exhaling and stepping toward the door.

Just as he was about to leave, he glanced at her grandmother, who had been watching the whole exchange with a knowing look.

Arlena gave a dramatic sigh and muttered, "Don’t look at me, boy. She’s been like this for the past couple of days."

Lucien huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Then, without another word, he slipped out of the shop and into the bustling street beyond.

Y/N barely spared him a glance.

But even after he was long gone, her mind still lingered on the offer she had so easily refused.

Elain had invited him for tea. It had been a quiet afternoon in the gardens of the River House, the sun casting golden hues across the table as the scent of fresh blooms lingered in the air. She had been talking—softly, sweetly, as she always did—about something he should have been paying more attention to. He tried, truly. But his mind was elsewhere.

"—I have to say, you’ve really found my favorite place," Elain mused, twirling the delicate porcelain teacup in her hands. Lucien blinked, snapping back to the present.

Elain gave him a knowing look, then gestured to the gift box resting on the table between them—the latest thing he had brought her. “That little shop you go to,” she continued. “Everything you’ve chosen for me from there has been perfect. I don’t know how you always manage to pick exactly what I love.”

Lucien exhaled a soft laugh, rubbing at his jaw. “Well, I can’t take all the credit,” he admitted. “The shopkeeper knows what she’s doing.”

Elain smiled, but her gaze remained sharp as she studied him. “You seem distracted,” she noted, setting her teacup down.

He hesitated, swirling the tea in his own cup. It wasn’t like him to dwell on things like this. And yet—

“I feel like I’ve done something to her,” he finally admitted, surprising even himself with the words.

Elain frowned, confused. “To whom?”

Lucien sighed. “Y/N.”

Recognition flickered in her expression, but her confusion only deepened. “The shopkeeper?”

He nodded, leaning back against the cushioned chair. “She always acts like I’ve personally offended her in some way. Like I’ve done something unforgivable.”

“Have you?”

“No. Not that I know of,” he said, shaking his head. “At least, not until three days ago when I walked into her shop for the first time and was met with her guards all up around me.”

Elain pursed her lips, thoughtful. “You’re sure you’ve never met her before?”

“Never,” Lucien said with certainty. “Not until then.”

Silence stretched between them as Elain considered this, her brows furrowing slightly. “And you’re sure it’s not just her personality?”

He thought about it. It wasn’t as if Y/N was cruel—she wasn’t outright rude to him. But there was something beneath the surface, something sharp and wary in the way she spoke to him, in the way she barely held his gaze for longer than a second.

“It’s more than that,” he murmured. “It’s like she already had her mind made up about me before I ever said a word.”

Elain hummed, tapping her fingers against the table. “Feelings like that don’t come from nowhere.”

Lucien glanced at her, arching a brow. “You think she has a reason to hate me?”

“I think,” she said carefully, “that something about you unsettles her. Whether it’s something you did or just something you remind her of—I don’t know.”

Lucien scoffed, shaking his head. “Great. So my mere presence is an offense.”

Elain rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. But… maybe you should talk to her.”

Lucien huffed a laugh, the very idea of that absurd. “And say what, exactly? ‘Hello, I noticed you look at me like I ruined your life, and I’d really like to know why?’”

Elain laughed, but the sound quickly softened into something more thoughtful. “Maybe she won’t talk to you,” she admitted. “But she might talk to me.”

Lucien stiffened slightly, eyeing her warily. “You want to go there? To talk to her?”

Elain nodded. “She might open up if it’s just the two of us. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to another female about things like this.”

He considered it, tension tightening in his chest. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it felt… ridiculous to pursue an answer over something so small. But also because some part of him wasn’t certain he wanted to know why she had such an obvious grudge against him.

Still, Elain had a point. Feelings like that didn’t come from nowhere. And Y/N’s feelings toward him—whatever they were—had been evident from the start.

Elain reached across the table, touching his hand lightly. “If it bothers you this much,” she said gently, “maybe it’s worth figuring out.”

Lucien exhaled through his nose, considering the weight of that.

Maybe it was.

The past few days had been a whirlwind of chaos.

Between scrambling to find someone to make the delivery to the Day Court on time, handling the usual influx of customers, and him—Lucien—showing up in her shop repeatedly, Y/N felt like her mind was barely clinging to sanity.

Thankfully, she had managed to avoid having to travel to the Day Court herself. One of her employees, a young fae male who owed her a favor, had reluctantly agreed to handle it. A small victory. She hadn’t wanted to leave Velaris, especially not now, when she felt like she had to keep an eye out for a certain red-haired male.

Because for years, she had only ever seen him from a distance. A flicker of movement in a crowd, a presence at gatherings she wasn’t part of, a name she heard in passing but never dared to say aloud. And now? Now he was here, in her space, disrupting the quiet life she had built.

It was unsettling. It was infuriating.

And worse—it was Lucien Vanserra.

Of all the males in the world, he had to be the one tangled up in her life. And not just in any way—but because of her.

Elain.

Y/N’s hands stilled where she was rearranging a small display of trinkets, her jaw clenching. Of all the females he could have been with, it was her. The golden, delicate beauty that fit into his world as if she had been sculpted for it. It wasn’t that Y/N hated her, not really. But something about Elain—about seeing her with him—made her stomach churn unpleasantly.

And maybe, just maybe, that irritation seeped into her interactions with Lucien, whether she meant it to or not.

She sighed, shaking off the thoughts, and resumed sorting the trinkets onto their shelves. The shop was quiet now, save for the occasional rustling of fabric and the soft creaking of wood as she moved.

Until the door opened.

Y/N barely glanced up at first, assuming it was another customer, until her grandmother’s voice called out from the front counter.

“Y/N.”

She turned. “Yes?”

Arlene, perched behind the counter, didn’t bother looking up from the ledger she had been flipping through. But the teasing lilt in her voice was unmistakable.

“You’ve got company,” her grandmother said, dry and amused. “And not the one from the past few days.”

Y/N frowned at that, stepping around a shelf to get a better look—

And then she froze.

Because standing in the shop, bright-eyed and elegant, was Elain Archeron.

Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Elain, who she had only ever seen from afar. Elain, who was here, standing in her shop, looking like she belonged in a painting of soft pastels and golden light.

Elain smiled, soft and warm as she took a step forward.

“Hello,” she greeted, her voice as sweet as spring.

Y/N’s mind went blank.

Her body locked in place, her thoughts tangling into an incoherent mess.

And she could do nothing—nothing at all—as Elain Archeron closed the space between them.

She was frozen. Completely, utterly frozen.

Elain Archeron was hugging her.

It wasn’t a tight hug, just a light embrace, the kind that barely lasted a second. But it was warm, soft, filled with a kind of unfiltered sweetness that Y/N didn’t know what to do with.

And when Elain pulled back, she was beaming.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the most creative seller out here!” she said, her voice airy and bright. “You have no idea how much I’ve been loving your creations. Lu has been giving me the most wonderful gifts, and when he told me about your shop, I just had to come see it for myself.”

Lu.

Y/N heard the nickname, felt it like a slow, twisting knife to the ribs.

She had always known they were close. It was obvious in the way he looked at Elain, in the way he spoke about her. But hearing it so casually, so effortlessly affectionate—it made something deep inside her curl inward, as if retreating from a battle she had already lost.

Still, Y/N forced herself to breathe, to gather the splintering pieces of herself and piece them back together before they shattered completely.

Distant but polite. She could do that.

“I’m glad you like them,” Y/N said, keeping her voice even, measured. “Lucien is a generous customer.”

Elain smiled even brighter. “Oh, he really is! He always picks out the most beautiful pieces. You’re very talented.”

Y/N barely managed a nod, her thoughts whirling too fast to grasp onto anything solid.

She needed to breathe. She needed to keep herself together.

So, she tilted her head, forcing a small, unreadable smile onto her lips as she asked, “Well, what brings you to our humble shop? Usually, it’s just Lucien who comes by to buy you surprises, but it seems different now.”

Elain laughed softly, as if Y/N had just uncovered some grand secret. “Oh, you know, he talked a lot about you, and I just had to come check this place out myself.”

Y/N’s smile tightened. Oh, how nice.

She wasn’t sure what made her more uncomfortable—the fact that Lucien had been talking about her, or the fact that Elain, Elain, had gone out of her way to meet her.

Before she could figure out how to respond, Elain turned to her grandmother. “Arlena, is the shop usually busy during these hours?”

Her grandmother barely glanced up from the ledger she was flipping through. “Not particularly. Why?”

Elain’s smile grew as she turned back to Y/N. “Well, I’d love to go out to Velaris Brewhouse—you know the one, right? Just down the road? There are some things I feel like I could talk about with you.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

She barely managed to let out a nervous laugh, her mind racing. What?! What was this girl thinking?! They had just met!

But before she could even attempt to find an excuse, her grandmother—her traitorous grandmother—snorted and waved a hand.

“Oh, please,” Arlena said, far too amused. “Do take her. It’s about time my granddaughter made some friends. I can manage for the next few hours.”

Y/N shot her grandmother a look—a full-bodied death glare that promised a long, long discussion later.

Elain turned back to her, expectant and hopeful. “Great! Would you like to?”

There was no way out.

Y/N barely kept her jaw from clenching as she forced a smile. “Let me grab my cloak. I’ll be right back.”

She turned and strode into the back room before she could betray how fast her heart was racing.

What. The. Hell.

What was happening?

She had merely ever heard of Elain as the Archeron sisters made quite the noise in the immortal lands, and now, suddenly, she was about to go out and have coffee with her like they were friends?

She grabbed her cloak, hands slightly unsteady, her thoughts a whirlwind of panic and frustration.

This was not how she had imagined interacting with Elain Archeron for the first time. And Lucien—Lu—why had he talked about her enough for Elain to seek her out?

Her chest tightened at the thought.

She needed to be careful. Needed to keep her walls up, needed to not let Elain see how deeply this affected her.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and headed back out.

Because whether she liked it or not, she had no other choice.

She emerged from the back room with her cloak draped over her shoulders, her mind still reeling.

Elain was standing by the door, hands clasped together in front of her, looking as effortlessly radiant as ever. Her soft brown curls framed her delicate face, her hazel eyes filled with warmth and sincerity.

It made Y/N’s stomach twist.

Her grandmother, traitor that she was, gave her an innocent little wave as Y/N hesitated by the counter.

“Go on, dear,” Arlena said, a wicked glint in her eye. “Enjoy yourself.”

Y/N wanted to strangle her. Instead, she forced a tight smile and turned back to Elain. “Shall we?”

Elain beamed, pushing open the door. “Yes!”

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped outside.

Y/N walked beside Elain in silence, her mind still scrambling to make sense of what the hell was happening.

It was a short walk to Velaris Brewhouse, the cozy little café that sat nestled between a bookstore and a florist. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries greeted them as soon as they stepped inside, and Y/N inhaled deeply, as if the familiar aroma might ground her somehow.

Elain led them to a small table by the window, where golden sunlight streamed in, casting everything in a soft glow.

“So,” Elain said as they sat down, her voice light, easy. “Do you come here often?”

Y/N blinked. Really? Small talk?

“I do,” she admitted, settling into her chair. “It’s close to the shop, and the coffee is good.”

Elain didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. She was glancing over the menu, humming softly to herself.

The server came over, and Y/N ordered her usual black coffee, while Elain asked for some floral tea blend that Y/N had never heard of.

The silence stretched for a moment.

Then, Elain set the menu down and leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you,” she said, tilting her head. “It’s just… Lucien has been talking about you quite a bit.”

Y/N’s grip on the edge of the table tightened.

What?

Elain smiled, completely oblivious to the way Y/N’s chest was slowly caving in. “I was curious,” she continued. “He seemed… troubled.”

Y/N forced a breath, forced her lips to curl into something that resembled a smile. “Troubled?”

Elain nodded. “He said he felt like he had done something to offend you, and he couldn’t figure out what. He seemed genuinely bothered by it.”

Y/N’s throat went dry.

She wasn’t sure which part of that sentence made her feel worse—the fact that Lucien had noticed her hostility, or the fact that he cared enough to dwell on it.

Elain watched her closely. “I guess I just wanted to see for myself what kind of a fae you are.”

Y/N swallowed. “And?”

Elain grinned. “I like you.”

Y/N blinked.

The words shouldn’t have affected her, shouldn’t have made her stomach drop like that. But they did.

She opened her mouth, unsure of what she was even about to say, when the server returned with their drinks.

Y/N wrapped her hands around her coffee mug, letting the warmth seep into her skin, trying to steady herself.

Elain took a sip of her tea, then leaned back slightly. “So… why do you dislike him?”

Y/N nearly choked on her coffee.

She coughed, clearing her throat, before slowly setting her mug down. “Excuse me?”

Elain just smiled, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of their conversation.

“I mean,” she continued, stirring her tea, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so—” she paused, searching for the right word, “—guarded around Lucien before. You look at him like he’s personally wronged you in another life.”

Y/N was stunned into silence.

Because the worst part was—Elain was right.

She did look at Lucien that way. She did hold something against him, even if he had no idea why.

But she wasn’t about to tell Elain that.

So, Y/N exhaled slowly and took another sip of her coffee before giving the only response she could think of.

“I don’t dislike him.”

Elain arched a perfectly shaped brow. “You sure about that?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, gripping her mug a little tighter.

She had no idea how she was going to survive this conversation.

The conversation should have been light. Should have been nothing more than polite pleasantries over coffee. But something about the way Elain looked at her—gentle, curious, but just a bit too knowing—made Y/N uneasy.

Elain hadn’t come here just to meet her.

She had come here to study her.

And it wasn’t long before Y/N felt like she was under a microscope.

“So,” Elain said after a sip of her tea, her voice still honeyed but carrying an undertone of something sharper. “How long have you lived in Velaris?”

Y/N took a careful sip of her coffee, as if it might buy her time. “A while.”

Elain hummed. “And your shop? It’s lovely, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Y/N forced a polite smile. “It was my grandmother’s before mine.”

Elain’s fingers traced the rim of her teacup. “It must be nice, having something passed down like that. A piece of your family’s history.”

Y/N gave a short nod. She wasn’t sure where Elain was going with this, but she had a feeling it wasn’t anywhere good.

Elain watched her for a moment before continuing, “I suppose you already know quite a bit about me, then.”

Y/N tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’ve lived here for a while, and if Lucien has been coming to your shop…” Elain trailed off, tilting her head. “I imagine you’ve heard about us.”

There it was.

Y/N kept her expression neutral. “A little.”

Elain smiled, but there was something unreadable in her eyes. “I take it you know the way me and Nesta were turned into Fae, then?”

Y/N’s grip on her coffee mug tightened.

The Cauldron. The war.

She nodded. “Cruel way, truly.”

Elain sighed, looking down at her tea as if it might hold answers. “Yes. Cruel.”

For the first time since they sat down, Y/N caught a flicker of something raw beneath Elain’s carefully composed exterior.

But then Elain exhaled, shaking off the moment like a bird ruffling its feathers. She looked up again, her usual softness returning. “And you? Have you always been Fae?”

Y/N’s breath caught, just for a second.

A simple question. An easy one to answer.

But her mind lurched back—back to that moment, back to that feeling of something snapping inside her, something she had never wanted, something she had lost.

Lost.

Y/N forced a casual shrug. “More or less.”

Elain’s brows lifted slightly, as if catching on to the vagueness of the response.

But she let it slide, instead stirring her tea slowly. “I suppose it must be different for those born this way.”

Y/N swallowed. “In some ways.”

A quiet moment passed between them.

Then, Elain sighed. “I suppose bonds work differently for you too, then.”

Y/N’s body went rigid.

She almost didn’t react, almost kept her face impassive, but—gods, the word bond still made her flinch, still made her stomach twist.

And Elain noticed.

Y/N saw the way her hazel eyes sharpened just slightly, though she kept her expression smooth.

Y/N cleared her throat, trying to cover up whatever had flickered across her face. “Bonds?” She let out a short, forced laugh. “Not much different, I suppose.”

Too much. That was too much.

But Elain just smiled, as if she hadn’t noticed.

Y/N let out a silent breath of relief.

She thought she was in the clear.

What she didn’t notice, however, was the quick flicker of calculation that crossed Elain’s face. The subtle narrowing of her eyes. The slight shift in her posture.

Elain had caught something.

But she didn’t press. Not yet.

Instead, she leaned forward again, resting her chin on her hand. “So, you don’t dislike Lucien?”

Y/N nearly choked on her coffee again.

The sudden shift in topic threw her off balance.

She hesitated, quickly schooling her expression. “I… don’t know him.”

Elain gave her a small, knowing smile. “But you feel something about him.”

Y/N’s heart pounded.

She forced herself to scoff lightly, shaking her head. “I think he’s just…” She exhaled, waving a hand vaguely. “A bit much.”

Elain’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something in her gaze now—something that made Y/N feel exposed.

She knew Elain wasn’t aggressive like Nesta or blunt like Feyre. She wasn’t one to interrogate with sharp edges and harsh words. Atleast that's what she heard.

No.

Elain was different.

Elain’s way of questioning was gentle, subtle—so deceptively kind that people wouldn’t even realize they were being unraveled until it was too late.

And Y/N felt it.

She felt like a thread slowly being pulled apart.

So she drained the last of her coffee and pushed back from the table, eager to end this conversation before she let anything else slip.

“Well,” she said with a tight smile, “this has been… nice.”

Elain studied her for a beat longer, then gave a small nod. “It has.”

Y/N stood, and Elain followed. They stepped out of the café, the air cooler now as the sun dipped lower.

As they started back towards the shop, Elain tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I hope we can do this again.”

Y/N nearly tripped.

Absolutely not.

She forced another polite, distant smile. “We’ll see.”

Elain just hummed, seemingly unbothered by the noncommittal answer.

They reached the shop far too quickly, and Y/N couldn’t remember the last time she was so eager to be home.

Elain turned to her one last time, that same bright, sweet smile on her lips. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Y/N nodded stiffly. “Goodnight.”

Then, without another word, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

She exhaled heavily, resting her forehead against the wood.

That had been a mistake.

She had let something slip.

But… Elain hadn’t seemed to catch it, right?

Right?

Y/N shook off the unease and turned away.

She prayed to any god that Elain would never come back.

The shop smelled of cedar and vanilla, the scent of newly stocked candles mixing with the warmth of the evening. Y/N went over and sat on a stool behind the counter, picking at the edge of a ribbon that had come loose from one of the display boxes.

Her grandmother, Arlena, stood by the shelves, carefully rearranging a stack of leather-bound journals. The only sound between them was the rustle of pages, the faint creak of wood settling.

Until Arlena spoke.

“So.” Her voice was casual, but Y/N could hear the knowing lilt in it. “How was your little outing with the Archeron girl?”

Y/N stiffened.

She shouldn’t have been surprised that Arlena would bring it up. The elder was sharper than most gave her credit for.

Still, Y/N didn’t look up. “It was…fine.”

Arlena snorted. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Y/N let out a slow exhale, setting the ribbon down. “It was weird.”

Arlena turned, brows lifting in interest. “Weird how?”

Y/N hesitated. But what was the harm in telling her grandmother?

“She was too friendly,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Like, unnaturally friendly.”

“Some people are just like that, dear.”

Y/N shook her head. “No. Not in that way. It felt… like she was studying me.”

Arlena hummed, crossing her arms. “Maybe she was just curious.”

Y/N let out a short laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe she was looking for something.”

Her grandmother tilted her head. “Like what?”

Y/N hesitated again. She couldn’t tell Arlena about the bond—about what had once tied her to Lucien. That was a secret she had vowed to keep buried.

So she shrugged instead. “I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.”

Arlena considered her for a long moment before sighing and shaking her head. “I told you before, child. Stay away from complicated people.”

Y/N scoffed. “If only it were that easy.”

Arlena smirked. “It is that easy. You just have to actually do it.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

Because wasn’t that what she had been trying to do? To keep her distance, to forget, to pretend none of it had ever happened?

And yet—

For the next few days, Lucien didn’t come to the shop.

Y/N told herself she was grateful.

At last, she wouldn’t have to see him. Wouldn’t have to deal with his lingering presence, wouldn’t have to feel that ache deep in her ribs every time he walked through the door.

And most of all, she wouldn’t have to see Elain either.

He had probably gifted her enough things by now. Probably had no reason to come back anytime soon.

Which was good.

It was what she wanted.

And yet—

The shop felt a little quieter.

A little emptier.

She shook the thought away.

It didn’t matter.

Lucien Vanserra was not her concern.

And whatever game Elain was playing—whatever that strange, polite interrogation had been—Y/N would not let herself get caught up in it.

Because none of it mattered anymore.

It couldn’t.

It had been a week since Elain’s visit to the shop.

At first, it seemed like nothing had changed. The usual hum of life in the shop, the steady stream of customers, the soothing rhythm of placing trinkets on shelves and organizing the displays. But then, whispers began. At first, they were subtle—just a few low murmurs as people passed by the front of the shop. Y/N thought little of it, chalking it up to the usual gossip that floated through the streets. After all, she was used to being somewhat of a mystery in the neighborhood, being a quiet female with an uncommon shop.

But as the days passed, the whispers grew louder.

Customers who had been regulars for months suddenly stopped coming. She could see their eyes darting away when they saw her, like they had something to hide. The air in the shop felt heavier, like a weight she couldn't escape. Her grandmother Arlena noticed it too, her sharp eyes narrowing as she made her way to the counter.

“What’s going on, child?” Arlena asked one morning as she placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder, her voice laced with concern. “Why are there so many fae talking behind your back?"

Y/N stiffened, her stomach flipping. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the rumors had been growing more bizarre and outrageous by the day. “Did you hear about Y/N?” one woman had whispered to another as she passed by the window the other day. “Apparently she was once a lover of Lord Theon... but she drove him mad, and now she's in hiding here, desperate to get him back.”

The rumors were becoming more scandalous by the minute—talk of betrayal, manipulation, even that Y/N had used forbidden magic to keep this...this Lord Theon bound to her in some twisted way. How had this happened?

Y/N’s hands trembled as she set down the delicate porcelain cup she had been polishing. “I don’t know, Grandma,” she muttered, her voice thick with disbelief. “I don’t know what they’re saying. Why would they—why would anyone say these things about me?”

Arlena’s eyes darkened. “I know you, girl. You don’t tell me everything, but I can tell when something’s off. You better set this straight before it ruins your name. You’ve worked hard for this shop, and I won’t have it fall because of some... rumor.”

Y/N’s mind spun. The thought of Lucien, of everything that had happened between them, seemed so distant now. And yet, here she was, caught in a web of lies she hadn’t spun. But who had? Who was behind these rumors? The connections between them were fuzzy, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t something that was just happening by chance.

The next day, things only got worse. A couple of familiar faces walked into the shop, only to turn on their heels and leave when they saw Y/N behind the counter. Their whispered words traveled to her ears: “Oh, no. Not her. I heard enough already.”

A cold sweat prickled Y/N’s skin as she watched them go. She could feel the walls of her shop closing in on her.

And then, she saw it: the headline on the local gossip board.

Lord Theon’s Ex-Fiancee? Witchcraft? A Hybern Loyalist? Secrets and Scandals Surround the Mysterious Shopkeeper.

Her heart dropped to her stomach. This was no coincidence. Someone had been spreading lies—dangerous lies. But why? Why was she being targeted like this?

Her hands gripped the counter as her mind raced. Who could this all be linked to?

As the whispers continued to grow and the people continued to shun her, Y/N’s thoughts churned like a storm inside her mind.

And as the days passed, she found herself slipping deeper into uncertainty and fear, unsure of who to trust, unsure of what to do.

The past few days had been a blur. Whispers, gossip, rumors—nothing but a whirlwind of chaotic stories that seemed to swirl around Y/N like smoke, obscuring her true nature. Every time Lucien walked through the streets, he overheard hushed conversations, people casting furtive glances in his direction as if he should somehow know more about it. And yet, he hadn’t.

He didn’t understand why this was happening. Why would anyone target her? The Y/N he knew—quiet, reserved, and focused on her shop—was nothing like what the rumors painted her to be. Even if he didn't know her for too long. Yet, despite all the outrageous claims, one thing had become clear: she was not being left alone.

It troubled him more than he cared to admit. His thoughts constantly circled back to her—her coldness, her guarded nature. Had it all been an act? Had her aloofness been the result of some past betrayal, or was it because of something that had been building all along? Something that, even now, he couldn’t quite grasp.

The question gnawed at him: was Y/N hiding a darker side? Or was she simply someone who had been dragged into a web of lies, caught in the aftermath of forces beyond her control?

Lucien stood up from the window, rubbing the back of his neck as he thought of the one place that might offer him answers: her shop. He wasn’t planning to buy anything, of course. He had no need for her goods, but something in him wanted to visit. To offer some support, maybe even to clear the air. It wasn’t like he was the one who’d been wronged here—if anything, it was her who had been dragged into this mess, and it unsettled him to think of her going through it alone.

But there was hesitation. He couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be walking into. After all, if the rumors were true... If she really had betrayed someone, as they said...

Lucien’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Elain’s soft voice, like honey dripping into his ears. He was sitting out in the garden of the townhouse, a comfortable yet uneasy silence filling the space between them. Elain had been talking about something—likely her latest social endeavors, but Lucien wasn’t really listening. His mind was elsewhere, wandering back to the shop, to Y/N, to the heavy weight of the gossip that had been spreading.

“Lucien?” Elain’s voice reached him again, this time with a soft, sweet question that made him blink, as if she had been speaking for a while.

He looked over at her, caught off guard by the sudden shift in her tone. "Sorry, what?"

Her expression was bright, almost innocent, and Lucien was a fool. Elain had perfected that look—the one that made her seem all sweetness and light when, in truth, her thoughts were never as pure as they appeared.

“I asked you what was bothering you.” Elain smiled at him, a soft, concerned curve of her lips. “You’ve been quiet. Is something wrong?”

Lucien sighed, a hand running through his tousled hair as he glanced back down at the empty garden, the silence almost too much to bear. ���It’s Y/N,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of his thoughts. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but... things have been difficult for her lately. People are saying things.”

Elain’s gaze flickered, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Lucien to catch it. Her eyes widened slightly, and she tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What do you mean, ‘things’?”

Lucien’s frown deepened, his frustration growing. “Rumors, Elain. Terrible rumors. About her... and her past. It’s getting out of hand. I was thinking of going to her shop, just to... check on her. Offer some kind of support.”

He looked down at his hands, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing on his chest. There was something inside him, something deep and unsettled, that wanted to be there for Y/N. She had helped him in the past—she had given him something precious when he needed it, and that was something that wouldn’t be forgotten.

But as his thoughts spiraled, his voice trailed off, unsure whether visiting her was the right thing to do. Was it a good idea? Or was he only walking into a trap that others had set for her?

Lucien didn’t notice Elain’s subtle shift, the slight narrowing of her eyes as she processed his words. Instead, he was too caught up in his own guilt and confusion to realize how the conversation was unfolding.

“Oh, Lucien,” Elain’s voice broke through his thoughts again, but this time, it was coated in something different—sweet, almost condescending. She leaned forward slightly, her smile still soft but her words cutting through the air with precision. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, you know? We have... a reputation, after all.”

Lucien frowned, sensing the shift in her tone but not fully understanding it yet. “What do you mean?”

Her expression grew more serious, her gaze locking onto his with that same intensity he knew so well. “Lucien, you’re a respected figure. People look up to you. If you go to that shop, everyone will know. You’ll be seen as just another person who’s been fooled by a woman who clearly isn’t what she seems. I mean, the rumors—the truth—they’re everywhere.”

Lucien blinked, momentarily taken aback. “But... there’s no proof. It’s just gossip. You can’t honestly believe—”

Elain cut him off gently, her voice coaxing and smooth. “Of course I believe you, Lucien. You know I do.” She placed a hand on his arm, her touch soft but firm. “But think about the bigger picture. People are already questioning her. Her loyalty. Her intentions. You wouldn’t want to risk your image by associating with someone who’s been labeled... a fraud, would you?”

Lucien’s mouth went dry. “But I thought she—”

“I know,” Elain interrupted, her voice turning softer, sympathetic, but with just the slightest hint of mockery hiding behind her words. “Not everyone is how we perceive them. People can be deceptive, no matter how kind they seem. And, honestly, what’s the point in defending someone who’s only going to drag you down with her?”

Lucien’s gut churned, but there was a part of him—a part that he could barely recognize—that hesitated. Elain’s words were soothing, in a way. They made sense, at least on the surface. He was starting to feel the pull of her reasoning, the doubt beginning to take root in his mind.

She gave him a small, almost pleading look. “Lucien, please. We have an image to maintain. Think of us. Think of ourfuture, the way people view us.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Elain’s voice was soft, sweet, persuasive. “We’re above all of this, above the gossip. You’re better than that. You deserve to be surrounded by people who lift you up, not drag you into their messes.”

Lucien ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of her words sink in. His heart, once determined to visit Y/N and see her through whatever storm she was facing, now wavered. The idea of being seen with her, of standing by her when so many others were turning away, felt less certain now.

Elain smiled sweetly, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Lucien’s mind was still a storm of confusion, but as he glanced at Elain, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation—this manipulation—had been planned all along. Still, with her voice ringing in his ears, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had no choice but to let go of his initial plan.

He sighed heavily. “Fine. I won’t go.”

Elain’s smile deepened, though it never quite reached her eyes. “Good. I’m glad you’re seeing reason.”

The past few days had been a blur of silence. The usually steady hum of her shop had dissolved into a haunting emptiness. The customers who once bustled in and out, filling the air with chatter and curiosity, had disappeared. The shelves she’d meticulously organized now stood untouched, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel as though the walls themselves were closing in on her.

She sat behind the counter, mind spiraling into a labyrinth of confusion, disbelief, and anxiety. The whispers outside her door were becoming unbearable, lingering like an oppressive fog in the back of her mind. Hybern loyalist? A witch? Ex-fiancée of Lord Theon?

Who was Lord Theon?

Y/N couldn’t make sense of any of it. She had never even heard that name before. And as for the rumors—well, they were all nonsense. But no matter how hard she tried to push them away, they stuck to her like tar. And now, with her customers turning their backs, the weight of it all felt suffocating.

Alone in the quiet of the shop, with only her racing thoughts for company, Y/N sank deeper into her spiraling confusion. She hadn’t even thought of Lucien in days, not truly. The rumors were too consuming, too overwhelming. Yet, even as her mind churned through every possible scenario, she couldn't help but wonder: Was this why he never came back?

She thought about the time they'd spent together—the closeness, the surprising comfort. The connection that had drawn them to one another, despite the distance and the years. Did he know? Had he heard the rumors? Or worse, had he believed them?

Her chest tightened at the thought. She’d always known their bond was complicated, full of unspoken words and tangled emotions. But she never expected this.

Just as Y/N was lost in the mess of her thoughts, the door to the shop burst open, the force of it shaking the walls. The door slammed shut just as violently, making her jump. She looked up, her heart hammering in her chest, and saw Elain standing in the doorway.

But this time, there was no warm, bubbly smile on Elain’s face. No soft, welcoming energy. Elain’s eyes were cold, calculating—a far cry from the sweet, innocent demeanor Y/N had once seen in her.

Y/N stood up instinctively, confusion flooding her. What was she doing here?

“Hello, Y/N,” Elain said, her voice deceptively sweet, but there was a sharp edge to it that made Y/N’s blood run cold.

“Can I help you with something?” Y/N asked, her voice betraying none of the unease swirling inside her.

Elain’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Yes, you can. You can pack your things and leave. Now. Before things get worse for you.”

Y/N froze. Her pulse raced, her mind scrambling to make sense of what was happening. “Excuse me?” she asked, her voice shaking with disbelief.

Elain’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play coy with me, Y/N. I know the truth.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. The truth? She felt a chill run down her spine. “What do you mean?”

Elain stepped forward, her heels clicking with a rhythm that seemed far too confident. “After our little conversation in the café, I had my suspicions. The way you reacted to that talk about bonds... it wasn’t hard to figure out that you have quite a past, and one that involves a mate.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She hadn’t told anyone. She hadn’t even spoken of Lucien in years, not in the way she should have. How could Elain know?

Elain continued, her tone mocking. “I took a little time to investigate. Turns out, you and Lucien have more than just a bond. You’ve had it for years—a hundred years, in fact. But poor Lucien doesn’t even know, does he? Funny how that works, isn’t it? But don’t worry, I’ll make sure everyone knows the truth soon enough.”

Y/N’s mouth went dry. “How?” she breathed, her mind racing, trying to piece it all together. How did she know?

Elain’s smile widened, almost sinister. “It wasn’t hard to figure out, really. My gift isn’t just for the future, Y/N. I can see the past, too. And what I saw was... illuminating.”

The words hit Y/N like a physical blow. Elain had used her powers to pry into her life, to find out what she’d hidden so carefully. She wanted to scream, to demand why Elain thought she had the right to invade her privacy like that. But Y/N was frozen in place, her body rooted to the spot as Elain’s words continued to echo in her ears.

“And now,” Elain’s voice dropped, cold and dangerous, “I’m going to make sure everyone knows. The rumors are just the beginning. You’re going to leave this shop, Y/N. And if you don’t, well...”

Elain’s gaze darkened. “In a few days, I’m afraid I’ll have to make sure you’re locked up in a cell. That’s what happens to traitors, isn’t it? People like you.” She laughed softly. “Hybern loyalist, witch... betrayal... Oh, I’m sure you’ll fit right in with the rest of the scum.”

Y/N’s mind was reeling. She couldn’t process the storm of emotions crashing into her all at once. “Why?” she finally managed to croak. “Why are you doing this?”

Elain’s eyes hardened. “Because I can’t have Lucien’s attention wandering. He’s mine, and I’m not about to let someone like you get in the way.”

Y/N was stunned, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “You... can’t... You wouldn’t...”

Elain’s smile was smug, full of superiority. “I already have. You’re nothing to him, Y/N. Nothing more than a memory he doesn’t even know he has. I’m the one who deserves his love, his attention. I’m the one who’s worthy.”

Y/N’s chest tightened with anger and shock. This was the woman who had once seemed so sweet, so kind. But now, she stood before Y/N, a cold, calculating enemy.

“But... Lucien doesn’t know? Does he know about all this? Is that why he hasn’t come to see me?” Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with fear and confusion.

Elain’s eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. “Oh, he knows, alright. I told him everything. And do you want to know what he said? He was disgusted. So disgusted that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at your little shop again.”

The words hit Y/N like a slap to the face. Disgusted. The word reverberated in her head, over and over again, until it felt like it was drowning her.

She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re lying,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Elain tilted her head, feigning sympathy. “I’m not, darling. I wish I were. But you’ve already lost him. He’ll never come back to you.”

Y/N felt the ground beneath her feet shift. All the uncertainty, the fear, the confusion—it was suddenly too much. She was drowning in it. And all she could do was stand there, unable to fight back, as Elain’s cruel words swirled around her.

With a final, venomous smile, Elain stepped toward the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. “You have 24 hours, Y/N,” she called over her shoulder. “Pack your things. Leave this place, and never come back. Or I’ll make sure these rumors get even worse. I promise you, you’ll regret this.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Y/N standing in the quiet of her shop, her heart pounding in her chest, the weight of the threat heavy on her shoulders.

Lucien... She didn’t know what to think anymore. Did he believe Elain? Was she really so insignificant to him now? Had he ever cared?

Y/N’s mind spun in endless circles, the weight of the rumors and Elain’s cruel words crashing over her like a tidal wave. Her breath caught in her throat as the reality settled in: she was alone.

And soon, she would lose everything.

He lied.

Even as Elain’s soft words curled around his mind, urging him to let go, to forget, to move on—he had lied. He was going back to see her. He didn’t know why, didn’t know what he expected to find, but the thought of Y/N, alone in that little shop, had lingered in his mind like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

He shouldn’t care.

Shouldn’t be thinking about her at all.

But something about the way she had looked at him that last time—something in her eyes, in the way she held herself, in the quiet hesitations between her words—had unsettled him in a way he couldn’t shake. It was wrong, the way her absence gnawed at him. It was wrong that he still remembered the way she smelled, the way her fingers had once brushed against his when she handed him something, the way she looked away just a second too late, as if she didn’t want to stop looking at him at all.

Elain would hate this.

The thought slithered into his mind, unwanted.

But he pushed it away because it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He just needed to see her, just once, just to put this restless feeling to rest.

Lucien turned the corner, his heart beating just a little too fast, the familiar sight of her shop coming into view—

And then—

He stopped.

Everything inside him stopped.

The door was boarded shut.

Rough wooden planks nailed haphazardly across the entrance. Red paint smeared in crude lettering. Out of Service.

His breath left him.

The street moved around him, the city still alive, but Lucien stood utterly still, staring at the place where her shop should have been. The place where she should have been.

Gone.

Without thinking, his feet carried him forward. His throat was tight when he turned to the nearest person, catching the sleeve of a passerby. "This is—this was—Y/N’s shop," his voice came out rough. "Did she move? Where did she go?"

The male barely spared him a glance. "Oh, her? Last I heard, she left a day ago."

Lucien's fingers clenched. "Where?"

The male only shrugged. "Don’t know. All I know is she doesn’t work or live here anymore." Then he shook Lucien’s grip off and walked away, disappearing into the crowd as if he hadn't just unraveled something deep in Lucien’s chest.

Lucien didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Y/N had left Velaris.

[heyimkana]

Husband!Jinwoo tries to guess your favorite positions in bed (with demonstrations 😏)

A deleted/alternate scene from Pillow Talk Part 3 but can be read separately.

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo X Female Reader

Genre: Marriage AU, fluff, smut

Content Warnings: dry humping, choking, hair-pulling, dirty talk

Word Count: 4K

“Do you still have more questions you want to ask me?” Jinwoo says, despite his mind already drifting somewhere else. “If you do, then this is your last chance, Angel. I’m afraid I’m starting to get a little… impatient.”

You wish he could just sever it, that last rope that binds him together. And perhaps you can, he’s handing you the knife to do it, after all. But the second you're tempted to do so, a question pops up in your mind. A question that, if he knows the answer, will bring you even more ecstasy than he’s planning to offer you. 

You draw a breath. “Do you, umm… Do you know what my favorite positions are?”

“Hmm?” Your husband tilts his head slightly to the side, digesting your words with his eyes blinking in surprise. “You mean, sex positions?” His lips break into a coquettish smile when he witnesses your little bashful nod. “I thought you weren’t gonna ask anything naughty, Princess.”

Heat pools fast in your cheeks, but you ignore it. “Three guesses. If you get all of them right—”

“—You’ll let me have my way with you right now.” 

He finishes your sentence for you almost in a growl, his patience hanging by a thread. You cower slightly. “Y-your way?”

“That’s right. My way.” He pushes forward on the bed, still keeping you trapped underneath him. “Any way I want”—he presses his knee firmly against your core—“Anything I want”—his hands begin to wander, one palm skating over your chest and stomach from above your nightgown, dangerously caressing your neck—“However I want.” He seizes your wrists and pins them over your head. His face hovers just above yours, his lips twisting in a titillating smirk. “And you’re just gonna have to be a good girl and take whatever I give you.”

You suddenly feel so small and frail underneath him, perfect to be cuddled and ruined. The hunger in his gaze stirs your insides with excitement. “O-okay. Just… remember that I’m pregnant.”

“Of course, baby,” he chuckles, a delightful melody in your ear. “I’ll be so gentle with you, I promise.” 

There’s a hint of devilry behind his tone that convinces you otherwise. He’s going to be gentle, yes, but if there were a limit on what he could do to you, he’d make sure he’d drive you to that very edge. You swallow thickly. “And if you guess it wrong?”

“That’s impossible,” he nearly scoffs, using one hand to hold both of your wrists together as his other one travels down your body. “I’ll get them right, all three of them. But, for the sake of our conversation, I’ll humor you.” He dips his head down to pepper slow, torturous kisses down your jawline as he speaks. “Let’s see… What does my sweet wife want?” The tip of his sharp nose grazes your pulsating vein, his free hand moving back to the aching spot between your legs. “How about I’ll be your slave for a day?”

You shiver, his mouth feels hot and wet against your clavicle. “You… You’ll do anything I ask you to?”

“Mm-hmm, anything.” His tongue traces the hollow of your collarbone, his fingers lightly stroking over your bare core. “I’ll serve you, do everything you ask. You’ll have me completely at your mercy.” 

Fuck, that sounds so good, so tempting. “That’s quite a huge amount of power you give me,” you titter, the sound coming out a little bit strained as he dips his fingers between your folds, rough digits covered by your slick. 

“That’s the point, love,” he smirks against your skin, gently running his fingers up and down your heat, teasing your hole but never penetrating inside. “I want you to have that power over me”—his mouth explores your ear—“I want to be vulnerable”—your neck—“I want to be weak for you”—the valley of your chest—“And I want you”—he gnaws lightly against the underside of your breast—“to control me.”

You squirm beneath him as he keeps your hands tied together above your head, a shot of pleasure permeating you. “C-control you? Why?”

At your question, Jinwoo stops his ministrations, retracting his fingers from between your thighs before he kisses his way back to your lips. “Because I trust you, Angel,” he whispers. “Because I want to give up control to you, even if just for a moment.” He returns the small proximity between you, capturing your stare. “Because deep down”—he releases his grip from your wrists, his gaze softening, filled with the sincerity of the words he speaks—“I crave to be vulnerable with you, to surrender everything to you. All of me. Body, mind, heart, and soul... Everything.”

Your heart palpitates, thrumming in anticipation. The desire to be used for his pleasure still remains, but the need to take care of him, to give him the love and the attention he craves, consumes you just as strongly. Ever since your daughter arrived, you haven’t really gotten the chance to be with him properly, have you? Your undivided attention is some form of luxury he rarely attains, as you are always so occupied with taking care of your child and keeping the house spotless clean. You’re doing an excellent job as a mother, and there’s not a single fraction of his heart that wishes to complain, but… Sometimes, Jinwoo misses the days when it was only him in your mind. You can see that now.

“I’m sorry,” you quietly say, caressing his cheek. “I was so busy being a mom that I forgot how to be your wife.”

“Sweetheart, that’s not true. You’ve done so well, both as a mother and my wife,” he smiles back, leaning further into your touch. “It’s just… Sometimes I want to be spoiled, that’s all. Teased, even.”

The way he only shows this side of himself to you makes you feel proud of yourself, and beyond thankful. “Right. Cause you’re the real baby in the house,” you giggle. “Well then, baby, go ahead and make your first guess.”

The tenderness in his eyes transforms quickly into mischief. “Your first favorite position is…” Without warning, Jinwoo lifts you and flips you over to your stomach. You land face-first on the pillow before you’re yanked back to your hands and knees, your mouth separated in a startled gasp when he pushes his protruding bulge against your behind. “This,” he finishes, his body leaning forward to whisper it in your ear, his right hand pushing up your gown to expose your lower half to him. You can feel it, the outline of his hardening cock pressing firmly against your ass, separated only by the soft fabric of his sweatpants. 

“You love it when I make love to you from behind.” His grip is tight on your hips, his bare torso hanging just a few inches away from your spine. “When I hug you close just like this”—He lays his chest and stomach onto your backside, embracing you with one hand while he props his weight on the bed with the other—“and my hand slides down between your legs like before”—his calloused palm glides down from your stomach to your aching core—“and I touch you here”—his two fingers find your clit—“right where you want me the most”—he rubs them teasingly against your sensitive bud—“while I fuck you deep and slow”—he grinds his hips against you, torturing you with the sensation of having him so close and yet so far. He captures your earlobe between his teeth, giving it a playful bite, his smirk beyond sinful as he whispers, “Isn’t that right, Sweetheart?”

Seeing how your body tenses up, Jinwoo can tell he’s right. He leans back to enjoy the view, detaching his hand from the bed to drag two fingers from your nape down to your back, slowly following the dip of your spine, watching the way you shiver and arch your back from the touch. He removes his other hand from between your legs, ignoring the little mewls you let out as a sign of protest, and placing both hands on your hips.

“Do you know how beautiful your body looks when I take you from behind?” He rams himself forward, his clothed cock rubbing against your folds, itching to just tear apart the piece of clothing that separates you and push inside till he’s buried deep in your warmth. “When you're on your hands and knees like this, your arms trembling each time I thrust inside?” He lets out a low groan when you start to push back, your body helplessly seeking more friction. “Seeing you from this angle turns me on so fucking much, baby.” 

You can’t bite back the whimper that threatens to spill, the sheets bunched in your hands. “J-Jin—”

He suddenly presses down on the middle of your shoulder blades, driving you down the bed, your face glued to the sheets while he keeps your lower half in the air. “You know how much I love being in control, don’t you, Angel?” His breathing has grown labored, but other than that, he seems to still have his sanity intact, unlike you. Jinwoo keeps you pinned to the bed, his hand gripping your nape from behind. “Seeing you take whatever I give you, your back arching for more, so submissive and obedient for me.” He continues to grind against your behind, moving agonizingly slow on purpose. “And not just that… I could also pull on your hair”—he demonstrates his words, the hand on your nape moving up to grab a fistful of your strands—“And hear you moan louder for me when I do.” 

To prove his point, he tugs on your roots, doing it so suddenly, that it robs a wanton moan out of you. His eyes are suffused with lust, his smile filthy. “That’s right, baby. Just like that.” He gives you another hard thrust, one that you know would’ve driven his cock so deeply inside if there were no barriers between you. He tosses his head back, his bottom lip bitten as he swallows his groan. “Fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” 

Just like him, you can feel your body becoming more and more desperate with each passing second. Fueled by so much desire, you’re starting to whimper out his name, your lower half continuously moving on its own, rubbing yourself against him. 

Jinwoo bends down, laughing softly in your ear. “Careful, love. You’re starting to sound a little needy.”

Needy— That snaps you out of whatever magic that bound you before. Irritation flares inside you, and you break away from him, tossing yourself back to the bed, throwing daggers with your eyes. 

Although startled at first, another cocky smile makes its way onto his face as he looks down at you, watching you look all cute and flustered as you lie on your back with a mean scowl ornamenting your pretty face. “Are you angry?” He chuckles, his hand stroking your thigh. “I’m sorry, honey. I was just kidding.” 

“You say that, but you’re just gonna end up teasing me again.”

“Well, when the opportunity arises, yes.” 

You try to kick that shameless grin away from his face, but he only captures your leg easily with one hand, and press a loving kiss on your ankle. “Hey, come on now, don’t be mad.” He brings himself to you, trying to win your heart with his impish, yet romantic smile, his fingers slipping between yours as he cages your body again. Sweet, playful kisses glaze your collarbones, accompanied by the grin that he tries to repress. “Forgive me, Angel.” 

“Whatever,” you snort. He’s not sorry. “You’re mean.”

“Am I?” Your reaction only amuses him further. “Are you upset because I got it right on the first guess?”

“I’m upset because you’re annoying,” you mutter through gritted teeth, but you can't stop the fire from kissing your cheeks because yes, yes indeed, he got it right, and you’re not sure if you should feel ashamed or impressed. “Don’t act so cocky, Husband. You only got one right out of three.”

He smiles at your insistence, finding your stubbornness both adorable and sexy. He runs his hand down your hip, his fingers tracing patterns over your skin. “You’ve got a point, Wife. That is only one of them, but I can tell I’m going to get the rest right as well.”

“God, I wanna wipe that damn smirk off your face.”

“Feisty,” he simpers, growing even more excited. He’s thoroughly enjoying every second of it, loving every bit of your expression. “Since my princess has grown impatient, let’s finish the game quickly, shall we?”

You roll your eyes, but you await his next move. Confidence, or perhaps arrogance, glints in his eyes as he speaks. “I know you like being in charge, Sweetheart, so for my second guess, I’ll go with…” And just as abruptly as before, he switches position. In one swift action, faster than your eyes can follow, Jinwoo rolls onto his back and sets you down above him. Straddling his lap with your legs spread, you fall forward from the sudden movement, your palms pressed flat against the bed to balance yourself, his head trapped in between. “You on top, riding me,” he finishes, still with his goddamn smirk intact.

Just how the fuck did he get it right again?

Seeing you turn flustered, Jinwoo can tell he’s winning the game, but there’s no mockery in his eyes when he reaches up to tuck your hair behind your ear, his gesture sweet, romantic even. “I have to say, this might be one of my favorites, too,” he tells you, his gaze turning tender. “The way you look at me when you’re above me… The way you roll your hips, your lips parting as you moan out my name… You look so fucking pretty like this, Angel.”

Your heart flutters no matter how much you try to tame the butterflies inside you. You’re excited, and you can tell by the growing bulge beneath you that he is, too, perhaps even so much more. “Jin—”

“It turns you on, too, doesn’t it, being in control?” he cuts you off with a question, his hand traveling down your side. “Which makes me think… Maybe you’re not so submissive, after all.” His palms now rest on your thighs, slowly gliding up your skin. “Do you still remember that night when we celebrated your birthday together? You were terribly drunk, and I was ready to let you sleep for the night, but you insisted on—what did you say back then—unwrapping your birthday gift.” 

You nearly combust into flames, remembering that yes, I did say that, with your husband obviously being the so-called birthday gift. The memory is a little hazy, blurred by all the wine you’d consumed that night, but you can fairly remember how desperate you were back then, how nee— 

“God, you were so needy that night,” he finishes the shameful thought you hate to admit. “Probably the cutest you’d ever been. You pushed me down to the bed, and climbed onto my lap, clawing against my chest to take off my shirt. No matter how much I told you to stop and take some rest, you didn’t listen. You were so… desperate for me.”

Your cheeks sizzle, shame coating your face. “T-that wasn’t me. That was the alcohol.”

“Oh, I don't doubt that, Sweetheart. But it’s not fair if you blame everything on the alcohol. After all, it didn’t put thoughts in your head, it only made you braver.” His devilish grin returns. “The truth was, you’d been wanting to do that to me for a while, hadn’t you? To dominate me in bed?”

Your heartbeat soars. You can’t deny that it’s true. Seeing him in this position, your eyes roaming over his features and his bare chest, makes you recall all those nights when you embraced the bolder side of you, bouncing on his lap without letting your shame take control. It brought you so much satisfaction seeing him like that, with his eyes turning half-lidded from the pleasure you gave him, the muscles in his abdomen contracting with every grind of your hips, his jaw dropping in a silent groan… It always leaves you wanting more.

But that night in particular… Were you even… wilder than usual? “W-what did I do to you exactly?”

The way his lips twitch into a broader smirk—you probably shouldn’t have asked that.

“Let’s rewind the memory, shall we?” Jinwoo captures your hands, detaching them from the bed. “You put your hands right here”—he places them on his naked chest, letting you remember in detail just how lean, and toned, and just absolutely breathtaking his body is—“And you moved your hips like this…” He settles his own hands on your waist, pressing you down harder against him, making sure you feel him, the contour of his cock and how it twitches under your weight, separated only by the soft layer of his sweatpants. He guides you forward, the slight friction of his fabric against your bare folds sending tremors down your thighs. He chuckles at your reaction, the sound low and breathy as he watches you intently, loving how much this affects you, the way it affects him. 

“And you keep grinding on me like this”—he lifts his own hips to answer you, his grip on your hips tightening a bit as he silently commands you to pick up your pace—“Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and”—a moan escapes him when you start to move on your own, his eyes drooping, filled with lust—“forth… Mm, yeah, just like that.”

He lets you move on your own for a bit, reveling in the moment, your wetness staining his pants the same way his own cock is smearing precum from below. He releases a ragged breath, his nails raking down your thighs. “You didn’t care about me that night, about what I liked, what I wanted. You were just moving to your own desire, making sure you rub your clit against me with each roll of your hips, riding me as if my cock was made for you to use as you please. You were so fucking sexy, baby.” 

Amidst the shame that burns you from the inside, you remember how… full you felt that night with his cock throbbing inside you, and now you feel so empty, your heat clenching around nothing.

Jinwoo detects your frustration, but he dismisses it with a cruel smile. He has his own game to play and he’s nowhere near finished.

“I don’t know if you remember this, but”—he takes your dominant hand in his, curling his fingers around your wrist—“in the heat of the moment, you wrap your fingers around my neck”—he swallows in excitement as he brings your hand to his neck—“and you squeeze tight”—he closes your fingers around him, pressing your palm down on his Adam’s apple—“tighter and tighter”—he guides you to do it harder, clamping your fingers firmly around his pipes until you can feel every constrict his throat makes as he chokes out his words—“Until I—ngh—started gasping out your name.” His chuckles turn strained, his cheeks turning a little flushed. “I could see how much it turned you on, and it aroused me, too. To have you do whatever you want with me…” You start adding more pressure on your own, and he almost rolls his eyes back in rapture. “God, I wanna be under your mercy again.”

“You—” Seeing how brazen he is sets you on fire. “I didn’t know you liked being dominated.”

“I don’t, but I love being with you.” Exhilaration flashes in his eyes, his pupils dilated. “I love whatever you do to me, and whatever I do to you. Seeing you act all submissive and obedient for me drives me crazy, baby, but watching how excited you looked from choking me was a treat for the eyes. And it felt good being under your control. Being used as a toy for your pleasure…” He bites the corner of his lip, his hips bucking up to meet yours. “Makes me so goddamn hard just by thinking about it.”

“You’re so—” You don’t bother to continue your words, choosing to let your hips do the talking for you. You start grinding on him faster, your hips rolling, and it feels so dirty and thrilling to do something so obscene without truly touching him. 

Jinwoo adds his thumb to the game, pressing his digit against your clit, giving you the needed friction. You mewl above him, still aching for more. You feel like you’re missing a part of you, and it’s right there, but you can’t have it. This desperation on your face… You looked like this, too, that night, didn't you? And God, he fucking loved it as much as he does now. Something about you rubbing yourself against his clothed cock like an animal in heat awakens something primal inside him. 

“Fuck,” he chuckles darkly, “You’re leaving stains all over my pants, Sweetheart.”

I don’t care, your mind responds, so much that your tongue sits idle in your mouth instead of forming the words out loud. His voice turns subdued in your mind, muffled by the filthy thoughts of you tugging his pants down to his thighs and driving his length inside you.

Should I just do it?

“Not yet, Angel,” he stops you just before your thoughts can turn into actions, his voice sounding just as breathless as he reads your expression. “Don’t beg for my cock just yet. I’ll make it worth the wait, I promise, but for now…” He thrusts up at the same time he pulls you down, your soft moan intermingling with his in the air at the contact. You can almost feel it, feel the way his hardness teases your ring even through the fabric and it feels so good but far from enough. 

Jinwoo’s eyes shimmer with the same thrill. “Let’s drive ourselves insane and see who crumbles first.”

You want to accept the challenge, but at this point, you don’t mind if you lose. Actually, you want to lose, just to get this fucking over with.

You don’t stop, your body moving more frantically above him with each passing second. One grind of your hips hits just right, and clouds of white start to form behind your lids. You can’t believe you’re coming just from dry-humping your husband like a fucking teenager but you are and he senses it. 

Jinwoo sees the way your body trembles, your movements stutter, your muscles tautening before they begin to unwind. Your fingers tighten around his neck as you drown yourself in ecstasy, and it hurts just the way he wants it. Your grip on him loosens as you slowly climb down from your high, your hand sliding back down to his chest to keep yourself steady.

Jinwoo swallows thickly. It was dangerous, so close. Had you continued to rock your hips a few more times, he would’ve reached cloud nine, too. 

He watches you with a soft smile, catching his own breath as his hand gently strokes your thigh. “Felt good?”

You sit on his lap, your chest rising and falling like the tides. You’re spent. “Yeah…”

“You’ve come twice today,” he titters softly. “And I haven’t really done anything yet.”

You don’t care. He can make fun of you all you want, you don’t give a damn. You’re feeling far too good to pay attention to anything.

Jinwoo pushes his upper half off the bed, keeping you on his lap with one hand around your waist as he leans back with his other hand propped behind him. “Take off your gown for me, Sweetheart.”

Still dazed, you answer your puppeteer obediently, reaching down to grip the hem of your nightgown and pull it over your head. You’re only halfway to doing so when he stops you. “Slowly,” he says, his voice sweet but full of command, dripping with desire. “Tease me, Angel. Make me ache for you more. I know you can do it.” With your heart racing a tad faster, you steel yourself and do as he commanded you to, rising to your knees and stripping yourself bare at an agonizing pace, torturing him with every inch of skin you expose. 

Watching you with a flush creeping across your cheeks, your chest still heaving up and down, your eyes staring back at him with a mix of need and love and a little bit of shyness that you once cast away, Jinwoo releases a heavy breath, carving every detail into his memory. He shortens the small distance between you, tangling his strong arms around your waist, skin rubbing against skin.  “Gorgeous.”

You gaze down at him as he looks up at you, your breasts on the same level as his face. “You… You said that position was one of your favorites.” He hums in approval, placing an open-mouth kiss on your chest. You brush his hair away from his eyes, enthralled by the sight. “What’s your number one, then?”

He smiles at your curiosity, and the way your eyes remain hazy even after a moment has passed. “That’s a secret, Sweetheart. You’ll find out what it is if I get the rest of them right.”

You sigh, your impatience returning. You’ve forgotten that he still has one guess left. “Hurry up and hit me with your third guess, then.”

“Your third favorite”—Jinwoo hooks an arm around your waist, lifts you for a split second before he pushes you back to the bed, settling himself between your legs—“is when I have you lying on your back, legs wrapped tight around me. When you can feel me so deep inside you, and I can taste your lips as I fuck you hard and fast.” He can feel you shiver as he says it, your body so responsive, reacting to his words. His fringe falls over his eyes as his face hovers above yours, a smirk playing on his lips. “I was right again, wasn’t I?”

Three times. Out of all the things you’ve done with him, how did he manage to get all of your favorite positions three times in a row? “No, you got it wrong.”

He raises an eyebrow in amused surprise when you say that, seeing through your lies. “Seems like my princess wants to play dirty tonight. Are you that desperate to have me as your slave? Kinda makes me want to lose on purpose.” 

Your plan to wash off the damn smirk backfires as it only persists longer on his face. “I’m not lying!”

“Your body gave you away, Angel. I saw how you reacted before. You liked it.” He grins roguishly. “And even if I guessed it wrong, once I’m done with you tonight,” he presses down on you, his sensual whisper echoing right in your ear. “I’ll make sure it gets on the list.”

You shudder, quickly succumbing to your defeat. “Fine. You win. What now?”

A Cheshire cat’s smile forms on his face as a sense of victory fills him. It’s about damn time you ask him that question.

Jinwoo tugs the strings on your body once more, rolling you to your stomach until you’re pressed flat against the bed. His hips press down against yours from behind, his hand fisting a handful of your hair and he tugs it back, earning himself a low groan. Deprived of your options as you’re being held still, your eyes land on the standing mirror before you, just the way he wants you to. It reflects you perfectly, showcasing how helpless you are beneath him, the pathetic look on your face—so eager to be touched, and the way his gaze turns dark as it meets your own. 

“Now,” Jinwoo whispers in your ear, keeping your eyes locked with his in the mirror as he smirks. “I get to do with you as I please.”

***

A/N: I had to write down the most basic sex positions ever 'cause I know y'all jinwoo girlies are vanilla af LMFAOOO

btw what do you think jinwoo's favorite position is 👀

[rindzaki]

Bunny in heat

Synopsis: In recent days, Xavier’s affection has become especially noticeable. It can be called not just tenacity, but an almost tactible thread that binds you together. At dawn, when the first rays of the sun barely penetrate the curtains, you feel his presence. He's right here, ready to accompany you around the house. When you go to the kitchen for a cup of morning coffee, he follows you, step by step. If you sit down to work, he sits down comfortably next to you, putting his head on your knees. He smells you everywhere, asks for kisses and hugs with such persistence that sometimes it seems as if he is suffocating without your touch. It's like he is become a magnet that follows you everywhere.

warnings: nsfw minors dni. Sub! bunny hybrid Xavier, soft dom! reader. Gn reader (cock or strap), anal sex. in heat. breeding kink. lactation. praise kink. possessive behaviour, begging. anal plug.

Xavier blinked slowly, as if he was struggling to perceive the light penetrating through the high windows of the bedroom. Despite the scorching summer sun, which brought unbearable heat to the ground, his body is covered with chilling trembling.

He's unbearably cold, and he buried himself under a heavy blanket, trying to warm up. His face is distorted by a painful grimace, his fluffy ears are pressed against his head, his eyes are half closed with fatigue, his lips are compressed, and his forehead is covered with drops of sweat. From the pain in aching bones and trembling muscles, he moans quietly.

He's holding a cup of ginger tea that you made for him before going to work. Steam rises from a hot drink, warming his face when he takes a small sip. Xavier found out in the morning that he’s in heat, but he didn't tell you, because he didn't want you to think and worry about him during your mission.

Having fallen off the edge of the bed, he began to rise slowly, feeling every pain, but ignoring it. Gathering the remaining strength, he systematically moved towards the pillow cabinet.

Xavier carefully placed the pillows so that they form the walls of the future nest. He added soft blankets to create extra comfort and warmth. When the nest was almost ready, he went to dig through your clothes trying to accurately determine your strongest smell in them.

His hands tremble when he goes through your clothes, sticking his nose into the collar, deeply inhaling the smell that has always been associated with safety and comfort... whining left his lips, because the next moment the slick poured out of his hole, getting his pants. His eyes looked down, only choking from the sight of the bulge in the front of the pants and the shirt wet with two waterfalls from the lactation.

Having thrown off all his clothes, he climbed into the nest. His hand slowly descends to the wet hole so that his clumsy fingers can satisfy his itchy need. He feels a storm of emotions raging inside him. His breathing becomes more frequent and intermittent, his eyes are full of prayer and passion, he is waiting for your permission to touch himself to finally satisfy this irrepressible desire.

But you're not here. He gathered his will in his fist, trying to keep himself from temptation, but it hurts him so much. Xavier is your good boy and he won't touch himself without your permission. He whined with his face in the mattress, tears pouring from his eyes.

"P-please...hurry up."

You came to the door, a soft smile appears on your face when you think about how you will come in and hug your bunny. You mess around a little bit trying to find the keys in your pocket or bag and finally open the door. And from the very threshold you have a strange feeling. Usually Xavier is always waiting for you, meets you at the door with a bright smile. You take off your shoes and go further into the apartment, looking carefully.

You call him by name, but in response only a deaf silence. The thought flashes in your head that he may be sleeping.

You carefully approach the bedroom door quietly opening. Even in the dim light, your eyes easily distinguished his twisting figure. The naked plump thigh was raised up, twitching slightly in nervous anticipation. Between his perfectly round buttocks, there was a flashing hole from which a shiny stream of slick flowed out. It looked ready to fill and stretch, framed by red skin and pulsating muscles.

You couldn't take your eyes off his chest, which filled with milk and turned into perfect hills. They seemed so soft to the touch. The caramel-pink nipples were hard, and milk slowly flowing from them, streams down his skin. Every drop sliding down increased the feeling of unbearable tension. His breasts seemed to be begged to be free from this sweet burden, causing you to want to help.

The image of his blushing face, drenched in tears, was unbearably touching. He squeezed the sheets so hard that his knuckles became white. Tears flowed down his cheeks, leaving wet paths on his skin.

The hair stuck to his forehead, and you stretched out your hand and carefully removed the strands, your heart jumped when your fingers touched his burning skin. Your hand slides gently over his fluffy ears, and he began to tremble. He made a quiet moan. A puddle of glass eyes appeared behind the veil of trembling eyelashes and looked around in a stunned look before they focussed on you with round puppy eyes and trembling inflated lips,they were a temptation for you to kiss and suck until they swelled.

Xavier suddenly let out the needy howling, reaching for you. The discomfort of not touching his partner was depressed at the moment when he was in protective warm hands and pressed against your chest. Relief spread over his trembling body like a tsunami as soon as he touched the skin and he immediately hugged your neck, pressing against you. In his touch, there was a feeling of urgency, which was caused by his heat.

"[Name] P-please please…[N-name]. Take me! I need you inside m-me!- breed me! I w-won't spend a d-drop! Promise!…J-just please fuck me. Please!"

You focussed on calming him down, ignoring your erection, although he probably felt it touching him.

"Shh.. It's all right, baby." His body trembled in your arms as he inhaled deeply, as if your smell was his life. He pressed tightly against you.

"P-please don't leave me, please, I'll do anything, don't leave me!" He was soping, squeezing your shirt as if you were his only need in the world.

Xavier couldn't think clearly. His mind was shrouded in a fog of desire and passion. His teeth dug into your neck with such force, as if he was desperately trying to take possession of you in some way. You felt a hot wave run through your body, and at the same moment you reacted sharply. You turned him over, pressing him to the bed, being on top. Your lips persistently crashed into him, and he immediately answered the kiss, moaning. He pressed against you, spreading his hips, making sobs and whining, incoherently begging you to fuck him.

"Such a good little bunny for me," you mutter in a quiet, affectionate voice, making his hips spread even more. Your breath is hot on his skin.

You bring two fingers to his hole, slowly and carefully, so as not to scare away this moment. His body responds instantly, his muscles tense, and you see his hole shrink and relax, anticipating your touch. Precum slowly flows out of the tip of his dick, forming drops that erotically flow down, leaving a wet trail.

Xavier looks at you with a pleas in his eyes and, suffocating, begs: "Pleaseee!...Name, d-drink my milk. only f-for you-aaah. Please! It hurts!" His voice trembles, he feels despair. You feel his body tense, his dick pulsating from the accumulated tension. You lean towards his chest. Your lips wrap around his nipple, and you start sucking gently, feeling his body bend towards your lips. His breathing becomes heavy and intermittent when you start moving your fingers inside him, stretching and preparing him for more.

You feel the taste of his milk, diligently continuing drinking. His hands are trembling, clinging to your shoulders. The sweet taste of his milk stays on your tongue, and you bend over to kiss him. Your lips meet, and you share this taste with him. He answers greedily to a kiss, his tongue tastes its own taste.

You put your fingers away, watching his body respond to it. He looks at you greedily, his eyes are full of expectation and desire.

You slowly raise his hips, bringing yourself closer, feeling the warmth and tension coming from him. With one hand, you point your dick to his hole, and start slowly entering. You could feel his nails dig into your back, leaving hot, burning marks on your skin.

His body begins to tremble from the intensity of the feeling of fullness, and suddenly he cum. His orgasm overwhels him, his dick pulsates, throwing out hot streams of sperm. He moans, his body bends, and you feel his muscles shrink around you. A wet liquid flows out of its hole, adding to the overall picture of discharge and satisfaction. He chokes, clinging to you, and you see how waves of pleasure cover him.

He repeats your name, as if it was a prayer, as if you were his god. His voice trembles from every sensation, from every push of pleasure. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I’m yours..." he repeats, every time his body shudders with a wave of orgasm. You realize that at this moment he completely and undividedly belongs to you.

From the fact that he squeezes you so hard, you also reach the peak. You cum deep inside him, filling him with your sperm, and his body responds to it with a new surge of pleasure. His stomach swelled, a small hill appeared.

His body suddenly softened, and he lost consciousness, his head fell involuntarily on the pillow, his breathing slowed down. You gently pull out of him, feeling a part of your sperm begin to flow out of his hole. You took the plug out of the locker near the bed and carefully insert it to keep all the liquid inside him.

You know that he always does that: Every time you fill him up, he inserts a plug and doesn't pull out it all day.

"I will keep them warm," Xavier usually says, gently stroking his swollen stomach. His fingers gently touch the skin, as if he took care of your seeds, like something precious. He likes to feel your sperm inside him, to keep it in himself as something expensive and valuable.

Even when you're not around, Xavier continues this ritual, smiling and taking care of his stomach. His fingers gently massage his skin, and he whispers to himself words of love and devotion. You know that this is his way to keep a part of you with him, to feel your closeness and care even in your absence.

You look at his serene face and swollen stomach, wondering if he can really get pregnant from it. You gently cover him with a blanket and sit next to him, knowing that when he wakes up, he will ask you for it again.

[alive-gh0st]

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: after defying a divine directive and choosing mercy over order, you—a cupid built not to feel—fall from the realm and crash into a world you don’t belong to. wingless and exiled, you land on a planet bruised by war, grief, and something worse: apathy. but one figure watches your descent. he’s not a hero. not a god. just a man turned monster, carrying the weight of a planet he helped destroy. you were made to spark love. he was made to conquer. so why can’t he walk away?

❤︎ contains: sfw. celestial mythology. lonely immortals. slow-burn dynamics. post-war emotional fallout. deconstruction of love as a weapon/tool. and a wingless cupid with a cracked heart and a crooked smile.

❤︎ warnings: emotional manipulation (brief). themes of exile and identity loss. canon-typical violence references (omni-mark’s past). light blood/injury mentions. quiet existential grief. soft heartbreak. and the inconvenient ache of wanting to be wanted.

‪❤︎ wc: 4455

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i wanted to write something aching. something soft and sharp and too pink in all the wrong places. this is my love letter to the ones who were built to help others but never expected to be helped. to the hopeless romantics. to the heartsworn. if you’ve ever looked for your own thread and found nothing but empty space—i see you. let’s fall together.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Before time had a name, there was love.

And before love had rules, there were those who enforced them.

You were one of them.

Cupids were never born in the way humans or any other beings are.

There was no crying, no clutching warmth, no heartbeat against heartbeat. You weren’t given to anyone—because in your world, nothing is ever truly given. It’s assigned.

And you were assigned to love.

Long before your first breath—or what could even be counted as a breath—your existence was stitched together with rose-gold thread and spun into something soft.

Something radiant. Something shaped to serve.

The Realm of Threads didn’t believe in accidents. It believed in connection.

Harmony. Devotion.

These were your first lessons—woven not from stories, but from structure. From a place built not to feel love, but to uphold it.

Cupids, as humans might call them, are not gods. They are not angels. They are not the chubby, winged caricatures drawn on glossy cards each February.

They are constructs.

Beings built from emotion itself, shaped by the pulse of the universe and tasked with one divine, inescapable truth—make them fall in love.

All of them.

Every soul in every world is marked by a thread—red, golden, soft, or shining. Invisible to most. Tangible only to your kind. And where those threads exist, your kind follows.

Weaving. Binding. Mending.

You never asked why. You were taught never to ask why.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

In your realm, the sky is made of lace.

Not literal lace—but that’s what it looks like, with its rippling tapestry of lights and longing.

You drifted through it as a child, surrounded by other Cupids—silent, graceful, unwavering. They didn’t speak unless they had to. Words wasted time. Emotion was observed, not expressed.

You were the odd one out almost immediately.

You giggled when you shouldn’t have. You sang with no rhythm. You watched humans too closely, too curiously. You wondered what it felt like to be kissed—not as a target, not as a mission—but as something wanted.

The Supervisors said your strings were too tight.

They meant your emotions.

You cared too much. Thought too hard. Dreamed in colors that didn’t belong to you.

But you were a prodigy, so they didn’t clip your wings. Not then. They praised your precision, your instincts. You’d never missed a target. Not once.

But love, you would learn, is only beautiful when it behaves.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You were trained before you ever knew what training meant.

In the Realm of Threads, there is no childhood. Not in the way humans define it. There are no lullabies, no scraped knees, no tumbling laughter in the grass. There is structure. There is schooling.

There is silence.

You were given a pod—not a room, not a bed. A pod. Sterile and softly lit, humming faintly with emotional frequency.

It pulsed with the echoes of distant connections: engagements, kisses, heartbreak, soulmates colliding on foreign soil.

It was meant to teach you. Not to feel—but to understand what feeling looks like.

Your first lessons weren’t in numbers or words. They were in observation.

Screens stretched across your wall like windows into other realms. Every second of every day, you watched humans love each other. Fumble and flourish. Make mistakes. Fix them. You learned the cadence of confession, the stillness before a first kiss, the ache of waiting by a phone that wouldn’t ring.

You took notes.

You practiced on simulations. Shadow versions of real people, constructed for training. They were emotion puppets—coded to respond, to mimic the human condition, but never feel it.

You pulled their strings like a composer, conducting the perfect crescendo of a meet-cute or a second chance.

And you were so good at it.

Even the elder Cupids, old as planetary rotations, took notice.

They called you “Silken.”

They called you “True-Handed.”

They said your instincts were woven with clarity few possessed.

But even then—you knew something was wrong.

Because love wasn’t clean. It wasn’t predictable. It wasn’t math.

You saw it in the gaps between the simulations—in the real footage, in the stolen glances and unsent letters.

Love was messy.

And you weren’t allowed to say that.

So instead, you smiled. You bowed your head. You aced your assignments. And when it was finally time to receive your bow—the instrument that would mark you as a field Cupid, ready to enter the human realm—you let them place it in your hands like a crown.

Ceremonial. Divine. Cold.

Your wings fluttered for the first time that day. Not from pride. From something else.

Restlessness.

Because you weren’t sure you wanted to be part of this system.

But you’d been shaped for it. And in the Realm of Threads, shape is everything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

They say Cupids don’t feel the way humans do. But if that were true—why did it ache?

You never had a red string.

That was the first thing you noticed.

You saw them everywhere—thread-thin, glowing like veins of fire across the fabric of reality. Around wrists, through hearts, tied in impossible loops from continent to continent, galaxy to galaxy.

Red. Gold. Silver.

Some pulsed softly. Some burned bright. Some frayed at the ends—doomed to break.

But you?

You had none.

You looked. Every year. Every cycle. Every mirror.

And there was never one waiting for you.

The instructors said it was proof of your purpose.

You were meant to love, not to be loved.

Cupids didn’t need soulmates. You were the threads—not what they tied together.

But still, when you were alone in your pod—your crown-glass screen humming with soft simulations—you sometimes wrapped a ribbon around your own finger and pretended.

Just for a moment. Just to feel what it might be like to belong to someone.

To be chosen.

To be someone’s reason.

You told no one.

Cupids weren’t supposed to pretend.

Not about that.

You always grinned too brightly. Talked too much. Got too close to the humans you helped.

You asked too many questions.

Why this couple? Why that connection? Why did heartbreak sometimes look so much like love?

You weren’t supposed to wonder. You were supposed to execute. Deliver arrows. Create outcomes. Adjust the threads.

But you liked watching after the mission was done.

You stayed longer than you should have. Saw the way people clung to one another. Fought. Forgave. Grieved. Moved on. Sometimes, even when the threads said they wouldn’t.

And worse—you started to feel happy for them.

Genuinely.

Not in the approved, detached sense of “mission accomplished,” but like… something warm bloomed in your chest just watching two people choose each other.

One day you told another Cupid—casually, as if it was no big thing—that it must feel nice to be loved like that.

She looked at you like you were malfunctioning.

Reported you. Quietly.

You were summoned for evaluation.

They used soft words. Nothing cruel—just… firm.

“Attachment undermines your clarity.”

“You’ve been too immersed in lower realms.”

“Emotional mimicry is a known side effect. You’ll adjust.”

You didn’t adjust.

You just learned how to lie better.

You laughed louder. You perfected your posture. You earned the nickname Heartsworn, and everyone said it with admiration.

But you felt empty most days.

Like a thread that had never been tied.

And it gnawed at you, that emptiness—because you were built to help others find connection.

So why did it feel like you’d never have your own?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It happened on a world not so different from Earth.

Small. Blue. Quiet in the way only dying stars can make a planet feel.

The threads there were thin. Brittle. Nearly broken.

It needed love desperately. That’s why they sent you.

Because you never missed. Because your aim was perfect. Because you were the shining example—the “Heartsworn,” the favorite, the infallible.

And at first, it was routine.

Two beings. Two threads. One frayed at the end, knotted tight around grief. The other hesitant, flickering. Their paths crossed in a way that felt almost poetic—a shared umbrella. An open bookstore. A laugh like recognition.

You hovered above them, bow pulsing in your palm. A clean shot. Two arrows. One for each.

But then something shifted.

The woman—your target—she looked up at the man, eyes tired but tender. And the way he looked back… like he was remembering how to breathe.

And you saw it.

She had already loved him.

It hadn’t been forced. It hadn’t been orchestrated. No divine architecture. No thread pulling them forward.

Just… choice.

Human, messy, miraculous choice.

You hesitated.

And that’s all it took.

Your bow trembled in your hands. Not from error—but from resistance.

Because for the first time—you didn’t want to interfere. You didn’t want to force it.

You wanted to let them be.

You lowered your weapon.

And then—because you were soft, and reckless, and maybe stupid in the eyes of the Supervisors—you spoke to her.

She didn’t see you. Not clearly. Just a shimmer in the corner of her eye. But you whispered anyway.

“You don’t need help. You already chose him.”

The words weren’t authorized. Your presence was meant to be undetectable. You were not allowed to alter the script.

But you did.

And for a moment—nothing happened.

Then the red thread between them sparked.

Bright. Violent. Uncontrolled.

It burned itself into existence. Without your arrow. Without divine sanction.

And they kissed.

Not because you told them to.

Because they wanted to.

Your lips curled into a soft smile.

You didn’t regret it.

But the moment you returned to the Realm of Threads, you knew something was wrong.

The lights were dimmed. The supervisors were waiting. No lectures. No trials.

Just one sentence.

“You interfered.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself—but the guards were already reaching for your wings.

You’d heard what it sounded like.

The sound of ripping. The way it cuts deeper than bone.

But you’d never imagined it would hurt like this.

Your knees hit the lace-floor. Your mouth stayed silent.

You didn’t scream.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because they wanted you to.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to take that from them.

Dignity, you told yourself.

Dignity is all I have left.

You were told you would not be recycled. You were too “contaminated.” Too unstable. A bad example.

So instead—they exiled you.

You didn’t get to ask where.

Just a flash of cold light—

And then the sound of wind.

Falling.

Alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You hit the ground hard.

Not like a leaf drifting. Not with grace. Not with poise. Not like the Cupids in the stories.

Like a comet.

A streak of light through an unfamiliar sky, dragging heat and ache in your wake.

You didn’t black out right away—but you almost wished you had.

Because the first thing you felt wasn’t the crash. Wasn’t the way your ribs seized or the way your shoulder twisted beneath your fall.

It was the space between your wings.

The hollow.

The absence.

You gasped.

Air—not laced with threadlight, not humming with frequency, just air—rushed into your lungs like punishment.

You curled onto your side, dirt grinding into the soft parts of you. Wet grass clung to your skin. The sky above was wrong—blue, yes, but so still. No shimmering frequencies. No glowing red filaments. Just clouds, soft and slow.

You were somewhere real.

Somewhere unmarked.

Somewhere alone.

It wasn’t the pain that made you want to cry.

It was the quiet.

Because back home—even when you were alone in your pod, even when no one looked at you—there was always something.

The buzz of love blooming. The echo of longing. The soft, constant pull of other people’s threads, humming just outside your senses.

But now?

Nothing.

It was gone.

You sat up slowly.

And then immediately flopped back down with a tiny, theatrical groan.

“Ouchie,” you mumbled to no one, voice breathy and soft and definitely not pained—because no, you were totally fine. Just a bit… stunned. And mildly bleeding. And definitely wingless.

But you were smiling. Kind of. Maybe.

Okay, so it trembled a little at the edges.

“I’ve had worse landings,” you said aloud—which was a lie. You’d never landed before. You’d always floated.

You tried again, slowly, every nerve screaming. Your knees trembled. Your arms buckled. You caught yourself on the soft slope of a hill, hands sinking into wildflowers and moss.

You blinked down at them.

Yellow, pink, violet. Stubbornly bright.

They looked like something out of a simulation.

They weren’t.

They were real.

Your mouth twisted.

Of course you landed in a field of flowers. Of course.

You laughed.

It came out cracked and hoarse. Almost a sob.

Because everything hurt, and everything was still spinning, and you had no idea where you were, and no one was coming for you, and—

No.

No, you weren’t going to cry. You weren’t.

Cupids didn’t cry.

Even clipped ones.

Even broken ones.

Even ones bleeding into someone else’s sky.

Still, you tried to push yourself up, wobbling on legs that hadn’t had to support you since your designation. It felt wrong. Heavy. Like gravity had teeth and it didn’t trust you. You teetered. Fell to your knees again.

And giggled.

Which also trembled a little.

“I meant to do that.”

You dusted imaginary dirt from your imaginary uniform and gave an exaggerated little curtsy to the empty air.

No one clapped. Rude.

You dragged yourself to your feet.

Shaky. Awkward. Wobbly in a way you hadn’t felt in cycles. The Realm of Threads taught you to float everywhere. Gliding was cleaner. More efficient. Less emotional.

You hadn’t really walked since childhood simulations.

The ground felt weird under your feet. Solid. Gritty.

Your bow was still intact. Miraculously. You hugged it close like a stuffed toy, curling in on yourself for a moment, letting the quiet press into your bones.

You could still feel it.

That place between your shoulders—where your wings had been. Like a ghost limb. Like something sacred had been carved out of you and left a silence behind.

You hated it.

But you kept moving.

Maybe—if you helped someone on this world—they would come back for you. Maybe if you just kept doing your job, proved you were still useful, still good, they’d rewind the exile.

Reattach what they’d taken.

Please.

You stumbled once. Then again. Then face-planted into a patch of daisies with a grunt so undignified you groaned into the soil.

“Get it together,” you mumbled into the grass.

You pushed yourself back up. Sat on your knees for a second. Took a breath.

You didn’t know how long you wandered after that.

Minutes? Hours? You lost time in the way only the heartbroken can.

It got dark fast.

The sky burned gold, then violet, then black. Stars blinked overhead—foreign constellations, wrong patterns.

You were still limping through the field when the noise came.

A whoosh.

Sharp. Cutting. Like something splitting the air in half.

You froze.

Turned slowly.

And then—saw him.

Not a blur. A shape. Coming toward you like a storm with legs.

You only had a second to register what was coming at you: tall, fast, red and white—a storm in the shape of a man. And a scowl, carved from thunderclouds.

Flying.

He was flying.

You squinted.

Not a Cupid. Definitely not a Cupid.

A human?

No.

No, he felt… too much.

You didn’t have your thread-sight anymore, but you could still feel.

Emotions. Echoes.

He felt like gravity.

Like something that had no business coming closer—and was doing it anyway.

He landed hard. Just a few feet away.

Harder than you had. The ground splintered beneath his feet, shockwaves rippling out in a perfect ring. Dust and wildflowers burst upward like a gasp. He stood there for a beat—motionless.

And you… just stared.

Red suit. White accents. Red cape. Black goggles like midnight slicing across his face. He didn’t glow. He didn’t shine. He loomed.

His presence felt like gravity doubled—like the world bowed to his weight and dared not rise again.

You blinked at him slowly. Then offered a tiny wave.

“Hi.”

Silence.

He didn’t move.

You glanced behind you like maybe he was staring at someone else, but no—those mirrored goggles were fixed on you.

“Hiii,” you tried again, voice cheerier. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

No reaction. His posture didn’t shift. You had a sudden, vivid mental image of being vaporized.

“I’m just passing through!” you rushed, hands up. “A… a tourist! On a very involuntary vacation!”

Still nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing—he was breathing.

Barley.

His voice, when it came, was sharp enough to slice open a planet.

“You’re not human.”

Your grin faltered for a second before rebounding, like a rubber band that’s been snapped too many times.

“Nope. Not even a little bit! But I’m very human adjacent in a lot of ways! I’ve watched a lot of rom-coms and I know how to do a proper hug—although full disclosure, I might fall over during it because of the whole… clipped wings situation.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes—hidden though they were—felt like twin drills boring into the softest parts of you.

“Why are you here?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then plastered on a sheepish smile.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you admitted, voice dipping softer now. “The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

Something flickered across his face. Brief. Gone before you could catch it.

“And now,” you continued, tone brightening again as you gestured to the wildflower field like a very proud but slightly concussed game show host, “I’m here! In… wherever here is. Honestly, it’s pretty. Good flowers. Ten out of ten. Bit of a rough welcome, but I’ve had worse.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Your hand drifted unconsciously to your back, fingertips brushing the jagged place where wings used to rise.

You shrugged. “It’s mostly cosmetic.”

He said nothing. Just stared.

You took a step forward—then immediately lost your balance and fell face-first into a patch of daisies.

There was a beat of silence. Then two. Then three.

And then—so faint you thought you imagined it—you heard the faintest exhale of breath from the man in red and white.

Not a laugh.

But maybe the ghost of one.

You rolled onto your back and grinned up at the stars.

“See?” you said, voice light. “I’m great at making first impressions.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The second he saw you, he didn’t trust you.

Not because you looked dangerous. No—you didn’t. You were crumpled in a bed of wildflowers, wobbling like a broken marionette and smiling like someone had painted joy over grief and hoped no one would notice the cracks.

But that was exactly why he didn’t trust you.

People didn’t fall from the sky and grin. Not here. Not anywhere. Not anymore.

So he hovered, silent, watching you crawl upright like you didn’t know how to use your own legs. Like the planet was something foreign. Like gravity was something new.

That wasn’t normal.

Mark had seen a lot of things in a lot of universes—false gods, black holes, men split into fractions of themselves—but this? A girl with stardust on her skin and nothing in her hands but a bow? That was new.

He landed hard. On purpose. Let the ground feel him.

You flinched. Not at the sound—at the silence that followed it.

And then you looked up.

Big eyes. Bare feet. Mouth bleeding at the corner, but curved like you hadn’t noticed. Or didn’t care.

And then—

“Hi.”

Like you hadn’t just fallen from orbit.

He didn’t speak.

“Hiii,” you tried again, softer. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

Still he said nothing.

He didn’t move.

Mark watched.

Measured.

Assessed.

You were glowing at the edges—not visibly—but in some low, stubborn frequency. Like the kind of candle you couldn’t blow out even after you’d shattered the holder.

It irritated him.

He spoke without meaning to.

“You’re not human.”

You beamed, wounded and bright. “Nope! Not even a little bit!”

You kept talking. Rambling. Fumbling your way through some patchwork lie about tourism and rom-coms and wings—clipped, apparently.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t need to.

He was looking for something. A tell. A crack.

“Why are you here?”

That stopped you.

Just a second. Barely.

But it was enough.

Your grin shrank. Eyes dipped. Voice turned soft.

“That’s kind of a long story. The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

That flickered something inside him.

He crushed it before it could breathe.

Mark didn’t do soft. He didn’t do “caring.” That was the problem with the others. They hesitated. Thought. He didn’t. That’s why he survived.

So why was he still here?

Why wasn’t he flying away?

Why hadn’t he broken you in half the moment you lied?

You stepped forward. Tripped. Fell face-first into a clump of flowers like a deer learning how to walk for the first time.

He didn’t flinch, but he exhaled—just once. Quiet. Almost amused.

You rolled onto your back and smiled at the stars.

“See? I’m great at making first impressions.”

He hated how you said it.

Like it mattered.

Like someone out here was still capable of being good.

He walked toward you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t crawl away. You sat there, hands splayed out behind you, watching him like you weren’t sure if he was going to help you up or crush your skull.

Smart.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head.

“I should kill you.”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t move. “You could. You really could. But I’d prefer we didn’t start there?”

“Then give me one reason not to.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked up at him like you were weighing the clouds.

“I don’t have one.”

Mark stared.

You continued.

“I mean—I don’t know if I’m important. I don’t have a secret code or an army or even a sandwich right now. But…”

You reached up, touching your back—where the blood had dried, sticky and shimmering.

“But I used to be someone. I used to help people fall in love. And maybe that doesn’t matter to you—but it mattered to them.”

There was a silence.

He wasn’t sure what he expected you to say.

But it wasn’t that.

He should leave.

He should fly away and chalk you up to another anomaly.

Instead, he said:

“Can you still do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make people love.”

Your lips curled up. Slowly. Sadly. “I don’t know.”

Another pause.

You were watching him too closely now. Like you were trying to read a string that wasn’t there.

“You’re not really from here either,” you said softly. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You already knew.

“Are you gonna hurt me?” you asked.

He looked at you, at the way your voice didn’t tremble, even though your body did.

And for once—he told the truth.

“I don’t know.”

You nodded.

“Fair.”

Then you reached up and offered your hand.

Not in fear. Not in desperation.

Just… like someone who was used to offering something and not getting it taken.

Mark didn’t take it.

But he didn’t crush it either.

He looked past you—at the dark hills, the useless stars, the broken silence.

After conquering this place and killing his father—he didn’t know what this planet was anymore.

Didn’t care.

But he had nowhere else to be. Not anymore.

He turned.

Walked.

And when he didn’t tell you to stay—

You followed.

Not too close.

Just… close enough.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Once, you were small. Once, you believed everything they told you.

Your first robe was the color of a peach blossom.

It shimmered when you turned, sleeves brushing the floor, too big for your arms and still perfect in every way. You’d never worn something so soft.

You twirled three times in front of the mirror, arms out like wings, giggling because everything felt light.

“You look very neat,” said one of the elder Cupids, gliding past with a clipboard. “Remember to keep your posture upright when you’re selected for observation.”

“I will!” you promised, standing taller.

The robe swished when you walked. You liked that. It made you feel important. Like you were finally what they said you would be—purposeful.

Part of something big.

You didn’t understand everything yet, but that didn’t matter.

You were going to be a Cupid.

And Cupids were good.

“Today,” said another instructor, voice warm and practiced, “you’ll learn about threads.”

You beamed. Sat up straighter. Listened with all your heart.

“Every being has a thread,” they explained, conjuring a floating hologram that flickered softly through the training chamber. “They wrap around us, tie us to our people. See?”

The threads shimmered—red, gold, silver, glowing like starlight.

You gasped. It was so pretty. It made your chest feel warm.

“You’ll help people find each other,” the instructor went on. “You’ll guide their steps. Fix what’s frayed. Strengthen what’s fragile.”

“I can do that!” you blurted.

A few other young Cupids turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your legs were swinging off the floating bench and your hands were already up.

“I wanna do the red ones,” you said proudly. “Those are the soulmate ones, right?”

The instructor smiled. So gently. Like they were talking to someone a little slow, but very sweet.

“Oh, darling,” they said. “You don’t get one.”

You blinked.

“Huh?”

“You won’t have a red thread,” they said again, same caring voice, same soft smile. “Cupids don’t get them.”

You frowned. “But… we’re people too?”

“No,” they said kindly. “You’re not.”

Another Cupid, older, came to kneel beside you. Their hair was smooth. Their smile too perfect.

“You’re something better,” they told you. “You were made for love. You don’t need to be in it.”

“But—” you started.

“We give it,” the first instructor interrupted gently. “That’s your gift.”

You hesitated.

“But doesn’t anyone ever want us back?” you asked in a small voice.

The instructor’s smile didn’t change.

“No one has ever asked that before.”

You blinked. Sat very still.

They stood again.

“Alright, little hearts,” the elder said, clapping once. “Time for simulation prep. Let’s learn how to listen when a thread hums.”

Everyone got up.

You did too.

You smiled. Because they smiled. Because everyone around you looked so sure, so peaceful, so right.

You didn’t want to be the wrong one.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[sil3ntm0thart]

[millersfinest]

the thing in your chest that beats | e.w

santa barbara!ellie williams & ex-firefly!reader

wc: 5k

mini-series: california (you’re here) | oregon | idaho | wyoming

blurb: you put up a good fight with those rattlers, but it wasn’t good enough—all it got you was strung up near a beach where the sun scorched you dry. abruptly, their set-up gets fucked by their own prisoners, saving your life by only a thread. but the wrath that lingered under your skin was immense, and you’re not the only one to experience that phenomenon. when another damaged soul encounters your brittle state; the dreams that put you in a tough position manifest into reality. along with a few extra miscellaneous things…

cw: angry!r, mentions of fate, santa barbara arc, infected, shooting, lots of exposition, torture, violence, vulgar language, slow-burn romance, eventual smut, proximity trope, both reader and ellie on a path of redemption.

note: this first part is lowkey boring imo, but i hope the angst makes up for it. as always, please enjoy my hyperfixation!!

California

Ropes chafed at your skin; securing your legs and wrists on top of each other to the wooden post. Fog had shielded the setting sun from your skin—after many hours of being scorched. Your muscles ached and your bones were sore. The exposed skin on your shoulders and chest was dry and flaking, exposing an under layer of tenderness. Everything fucking hurt. But you were barely there; head nodding off from the scratching at your stomach and the dryness in your mouth ripping your lips apart.

How did you, a firefly, militarily trained, end up tied to a pillar at the cusp of a beach in Santa Barbara?

You were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. This group searched for people like you—lonely and pillaged by the weight of the world. You were too distracted to foresee their deception; they got lucky with you.

Until the chemical reactions in your brain short-circuited, causing you to act out in the name of self-preservation.

Wrath, by definition, is a trait you’re easily overcome with. It’s not just something that passes through you like other traits and emotions. It holds on. It makes a home in your body and directs you like a rabid dog—a burdening feeling that nestled between your sore muscles. It filled you with adrenaline to kill and destroy—to get rid of the people who tried to get rid of you.

And, every time, you managed to find yourself feeling bad about it. There was no explanation for that. Just your heart being too sensitive for world you existed in—it was constantly broken. By yourself and your circumstances.

It was your own fault that you were captured by the rattlers. You should’ve never left Catalina Island for a pipe dream. There wasn’t anything better than the firefly base—you should’ve known that and never left. Perhaps, if you had remained under the duty of your earned dog tags, you wouldn’t have been thrusted into the situation that you were in.

Wyoming was a lie that you told yourself because you wanted to live a life that didn’t exist.

Locked in a debate with death, your body abruptly hit the dense surface of the sand. The ropes that bound you to that skewer had been severed by a fallen angel. A prisoner you had attached yourself to in the hopes of survival. Her hair was coily and reflected copper under the Californian sun.

You came to from the impact, finally beginning to hear the ongoing gunfire coming from the resort buildings. As you twitched in pain, she cut the bindings at your wrists and ankles. Tucking a pistol into your hand, she muttered words of hope. “Good luck out there, hotshot.”

Your lips moved to respond, but there wasn’t any sound. It didn’t matter, though, because she wasn’t around to hear it. The young woman at once took off in the opposite direction of the chaos with a bag over her shoulder.

Stuck in a dilemma, you didn’t move for a few moments. Eyes stuck on the weight in your weak hands. It was nothing but a black semi-automatic—it weighed nothing compared to bigger firearms. However, it sunk your hand into the sand as if it weighed a ton. You couldn’t even hold a gun with the same conviction that you used to. Yet, the fallen angel had faith that you could.

Taking in a deep wheezing breath, you tried to stand to your feet. You got up enough for your knees to bend, but once you extended them, you crashed back into the sand with a thud. In temporary defeat, you looked to the people still suspended on the pillars. They were unmoving, rotting away from the inside out. That could’ve been you if it weren’t for her cutting you down.

In mourning them, you gave standing another attempt. Keeping your hands low to catch your fall. But you didn’t fall. The muscles in your legs were weak, trembling as you stretched them. With a hunch in your back, you grabbed the gun, adjusting it in your hands. Your professional form remained the same as remnants of your training. Placing your hands over one another on the handle, supporting its weight. Aiming the barrel toward nothing specific, just to get the feeling again. It’s been months since you had opportunity to defend yourself.

With as much quickness that you could muster, you went through the resort to grab supplies. A backpack, medkit, and some food.

Setting your mind on leaving, you tried to sneak through the gunfire between the prisoners and the rattlers. But that simply wasn’t in the cards for you.

Before you could escape the resort, one of them had a bone to pick with you. It was the same rattler that was your deceptive captor. She used her femininity to convince you that she needed help—that she was weak and she needed your help. If anything, you have a bone to pick with her.

She had come at you with her bear hands, pushing your face up against a wall. She tore the backpack from your back, throwing it to the side. Where did her wrath come from? Somehow, you managed to get the upper hand. Straddling her body delivering punches that you haven’t in awhile. It felt natural to you to release such violence against another person.

Through beating her bloody, you found your power again. Tearing off the shimmering dog tags around her neck that had previously belonged to you. Heaving, you looked down at her. She had split your lip and broken your nose, but you could argue that you did worse to her. Her nose was cracked in multiple places, as she coughed up her own blood and teeth. It slipped down the crevices of her face, dribbling into her brown eyes.

“Fuck you.” You firmly speak, picking up your bag from its straps, swinging it around your shoulders.

From the fight, you had stumbled into a room of firearms. Still weak, you limped around. Causing you to walk away from the damage with a Beretta A300 shotgun and ammunition.

Like it was a prize after a big challenge.

You found yourself stumbling along the sand of the beach you were stuck on. This time, closer to the foggy waters of the coast. Ignoring the throbbing sensation in your thigh. You were barely sentient, running on nothing but fumes. But you knew you had to get as far from Santa Barbara as you could.

All of sudden, darkness began encapsulating your eyes from the outside in. Your limbs grew heavier, slowing down the pace of your movements—you collapsed into the sand like the damsel you had become.

When your eyes fluttered open, you were laying on an itchy couch. Waking up felt like awaking from a coma. Sitting up was a chore because of the tightness of your muscles. You felt it like a sickness in your chest. Trying to move your legs, you sucked in a pained breath. A hole that was cut into your ripped jeans was covered by white wrapping. Gauze.

A single lantern in the middle of the living room illuminated the space. It was placed on a dusty coffee table—off-center. Your backpack and weapons leaned against an entertainment center; a large cabinet that combined the use of compartments as well as a space for the tv to fit.

Blinking slowly, you tried to remember how you got there. Fingers gripping at the cushions, experiencing a crazy amount of brain fog. A wrapper crackled under the weight of your hand as you shifted. It was a granola bar tucked under the pillow that you laid your head on.

You stomach scratched at your abdomen, so you wasted no time in retrieving it—ripping open the wrapper and biting into the nutty granola. The side of your foot kicked over a metal canister, accidentally. Clashing toward the scratched wooden floors, it startled you. Reaching down, you shook it in your hands. There was a liquid inside. Screwing the lid off, you realized it was only water. Something else your body demanded of you.

Who put all this stuff here? It couldn’t have been you.

A creak from the side of the room, caused you to snap your head in that direction. Chewing slowly on the oats in your mouth, your eyebrows scrunched. Your free hand felt your hip from the cool metal of that gifted pistol, but there was nothing but the fabric of your jeans.

By the time she came into your view, your body froze. Your gun was across the room, she had the advantage. She loomed in the darker parts of the room as if she were hiding from you—in a way that was prey-ish, rather than predatory.

“I didn’t think you’d wake up…”

Her voice was raspy, and she spoke with a slow cadence. When she came into the light, she kept her distance. By the corner of the entertainment center cabinet—on the opposite end of where your bag was laying. Her auburn strands were choppy and tucked behind her ears. She wore a white t-shirt that was filthy with, what looked like, blood and dirt. Hands fidgeting with each other in front of her body as she eyed you with concern. She was missing her pinky and ring finger from her left hand. “You’d been out for hours… I, uhm, stitched up a wound on your leg— thought you might’ve caught an infection.”

She lacked conviction when she spoke to you. Voice leaving with a sort of emptiness, or perhaps, guilt. “Where’d you find me?” You asked, gritting your jaw. Holding onto the metal canister tight enough to use as a weapon if need be. That last thing you wanted was to be fooled by a stranger again.

She cleared her throat. “The beach.”

That’s when it hit you. The memories of your weakness hit. You remember dragging your legs through the sand, catching the glimpse of a body sitting in the water beside a vacant boat, then falling into a deep sleep. Of course, you, somehow, offered yourself up to a stranger.

It was just your luck, huh?

“There were others you could’ve helped… Why me?”

A scoff fell from her lips. Scarred eyebrows jutting together; an attitude washing over her freckled features. As if your words were charged with something else besides cautious curiosity. “I was expecting more of a thank you...”

You blinked, sucked your teeth. “I don’t know you from a can of fucking paint— so, you should lower your expectations.” You retorted, boring your eyes into her slender figure. What alarmed her was how your voice scolded gently. It cut deeper that way. “I mean, what is that on your shirt? Blood? Would you wanna thank some stranger in a bloody shirt?”

She crossed her arms, shaking her head. “Have you seen yourself?” Her thick eyebrow raised, voice dropping an octave. “You look like shit—“

You glanced at the shirt that clung to you perspiring body. It also had remnants of blood and dirt and sand. Leaning your elbows on your thighs, you leaned forward. “Fuck you! You have no idea what I’ve been through—!”

“And you know what I’ve been through?” She countered, scoffing after her words.

You talked over each other—barking like unfamiliar dogs. Wrath came easy to you; and, apparently, it came easy to her, too. Her words silenced you, but you grit your teeth. “I should’ve left you where I found you— fuckin’ joke’s on me.” She ran a hand through her short hair, taking long strides out of the living room. Preparing to sink back into the corner she came from.

Clearing your throat, you swallowed your pride. There was a sincerity behind her eyes that you couldn’t ignore. Her anger radiated off her epidermis is such a way that it was familiar. “All right,” You sighed, positioning your body slowly to face her departing figure. She’d stopped in her path, peering over her boney shoulder. “I don’t recognize you from the cells… Or the pillars. Who the fuck are you?” Your eyebrows furrowed, voice weakening by the mention of your greatest failure: becoming a slave to the weirdest assholes known to man.

Wheels shifted in her mind, her olive eyes flickering around in the dark, in thought. Lips opening and closing, trying to formulate her words—but there was no use. She decided to resume her steps, sequestering herself in a bedroom. You heard the sound of the door shutting and locking the door behind her.

Groaning, you shut your eyes, leaning your head against the soft, itchy pillows, frustrated.

Unbeknownst to you, she’d locked herself in that room because she found herself overcome with emotion—hot, streaming tears. She didn’t know you as much as you didn’t know her, and she wasn’t going to share her own greatest failures with you. If what you were saying was true, you were victimized. How could someone like her talk to someone like you? After the things she’s done… After the things she was prepared to do.

The sun ascended, with the two of you lingering in separate rooms. You had eventually fallen asleep after some hours in your thoughts. Wondering about the story of the woman sheltering herself from you. Multiple times, you had to stop yourself from dwelling. This is what got you caught up with the first time. Instead, you began to think about what your plans were.

Were you going to resume your journey to Wyoming, in the hopes of finding that settlement? Or were you going to hitch it back to Catalina Island? And hope to God that they take you back with minimal consequences. Dwelling on those thoughts, instead of her, is what brought you to sleep.

When you woke up, you finished the metal canister of water. Giving the room a proper once-over. Sun rays cascaded through the dusty windows like beams, illuminating the room, angelically. Taking a deep breath, you decided to walk around. The soreness in your body hadn’t changed—you still felt burdened by your own body.

The home was a single-leveled Tuscan inspired home. Its interior was riddled with browns and beiges. Dragging your feet against the wooden floor, you entered the kitchen. All the cabinets were blown open and searched through. You assumed it was that woman who you’d met—still, you didn’t know her name.

Looking down at the counters, there was a yellow-paged note on the furthest one from you. The island closest to her bedroom. It was lying under a pill bottle. You shifted as quickly as you could to the note, sliding the pill bottle to the side, but not without a glance. They were antibiotics.

Found the antibiotics in the cabinets this morning, there’s only two left. Take them both.

I left to go hunt for some food. Stay in the house if you know what’s best for yourself. There’s infected around.

I’ll be back soon.

— E

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “If I know what’s best for myself…” Pressing into the top of the bottle, you unscrewed it. With nothing but your saliva, you knocked back two of the pills just like she told you. However, not because she told you to. There were many reasons for you to catch an infection from the wound on your leg—the wound you didn’t even remember how you got.

“I can handle infected.” You muttered to yourself. It’s been awhile since you really dealt with them face-to-face, but it was an innate ability. Why wouldn’t you be able to defend yourself from infected? Your only limits were your body stuck in its state of pain.

But, where you come from, sometimes it took movement to heal pain. Pushing through soreness and tightness was the only way to move forward.

So, instead of waiting around for E to come back around. You decided to explore some of the nearby houses. Ones that were only a few paces away from the house that you were currently in—you weren’t that stupid.

You secured your backpack around your shoulders, hooking the strap of your shotgun around your arm, and sticking the pistol in the back of your jeans. The first stop was next door. Slowly, you had climbed through a broken window. Landing in a bedroom decorated with childish posters. Focusing, you found yourself busy with looting the home. Taking things of importance and putting them inside of your bag.

You didn’t run into anything shocking until the third place you visited—three houses down. Thankfully, there was no clicking, but there were the familiar wailings of a runner. Catching a glimpse of coily copper hair, huddled over sobbing in her hands, you crouched behind a wall. Eyes shifting from side to side, trying to digest the visual.

Good luck, hotshot.

Perhaps, it was her who really needed the luck. Slowly, you removed the gun from your shoulder, leaning it against the wall. The breaths from your lips fled in chunks, pulling the gifted pistol from your waistband. You had known her for the entirety of your stay at that treacherous resort—she was your anchor. She helped you with your anger, keeping you under an emotional routine. Later, it worked for the worst instead of the better, but she tried to help you in there. She was patient with you.

You stepped from the wall, aiming the chamber of the pistol at the back of her head. You didn’t know her for that long, but you knew she wouldn’t want something like this for herself. She had plans just like you did—she wanted out of California. Leaving her to stumble around this broken home would be fucked up.

She freed you. Now, it was time for you to free her.

“You deserved better than this, Honey.” She was sweet and tangy like honey; that’s why you called her that. It wasn’t even her name—you didn’t know her name.

Your index finger squeezed the trigger, sending the bullet straight through her unsuspecting mind. Her whines were more coherent, meaning that all of that just happened. The infection had just taken over. A tear had slipped down the fat of your cheek when her body hit the ground. The shot echoing against the walls and through the neighborhood.

She lasted no longer than a day on her own, and those rattlers were nothing but the blame. They drained you enough to make you suffer but keep you working. But, out on the road, you stood no chance.

There was a piece of notebook paper on the floor by the baseboards of the wall Honey’s body laid beside. With a lump in your throat, you plucked it from the ground, holding it delicately in your hands.

After months of captivity, I’ve found myself in a situation that I could have never imagined. I didn’t notice when the clicker bit me, everything happened so fast!

It hurts now, though, a lot. And the anticipation of the infection is worser than I expected it to be. This is the part where I put a gun in mouth to end it all.

I’m too tired to do that. For once, I don’t wanna fight.

I apologize to those who end up witnessing what I have become.

The palm of your hand covered your mouth in shock as you read the letter. Honey must’ve been horrified. And it hurt to know that she went through it all alone.

Catching you in a grieving state, E had vaulted through a broken window with her gun in hand. Her olive eyes landed on you, subsiding the subtle look of shock on her face. “I thought I told you to stay in the house.” She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, sighing. “You’re in no condition to travel alone…” Her eyes casted onto your frame leaning over a marble counter, reading over the letter silently.

Hearing her footsteps, you folded up the letter and slid it into your back pocket. Taking a final look at the dead woman on the floor, a reflection of your friend that didn’t exist anymore, you brush past the the auburn-haired woman. Shoulders grazing as you achingly climb out of the same window she came in from.

Without saying, what happened to Honey worried you. Loneliness was a cruelty that many could afford—you experienced it. But loneliness along with bodily ailments wasn’t a problem you wanted. If it weren’t for E, you could’ve been in the same position as Honey. What made you worth saving and not her? A ball of fury, like yourself, should’ve been the first to go.

Yet, a level of gratefulness washed over you. Were you ready to thank the freckled stranger for her saviorship?

E followed you back to the house, binding the front door with furniture. Entering, you noticed two rabbits attached to a string laying on the tiled counter. Impressed, you hummed, while dragging your feet toward the couch you had slept on. You shrugged off your backpack and leaned your shotgun against the wall.

The auburn-haired woman peered at you, messing with rabbits, pulling them off the string to prepare to cook them. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She breathed. Her voice coming out like a muttered sigh, but it was loudly quiet in the house. Therefore, your ears picked up on her words.

You ignored her, pulling out the note, and kicking your feet up onto the couch to read it again. Analyzing the messy handwriting on the page, tainted with dried tears and dirty hand prints. E had brought in a metal trashcan to cook the animals she hunted for the both of you. Every so often, peaking at you with interest and wonder.

When the rabbits were cooked, she brought it over to you in a chipped ceramic bowl. “Thanks…” You mutter, barely meeting her eyes.

“Yeah,” She answered, slightly taken off guard.

The two of you eat separately, on different sides of the room. E didn’t retreat back into the room had the night before. Instead, she propped herself on the stool by the island table. Where she could keep her intense olive eyes on you—attempting to read you without asking questions.

You were impressed by the rabbit presented to you. Back at the base, you were familiar with chicken more so than rabbit, though. There was a hesitation when taking the first bite. But the rumble in your belly was satisfied by the animal, and that was all that mattered.

Feeling a strong gaze on you, peering to the side was a natural reaction. She’d snap her eyes back to her plate before you could fully catch her. Sighing, you set the plate on the coffee table in front of the couch.

In your looting, a bottle of wine called out to you from the basement of one of the Tuscan homes. You limped toward the kitchen with your calloused hand wrapped around the sloped neck of the bottle. Placing the bottle at the middle of the island, you take a seat at the furthest end from her. “I thought I would properly thank you for saving my ass…” You cleared your throat, awkwardly. Choosing to keep your eyes trained on your fidgeting fingers. “It’s Cabernet, I think. The label’s kind of rubbed off.”

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

You pursed your lips, flickering your eyes to peer at her. “Hm.” You hum. “Okay, well, more for me, I guess.” You shrug, reaching for the wine. The plan was to drink it either way—if she wanted it, or if she didn’t. Peeling off the wrapper, you were happy to see that it was a screw top instead of an imbedded cork.

Taking the first sip, its sweetness spread over your tongue. The alcohol percentage was fairly high, so you were expecting a pleasurable feeling within the next few minutes. If you kept gulping at the bottle. You deserved a bit of man-made solace after what you’ve been through. After the things you’ve seen. Taking another sip, you prepare to go back to the couch you were sat on, with the bottle in your hand.

However, E places a hand on the cool tiles. “Wait…” She rolled her eyes. “One sip wouldn’t hurt.” In her silence, she realized that she also deserved a few moments of calmness—self-care.

The corners of your lips curled, sitting back down on your stool. You slid the bottle close enough for her to reach it, leaning your head against your fist.

Orange rays of the sun shifted through the room; setting so the moon could take her place. You and E had found comfort in the wine and in the space between yourselves. Scooting close to each other until there was only a single stool in the center of you. Talking about the more joyous parts of your lives—which, surprisingly, wasn’t much. The pair of you managed to keep the important information off the record. Upholding a level of vagueness between your truth.

When E had brought up her son and girlfriend, that’s when the energy shifted in the room.

“You have a family? Then… Why are you out here?”

A beat slivered between you, circling your bodies like a ribbon.

“I recognize those dog tags… You’re a firefly? I thought they shut down years ago.” She spoke with rigid shoulders, taking a swig of the Cabernet.

Your hand reached for the thin metal around your neck, decorating your exposed collarbones. There was a disconnect between you and the facility you had grown up in. While you loved the support of the community, as you got older, you wanted something different. “Yeah, after everything shut down, another popped up here—in California. It’s the only one left, I believe.”

She chuckled, cheeks flushed from the alcohol accumulating in her system. “Hm. Are you gonna try and recruit me into your little cult? Is that why you’re still out here?”

Deepening your eyebrows, you peered down at the grout between the tiles under your hands. “Probably… If I still was a firefly…” Slowly, you enunciated. “I haven’t been one for months now.”

“Ah, you went rogue.”

“I wouldn’t say that… But, yeah, I guess.” You rolled your eyes, reaching for the wine bottle. She put it in your hand, leaning her elbow against the counter. E left room for you speak, just boring her hazed eyes into your frame. “I was done with being an asshole for a living— I don’t want to just survive anymore… I want to live.” You take a large swig of the wine, lamenting subtly.

Look where desiring life got you. Locked up as a slave for another bunch of assholes. “I heard from some people that there was a place in Wyoming that wasn’t anything like the fireflies.” You inhaled, sharply. “I could live a normal life there— maybe it’s a stupid idea… I don’t know.”

E deepened her thick eyebrows, leaning forward. “Are you talking about Jackson?”

“Yeah, I think so. There was a map in my bag that had the name. I lost it when the rattlers got ahold of me.”

With scrunched face, she stood to her feet. Running her hands over her face, releasing a tired sigh. “It’s not that stupid of an idea…” Looking back at you, she placed her hands on her hips. “That’s where I’m headed— Jackson, Wyoming.”

“Oh…”

Was this the fated reasoning behind why the both of you met? Both harboring an inner pain and guilt for something or someone. Two damaged souls meeting in the middle—this could be a productive exchange. But what would E receive?

She swore under her breath, running her fingers through her hair, stressfully. “You could come with me, it’s not like you’d get far in your condition alone.” She blinked, casually. You scoff at her words, sucking your teeth. She could never just be kind. Sure, it was obvious that you were injured—in horrible shape—but you weren’t inherently weak. You were a trained individual, something that most people couldn’t say.

“I’d feel like an asshole if I didn’t at least offer. It’s a long journey—“

“Oh, you still come off like an asshole, but I appreciate the offer.” You nod, jumping from the stool. “Those fucks threw me off track— I wouldn’t even know where to start up again… So, yeah, I’ll go with you.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“You don’t make me regret this. I have a bad history when it comes to trusting strangers.” You pressed your lips into a line, leaning against the island for support. There was a slight sway to stance, as the world around you didn’t feel stable.

“Okay, well, you have my word.” She affirmed, sliding her hands into her back pockets. “Do I have yours?”

You inhaled, sharply, glancing at the ceiling. “Yes, you have my word… On the condition that you tell me your name.” She narrowed her eyes at you, the corners of her lips curling. “We can’t possibly travel together if we don’t know each other’s names.”

The auburn-haired woman picked up the backpack she threw against the lower cabinets, slinging it over her shoulder. She was preparing to huddle into that bedroom again. Before leaving you in the dim hue of the few lanterns in the room, she spoke. “Ellie. My name’s Ellie.”

She waited by her door for your answer, with a raised eyebrow. You gave her your name, plainly. Straightening the hunch in your back—feigning a level of stoicism.

The only response she gave was a hum, before locking herself away. Releasing a sigh of relief, you smiled. Wyoming wasn’t the pipe dream you thought it to be. Yeah, the experiences you had leading up to that conversation weren’t the best. In fact, those experiences scarred everything about you. But could this have been the reason behind your hellish encounters?

[yelenasbraid]

Can we get a little dom-joe bondage situation? Maybe something like: Are you down to try something new? Let's see if we like it?

Little hesitation at first but then they end up totally loving it?

Lots of: Are you okay? You wanna keep going? Good then shut up and take this dick!

And sweet Joe after they're done?

got this early this morning and just HAD to write it. so, here’s some goodnight food for you 🫠

warnings: smut!!!

They kept hearing they needed to ‘spice up the bedroom.’ It wasn’t that their sex life was boring, it was routine. They did the same positions, and every now and then they’d switch around who got to play dominant. It still felt amazing, but it didn’t give that euphoric feeling as it used to.

“What if we try something new?” Joe proposed as they sat at the table for dinner. She stopped mid-bite, her eyes searching his face.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, something,” he shrugged. She laughed, finishing her bite. Joe could never make a solid decision.

“Great answer, babe,”

The excitement of trying something new led them to the bedroom. Heated kisses and roaming hands. Joe led her down onto the bed, his larger body covering hers. It was then his idea struck him.

“I wanna tie you up,” he blurted. She raised her eyebrows, her stomach bubbling with excitement. They’ve never tried bandage before. She’s thought about using it on Joe, but he was proposing it for her.

She wasn’t opposed either.

“Okay,” she smiled, nodding her head. He crawled off of her, walking to their shared closet. His stomach vibrated, his cock straining against his shorts. He thought he was going to explode.

He grabbed a tie, which he never wore anyways, and walked back into the bedroom. She was lying there so pretty, her leggings sticking to her body so beautifully he could almost see her skin.

He swore he was going to cum in his shorts.

“Hands up, pretty girl,” he hummed. She maneuvered herself, scooting back against the bed. Her body was charged, thrumming with an intense arousal. She raised her hands, delicate and relaxed. Joe’s hands stripped her of her shirt, revealing the satin bra that cupped her tits. He easily snapped that off, his eyes wandering to the hard, pert nipples of her breasts. Joe wrapped the tie around her wrists, binding her to the bed.

“You okay?” He asked, running his hands down the lengths of her arms. Joe was nervous, not in a bad way. He was trying something new, something arousing. He ached, his body pulsing with a charge he’d not felt in a few weeks.

“Yeah,” she nodded. Their sex life had been routine. It was bliss, always messy, but they needed something different. This would be it.

“Good,” Joe nodded, rubbing his hands up her bare torso, squeezing her breasts. His breath was labored, his cock straining painfully against his shorts.

There wasn’t waiting.

Clothes were stripped. Bodies were bare. It wasn’t long before Joe’s cock throbbed against his stomach, begging for her pussy.

“You tell me to stop and I will,” he told her. Joe knew he was going to get rough, he knew that with how much his cock pulsed he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself.

“Baby,” she assured him, “I’ll tell you, but you’ll be fine,”

It was as if all control snapped. Consent was given. Her body was his. His brain was pulled around by his cock, and he slid himself into her.

That’s all it took. Her pussy was tight, slick with arousal. She pulsed around him, her soft moans filling the room. His hands gripped her hips, and he very quickly picked up the pace.

He chased the ache. She held onto every thread of her own willpower. His cock slammed against her walls, his hips slapping against hers. Her hands strained in her restraints, her muscles bulging with exertion.

But Joe didn’t stop. He didn’t stop when she came the first time. He didn’t stop when her body shuddered so deeply that she writhed under him. He couldn’t stop.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, curls wet and slick with sweat, “God you’re so tight for me,”

She was raw. Her walls clenched desperately at his throbbing cock, her body shaking with breaths and sensitivity. She grabbed ahold of the tie, moans pouring from her gritted teeth. Her nerves were on fire, every crevice and every hole filled with the concrete of his sex.

“Take my cock so well,” he continued to praise, “this pussy is mine,”

“Joe-”

“Mine,” he growled, snapping his hips faster. Skin slapped against skin. Grunts and groans echoed in the bedroom. Sheets whispered songs of their sex.

And yet Joe’s eyes were the darkest they’d been.

One of his hands gripped her jaw, looking down at her with a tilted chin. His pink lips tugged into a smirk, observing the blissed-out look of the woman beneath him.

“So fucking pretty,” he praises, his thumb running over her bottom lip, “such a good girl, taking my cock like this,”

She nearly cums at his praise. She whimpered, her eyes fluttering with the overwhelming pressure of another orgasm. It ripped over her, causing her back to tug into an arch. She groans, her hands tugging at the tie. His cock still pushes, still rips into her gummy walls. He’s chasing his own release.

Which he finds with ease.

His hands move to grip the headboard, his hips slamming into hers as his cum spurts from his cock. He shuddered, moans staggering out of his parted lips. His curls are sweaty, coiled tight with his exertion.

His orgasm was intense. Her body took him, all of him. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, her jaw slacked with an aching pleasure.

He pulled out. He slowly ventured down her aching, sweaty body. He came between her shaking legs, watching as her pussy contracted, white, milky cum sliding out of her slit. He immediately attached his lips to her, the overwhelming musk of their shared arousal filling his senses.

Her body jerked. She whimpered, her head falling back against the headboard. Every lick of his tongue, every brush against her clit had her body twitching. Her eyes watered, silent and unfelt tears sliding down her cheeks.

He was lathered with her. His chin dripping with their shared arousal.

Joe licked a final stripe up her cunt before he kissed up her body. Her skin was sensitive, twitching with every touch of his lips. He reached her face. kissing her forehead.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes flicking over her face. The dominant side subsided, leaving the soft, nurturing boyfriend she knew.

“Mhm,” she hummed. Joe untied her from the tie, then wiped the dried tears from her face. He kissed away the tear stains, her body silently thanking him for being so gentle.

“You did so good, pretty girl,” he murmured, “truly. But was that too much? Should we never do that again?”

She let out a soft huff of a laugh, shaking her head. It was new, and it was different, but seeing that side of him got her going. It made her body thrum with a need that was ancient and primal.

“I say we add it to the routine,” she suggested, her voice hoarse, “I liked it,”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she smiled. She’d sleep good, her body thoroughly satisfied. Joe’s anxiety subsided, and any concern he had for her well-being was extinguished by her rosy cheeks and soft smile.

“Okay,” he sighed, kissing her forehead, “now I have use for all my ties,”

“You could also wear them,” she teased softly, earning a sarcastic shake of Joe’s head, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Nah, your wrists look better with them anyways,”

“Cheeky,” she rolled her eyes. He pressed a final kiss to her lips, gentle and tender. He loved her, loved her more than anything in this world. She was his motivation, his reason to get up. She was his rock and his sanity.

She was his home.

[crushmeeren]

♡ Master List Link

❥ Fem Reader

❥ Warnings; cursing, teasing, dirty talk, praising, soft! dom Tamaki, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy sex, pussy eating, fingering, vaginal sex

Note; for the lovely anon requester, I super loved writing this, I love Tamaki — the soft dom version of him hits the spot.

Tamaki is, more often than not, tightly wound into a ball of nerves. Not to say he hasn’t gotten any better at being able to handle the reigns of his anxiety, because he certainly has.

It’s just, there’s always a small undercurrent of unease lingering in his belly. Making his pulse thunder, fingers shaking with unrestrained adrenaline each time he gets interviewed after a villain beat down.

He’s ashamed to admit that even when he’s with friends the unsettling sensation remains, albeit minutely. It creeps across the back of his mind, lurking in the shadows at all times.

That is, unless he’s with you, and now, with your baby girl too. Funnily enough, his hands were as steady as they’d ever been when he first held his little girl.

His heart didn’t race, he wasn’t choking to death on butterflies— okay well, those things were happening. Just not in an oh my god the sky is falling type of way. It was in an oh my god I love my family so much I’m gonna throw up scenario.

Tamaki was drowning in his feelings for the two of you, so much so that he definitely did burst into tears.

Tamaki’s sweet little Chiyoko is two years old now, and don’t get him wrong, he’s happy. But fuck — he’d be remiss if he didn’t admit he’s starting to get that itch again. The one that clouds his mind and turns his thoughts into a one track mind of I want a baby, I want a baby, I need to knock her up NOW —

Tamaki just really longs for another little one to raise, someone to teach how to be better than he ever has been. Another person he can completely be himself with, who he’ll love unconditionally. He’ll always strive to give his kids a better world than the one he grew up in.

Although, if he’s being honest, what really severed the pathetically thin thread that was left of his patience was when he came across what must’ve been the 10th pregnant woman while out on patrol today.

All Tamaki could keep picturing was you. With your belly so cute, so swollen and so so round with his baby.

An image involuntarily pops up behind his eyelids. It’s of your pretty face, your lower lip pushed out so sweetly in a pout, tits obscenely spilling over the top of your bra. Tamaki swallows, throat dry as cotton as he works to keep a steady pace while he walks the streets.

His cheeks are burning, a bubblegum pink flush taking over his skin. He can feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck, all the way up to the pointy tips of his ears.

Tamaki frantically pulls the hood of his hero costume further down to obscure his face as his mind sharply turns down a much filthier path.

The vivid image and memory of you riding his cock when you were six months pregnant makes the muscles in his stomach clench in anticipation. He remembers how unbelievably tight your pussy was, how he was able to place his hands possessively on your belly as he gawked at the way you used his cock to make yourself cum.

Fuck, fuck, fuck — he craves the satisfaction of putting another baby into you so badly his balls ache.

His heart stutters when he realizes his cock is rapidly thickening against his inner thigh, hot and full.

Tamaki then urgently speed walks back to his hero agency as if he’s leaving a trail of fire behind him, because he’s pretty sure the stretchy spandex of his hero outfit is not going to hide his humiliating boner.

Later on that evening, after your daughter has fallen asleep, you find yourself with your hands bound to the metal slats of your headboard. A soft, smooth, silky material caressing your skin, and binding your wrists together above your head.

Your skin seems to be stretched too tightly over your bones, entire body flushing white hot as Tamaki traces the pads of fingers feather light over your bare breasts.

You’re both naked now, and he’s been playing with you for what feels like a lifetime. He’s been teasing you relentlessly as his thumbs delicately circle your nipples until they pebble up. Your pussy throbs in response.

“Tama,” you whine lowly, arching your spine as he grips your left tit playfully. You push further into his touch, craving so much more from your husband than he’s giving you. You twitch as his other hand traces your lower belly idly.

“Hm? Is this not enough for you my goddess?” Tamaki teases you with a soft voice, punctuating his words with another rough squeeze to your tit. He makes sure to pinch your nipple in between his fingers this time.

You bends your knees and let your thighs spread open even further to fit his lithe frame as you let out a breathy sigh.

“Fuck no, it’s not enough Tamaki,” you complain, irritation lacing your voice as you strain against the silk that ties you down. Goosebumps litter your arms when rests his warm palms over the bumps of your ribs, fingers splaying out just under the swell of your tits.

“No? My, that’s a bit bratty of you,” He reprimands, warm breath tickling over your skin as he presses a kiss to your sternum.

“Baby,” you say, asking for his attention. You tilt your head down to stare at him with wide eyes. “Please I want your mouth so bad.”

Slender fingers dig into your ribs, forcing a squeak out of you as it tickles you. Tamaki only hums, pressing a line of kisses down your soft belly, lowering himself onto his own as he makes his way to your pussy.

“Here?” Tamaki asks innocently before he kisses the sensitive area of your hip bone, sucking on the skin a little. Your hips twitch, trying to move his head to your pussy — which is starting to ache, puffy and slick from being so turned on.

“No,” you whimper, fingers curling into fists, nails digging into the flesh of your palms where you’re still tied up. Tamaki places his hands on the underside of your thighs, easily pushing them open further for him.

“Oh, so you must mean here?” He giggles, dipping his head to kiss the inner part of your thigh, close to the seam that connects to your groin. He nips at the skin there sharply, making you gasp.

“You know that’s not it Tamaki,” you huff, wiggling in place, frustratedly tugging at the silk yet again. Your shoulders start to ache and you have the insanely strong urge to tangle your fingers in his soft, purple hair.

Taking action, you maneuver your legs until you can rest your thighs over his shoulders, heels ready to dig into his upper back. He instinctively wraps an arm around your thigh.

He uses the other hand to brush his fingers through the small patch of curly hair you left above your clit. His cock twitches looking at it because it’s basically a neon sign pointing him straight down to your pretty pussy.

“I’m not quite sure what you want then baby,” Tamaki sighs, pretending to be disappointed. “Ya know, only good girls get what they ask for. You should use your words better, don’t you think?” He remarks thoughtfully, pinching your clit between his thumb and fore finger, trying to bite back his smile. One of his canines pokes out over his bottom lip.

“Tamaki!” You hiss, pressing upwards towards his mouth. The hero wraps both his arms around your thighs, halting your movement completely. “Fucking—Tamaki, please baby, I want you to eat my pussy,” you reluctantly beg, teeth grinding together in frustration.

“Oh! I see, why didn’t you just ask me in the first place? Such a good girl though, using your words,” Tamaki replies happily, brushing his warm lips over your clit when he speaks, and you could strangle the man right now.

His slick tongue is so close to your clit you have the urge to rip apart the silk tie and shove his face into you.

“Tamaki I swear, if you don’t — oh,” Your complaint is cut short. Your jaw falls open, fists clenching tightly when your husband’s tongue finally parts the lips of your pussy. Leisurely, he swirls circles into your clit, forcing a rush of warm shivers down your spine as he kitten licks at you.

“Oh my god Tamaki,” you keen, voice thick with pleasure. “Please don’t stop,” you plead, thighs threatening to suffocate him as you cross your ankles over his back.

He rewards you by sucking your clit between his lips, flicking his tongue up and down occasionally. He teased you for so long before that you’re already starting to feel an ominous knot tighten up behind your navel.

“Tama I wanna, oh!” Your breath hitches. “Fingers, want your fingers in my pussy, please!” You blurt urgently, tugging painfully at your restraints.

You squeeze your eyes shut when Tamaki hums, smoothly freeing himself from one of your thighs.

With no resistance, he slips his two middle fingers inside, stretching you just the way you needed him to. He thrusts and curls his fingers at a steady pace, never letting up the suction on your clit. His tongue teasing just under the hood and turning you in a pile of mush.

“Just like that, Tamaki please, I wanna cum,” you say desperately, tilting your head to look at him again and meeting his gaze. His eyes are half lidded, pale skin flushed. He’s so pretty it physically hurts.

The knot of your orgasm tightens frighteningly fast. Not to mention, just the sight of Tamaki between your legs is overwhelming.

The base of your skull digs into your pillow as the water balloon pops, your orgasm gushing through your limbs like heated honey.

Your mouth opens in a silent o shape as your entire body goes taught. Your back arches off the bed, pussy acting as a vice while you cum around Tamaki’s fingers. He makes sure to move fluidly with your hips as you roll them against his mouth.

Your husband pulls his mouth off your over sensitive clit with a pop, fingers still fucking the life out of you.

“Look at you, such a good girl, cumming on my fingers so sweetly,” Tamaki coos. His pink tongue pokes out to lick his shiny lips, moaning huskily at the taste.

After a few seconds, your body begins to melt back into into the mattress below. Your thighs releasing the death grip on his head. Your chest heaves as you catch your breath, watching Tamaki push himself up with one hand, settling back on his haunches as he slides his fingers free.

“You’re too good at that,” you laugh, chancing a peak at your husband’s hard, leaking cock.

He’s got such a pretty dick. He’s thick and pale, sticking straight out, a pale pink at the tip. It twitches a few times under your praise, precum making the tip shiny. Saliva gathers in your mouth as you imagine licking him clean and swallowing him whole.

Tamaki smiles shyly down at you like he’s read your mind. To distract you, he rolls his thumb over your puffy clit, making you wince.

“I know you want to suck my cock, but I need to be inside you baby. Want me to untie your hands?” He asks lovingly, running the knuckles of his clean hand over your cheek. You nod, humming softly.

“Please,” you laugh, tugging on the silk for emphasis. He chuckles gently in return, leaning over to untie your wrists.

As he does, the warm, spongy tip of his cock glides through the mess he’s made of your pussy. Massaging your clit, and making you both moan. The weight of his cock making you feverish.

Tamaki’s eyes are intense as they stare into yours. He lets you free, hands hovering nearing your face. You pause, flexing your fingers, allowing the blood to flow through your veins. You can feel the tension smoldering deliciously between you both, about to blaze.

Hands plant themselves on either side of your head, and then Tamaki’s suddenly smashing his against yours. He tilts his head to the side as his lips meet yours over and over.

Your fingers finally weave through his soft hair, tugging on it roughly. He lets his sharp canines catch on your bottom lip in return, easily swallowing the moans he’s dragging out of you.

Tamaki breaks the kiss, sitting back on his heels. Your hands fall limply to your sides when he moves away. He places his palms on your inner thighs, pushing them wide open. You let out a sound of protest, lower lip jutting out. He bites the tip of his tongue, looking amused.

“Don’t pout my queen, I know what your pussy really wants,” he says, lightly slapping your clit. You jolt in surprise, fingers fisting the soft material of the sheets.

“Yeah — okay, please fuck me,” you agree, feeling sweat bead up in the hollow of your throat.

“I’m gonna stuff you to the brim princess,” Tamaki says, voice airy but eager. He uses one hand to keep you spread, the other gripping the base of his shaft as he pushes the tip of his cock inside you His jaw clenches at just how tight, how perfect you are.

“I know Tama, c’mon, I want to make you a daddy again,” you urge him, wolfish grin pulling at your lips. Tamaki pauses, blinking at you in surprise with a rapidly forming blush. Said man raises an eyebrow, slipping the rest of his cock in without any warning. It punches a strangled sound from your lungs as you grip your pillow for leverage.

“My queen’s got a filthy mouth,” Tamaki croons, hooking your knees over his elbows — effectively folding you into a pretzel as leans forward, hands braced by your shoulders this time. “It’s hot,” he giggles. The glare you level him with holds no heat behind it.

He wiggles his eyebrows as he pulls his hips backwards halfway, before thrusting forward smoothly and filling you completely. You grip his shoulders, head falling backwards into the mattress. His cock is so so good.

“You feel amazing,” you tell him with a moan. The glide of his cock inside you is fucking perfect every time, splitting you open just the way you love.

“Yeah? Your pussy fits me like a glove princess, it drives me crazy,” Tamaki pants, warm breath ghosting over your face. He’s drinking up your reactions as if he’s never had a drop of water in his life.

“Mmhmm,” you whimper, hanging onto his muscled forearms now. “Harder,” you tell him, your face scrunching up as your eyes flutter shut. All you can focus on is the way he slides in and out of you, carving out a space for himself.

“Yes baby, you take me so well. You’re so pretty like this,” Tamaki praises low and smooth like butter. He gives you what you want, curling hips up slightly so he can hit your g-spot spot dead on.

Your nails create crescent shapes in his forearms, spine rising off the bed as much as you can in this folded position. Your blood is buzzing, eyes rolling so far back into your skull you’re afraid they’ll get stuck.

“Tamaki!” You sob. “I can — oh my god, feels like you’re in my guts.” Your legs flex over his elbows, his strength keeping you pinned however he chooses.

“It’s called a mating press for a reason baby,” Tamaki huffs a laugh, his eyebrows pinching together as the sound of his pelvis smacking your ass pushes him closer to the edge.

Tamaki makes you cum this way multiple times. Enough to make you see stars, hearing going fuzzy as you notice your hips start to ache. Then you’re begging him to cum inside you— making his cock jerk excitedly.

“I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to see you cum on my cock like this princess,” he says, as if in awe of the very sight of you.

Tamaki knows he’s not going to last much longer as he starts throbbing repeatedly, the way you’re suffocating him makes his brain mushy.

“Tamaki,” you murmur, hands reaching up to frame his face. “Cum inside me,” you demand, bringing his face down to kiss his jaw.

“I can’t wait to see your belly stretched with my baby again, you’re such a good mama,” he coos softly, turning his head so you can kiss his neck. You lick a stripe up his neck, tasting the salty sweat there and he groans. “Fuck, m’gonna cum, you’re made to take my cock, made to give me babies,” Tamaki babbles, thrusting shallow and desperate.

The tiny, rhythmic squeezes of your pussy are enough to push him over the edge, because suddenly he’s shoving his cock inside you entirely. The curly, coarse hair at his base tickling your skin.

Tamaki’s cock twitches relentlessly, stuffing you with small thrusts until he’s sucking in air through his teeth when he gets overstimulated.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hugging him to your chest as Tamaki drops your legs. You sigh in relief, feet tingling as you crack your toes. The two of you catch your breath for a moment, hearts thundering.

Eventually, your husband rises, forcing you to drop your hands to the bed once again. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip as he pulls out of you slowly, admiring the sticky, white cum coating his cock.

He groans as he tracks the way his cum trails out of you. Before he can think better of it he drags a thumb over your pussy, gathering a bit of it and wrapping his lips around his thumb to suck it off.

“Tamaki!” You gasp, mildly scandalized and cheeks burning furiously from the nasty sight.

“I wanted a taste,” he says nonchalantly, pulling his thumb from his mouth with a wet pop.

A startled laugh slips from your lips and then Tamaki is infected with it, laughing along with you. You both giggle as he lays down on his side, facing you. He places a hand on your belly and you intertwine your fingers with his, resting your hands on your sternum.

“You’re lucky we didn’t wake up Chiyoko,” you scold him, halfhearted in your attempt. He just smiles, eyes shining as he laughs.

“I would’ve put her back to bed,” Tamaki appeases, squeezing your hand playfully. You hum, content enough with his answer to relax and enjoy the post orgasm glow.

“I can’t wait to be pregnant again,” you admit in a hushed voice, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’ll be just as beautiful as you always are,” Tamaki whispers so sweetly it’s tooth rotting.

The two of you bask in each others company for a bit longer, daydreaming about the baby you hope you’ve just you created before you do anything else.

[venus-honey]

Blood, Honey, and Bone - Part 1

Remmick x Female!Reader

Summary: A Hoodoo witch begins receiving strange gifts and notes from an unseen stranger. Remmick’s curiosity gives way to obsession, and when she finally lets him in, neither of them is ready for what follows.

Warnings: Obsession, Stalking, Dark magic / Rituals, Supernatural themes, Power imbalance, sexual tension, Emotional manipulation, Mild horror elements, Forbidden relationship, Blood, Gore...He makes a necklace out of his teeth.

WC: 3.4k

A/n: This is my first time writing, so please keep that in mind. I hope you all like it!

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

Remmick worked alone beneath the suffocating pull of the moon, his coat discarded, pale skin slick with sweat, streaked in soot. His long fingers remained steady, even as the feral pulse in his throat thundered with the weight of what he was making.

Each component was sacred.

Each step, ritual.

The gold hissed and seethed in the stolen crucible as he folded in bone dust, graveyard dirt, threads torn from a burial shroud, unearthed by his own clawed hands.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not for her.

Not for what she was to him.

His ribs. His teeth. His blood. His marrow.

He had to become the torc.

So he broke himself open.

He snapped one of his ribs with a sharp, guttural snarl, splintering it to shards, shaving them smooth with ruthless precision. He pried loose his own fangs, roots tearing free as blood filled his throat, thick as iron, bitter as centuries.

His blood spilled into the molten gold, sizzling as it bound itself to the metal, his heartbeat pounding loud in the torc’s forming spine.

As the gold cooled, he carved the wolves.

Fierce. Snarling. Forever entwined.

Guardians. Warnings. Reflections of his hunger. Their love.

The Celtic knots and the sacred triskele, he etched them from memory, from desire, from the ache of need that had gnawed at him for lifetimes.

Amber was the final seal. His blood, suspended within, caught the trembling light of dawn but he did not shield it. He wanted the sun to see. He wanted the earth to know.

Mine.

He pressed the moonstone to the torc’s curve and whispered into it, ancient Gaelic syllables that cracked like bone in his throat, binding his magic to her sleeping mind.

“You will dream of me. You will feel me. I will come to you.”

His voice trembled as he sealed his vow.

“You will wear me until you cannot tell where you end and I begin.”

When it cooled, when it hummed like a second heartbeat he kissed it.

And he laughed.

Low. Breathless.

A man coming undone.

Of course she would take it.

She was already his.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺ ༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

The heat in Saint Martin, Louisiana didn’t just press, it smothered. It sank into the marrow, clinging to skin like sweat-slicked silk, thick as molasses crawling slow down cracked glass jars. The air sagged heavily with the sweet rot of magnolias, wet earth, and the salt-kissed breath of the bayou curling at the town’s edges like a serpent.

People moved slow beneath it. Shackled to the cracked pews of the whitewashed church by day, chained to the sermons of Levi Moore by night, the preacher with a serpent’s tongue and hands slick from skimming the Lord’s coffers. He promised salvation but walked foul with the stink of thievery. 

The town bowed anyway.

Y/N had long mastered the dance of saints and liars. The syrup-slick smiles, the hushed judgments that cut sharper than the rusted blades boys hid in their boots. Born into a house where obedience was carved into the bones of daughters, she was raised to keep her chin tucked, her gaze lowered, her will folded neatly beneath the weight of men’s hands.

But her blood hummed louder than her mother’s warnings. Her pulse drummed to older rhythms.

It was her Aunt Lula who first pulled her into the candlelit dark and taught her how to listen to the groan of cypress trees, the whispers in graveyard dirt, the creak of bones that remembered how to speak. 

A lineage the church hissed against. 

A legacy her family spat on.

“You keep meddlin’ with them dead things,” her mama had warned, voice trembling, “you gon’ end up cursed like Lula. Alone. Touched by somethin’ wicked.”

But Y/N didn’t stop. 

Couldn’t.

The pull gnawed at her like hunger.

Barefoot under the silver throat of the moon, graveyard dirt smudged across her fingers, whispering to the dead like she belonged to them. She moved between worlds like she was born to it.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺ ༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

Heat pressed down like wet cloth, heavy and slow, thick with the scent of moss, magnolia rot, and the sour trace of something long dead. The night was loud with cicadas, with frogs thick in their throats, but to Remmick, the world had long since quieted.

Saint Martin was meant to be a pause, a breath between hungers.

A place to feed. Nothing more.

But something caught him here.

A scent.

Honey. Bone. Dirt turned sweet from the weight of old blood.

It tugged at him.

So he followed it.

Down dirt roads slick with yesterday’s rain. Past sagging porches and hollow-eyed men who prayed to a God that never came when they called.

The girl walked alone.

Barefoot.

A satchel swinging loose at her hip.

No lantern. No escort. No fear.

Foolish.

But she didn’t move like a fool.

She moved like she belonged to the night.

Like the dark was the one meant to mind its step.

Remmick watched from the branches of a cypress tree, the damp bark clinging to his coat. His sharp eyes tracked the way her skirts caught on brambles, the way her fingers smeared graveyard dirt like it was flour for baking.

She stopped at the crossroads.

The place where the old ones still listened.

She knelt. Pulled bone dust from her tin. Honey from a small jar. Lit three candles in the thick hush of midnight, their flames shivering as though they knew what was coming.

Her words rolled low, smooth, ancient.

Not Latin.

Not the chants the white priests clung to.

Something older.

“Mwen rele nou. Mwen fè plas pou nou. Vin jwenn mwen, granmoun yo.”

(I call you. I make room for you. Come to me, elders.)

Remmick’s mouth parted, unthinking.

She wasn’t begging. She wasn’t fumbling.

She was opening a door.

A door he’d long thought buried.

A door he’d forgotten he wanted to find.

The air thickened. The dirt pulsed. The candles leaned toward her.

And the dead came.

They didn’t come how men fear them. No rattling chains. No shrieking ghosts.

They came quiet, like they knew her. 

Like they’d been waiting.

The weight of old bones. The hush of bloodlines.

Kin.

His chest tightened, sharp and strange.

He didn’t know why it rattled him.

It had been centuries since anything had come close to stirring the memory of what he was before the dark swallowed him. Before he crossed into something less than man and more than beast. 

Kin was a word he’d buried. 

Blood was a hunger, not a belonging.

But watching her…

he felt the edge of something he didn’t know he still missed.

He should have slipped back into the shadows, let her be.

But he didn’t.

Her voice curled through the trees, low and steady. She pricked her thumb, pressed blood to the dirt, to the bone, to the honey, sealing the call.

And when she turned—

her eyes cut toward him.

She couldn’t see him. Not properly. Not yet.

But she felt him.

The hairs on her arms prickled.

Her breath caught.

Remmick stayed perfectly still, though his pulse, ancient and slow, thumped just once in answer.

Her gaze didn’t linger. She didn’t flee. She blew out the candles. She walked away.

Remmick lingered longer than he meant to.

Not because she was dangerous.

Not because she was prey.

Because maybe…

just maybe…

she was the first thread back to something he thought he’d lost forever.

A way home.

A way to belong.

Kin.

And he needed to know if it was real.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺ ༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

Remmick first followed her out of curiosity.

Not the kind of pursuit that crept with purpose, not yet. It was idle, like the restless gnawing of a long-forgotten hunger. She was supposed to be a means to an end, a door to something he’d spent centuries aching for: his kin. His people. A path home.

But he kept following her.

It began in the quiet spaces, when no one else was watching.

One morning, just before the sky surrendered to light, he saw her by the river.

Barefoot. Laughing.

The hem of her dress clung to her calves, soaked and muddied as she spun along the bank, curls resting around her shoulders. Her voice floated soft, a half-formed tune she sang to herself, not meant for anyone else to hear.

It should have been nothing. But it wasn’t.

It irritated him that he noticed the small things:

The tilt of her head when she listened to the trees, as if waiting for them to speak back.

The honey she left at the roots of cypress trees, sweet offerings though she wasn’t sure who, if anyone, was listening.

The way she defended the stray animals. The limping dog, the starved cats, the crow with the broken wing. Her hands were careful. Her mouth, quick and brutal toward anyone who mistreated the wild things.

She was supposed to be just a key. A tether.

But she wasn’t.

Remmick lingered longer.

Too long.

He told himself it didn’t matter when she vanished into the woods, singing to the river, her fingertips brushing bark like she belonged there. He told himself the flare of irritation when Levi’s hand brushed her back was nothing more than disgust for the preacher.

But he knew better.

His patience thinned. His restraint wore away.

He began following her more closely, his steps heavier, his shadows nearer. He watched her slip honey onto gravestones, whisper to the dead, kiss the heads of broken animals.

He moved close enough to scent her skin.

Close enough to hear the rhythm of her breath.

One night, she paused mid-offering.

Felt him again.

Remmick had drawn too close.

Close enough that if she turned, she might have seen the glint of his teeth, the tattered edge of his coat, the shimmer of starvation in his eyes.

But she didn’t turn.

She lingered.

And when she left, she left the window open.

He began to leave her things.

He left her the honeycomb.

Watched her eat it, slow and deliberate, the honey clinging to her lips. When she smiled softly to herself, something sharp and ragged tore loose in him.

He wanted to taste the honey from her skin.

He wanted to press his teeth into her until she trembled.

He told himself to leave.

But he didn’t.

His hunger twisted into something feral, something pathetic.

He panted beneath her window at night, the ache in his throat raw and gnawing.

The leather bracelet came next frantic, knotted in jealous hands.

He wanted her to bind herself to him, even if she didn’t know who he was. 

His control thinned.

His movements became erratic. He cracked the ribs of one man who tugged her arm too roughly and dragged the body into the swamp. He snarled behind bushes and trees at the men who lingered too long near her.

When she left her window open, he pressed his palms to the sill, head bowed, trembling, panting like a half-mad thing.

His nails scraped deep into the wood.

His voice frayed against the night.

Please. Please. Just see me.

The hunger that gnawed at him no longer had anything to do with blood.

It was her. Only her.

The torc came last.

Forged in desperation. Forged in surrender.

He no longer cared about finding his people.

He no longer cared about the aching hollow where his kin had once been.

She had become his home. His ache. His ruin.

When she slipped the torc over her head and he felt her heartbeat pulse against the gift he had made, Remmick collapsed against the base of her house, panting, laughing, low and shattered.

His tongue lolled against his teeth. His chest heaved, his body trembling with feral delight.

Finally.

She wore him.

And he would wait.

He would tear apart the world if he had to.

But he would wait.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺ ༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

(Y/N's POV)

The first gift was left nestled against the fold of her windowsill: a piece of honeycomb, golden and fragrant, its cells still glistening with fresh nectar. Beeswax soft and warm, as though it had just been plucked from the hive. Beneath it was a note.

"Sweetness belongs to those who dare to taste it.

I left this for you. From a hive I should not have touched. The bees stung me for it. I let them. I’d bleed again if you asked me to.

—Remmick"

She never heard of Remmick. She paused, fingers hovering over the comb, the edges of the note still curling where his hand had pressed. The handwriting was sharp, slanted. 

Unfamiliar.

She lifted a piece to her lips and bit down, the waxy texture soft and chewy beneath her teeth. The honey burst forth. Thick, rich, and luxuriously sweet, melting slowly on her tongue. It tasted like summer afternoons and quiet moments, pure and comforting.

She closed her eyes, savoring the warm honey as it slid down her throat, leaving a trail of gentle sweetness that spread through her chest like a soft sigh.

Piece by piece, she ate the honeycomb, slow and deliberate, letting each taste linger a little longer. The sticky honey caught on her fingers and lips, and she smiled to herself, brushing it away with the back of her hand.

The second came when her dress, hung to dry, slipped from the line. She found it folded neatly on her sill, and upon it a leather bracelet, knotted in an endless weave. Hand-cut. Raw. Smelling faintly of moss and pine. She turned it over, tracing the intricate knots with her thumb. Next to it was another note.

"This knot you wear—Nóid an Ghrá—the Knot of Love. No start. No end. Just endless loops, like a whispered secret carried on the wind, like a hunger that never fades.

To my people, it’s a binding. Souls woven together beyond time, beyond words. A promise that lives in shadow and fire. The unbreakable thread pulling two hearts closer.

This bracelet is not just leather and knots. It’s a weight pressed against your skin. A token of love. 

Wear it close. Let it coil around your wrist like a breath, like a touch you can’t forget. It’s meant to hold you.

I’m tangled in you, wrapped tight in the quiet between your heartbeats.

—Remmick"

A charm of devotion.

Her breath caught tight in her chest. She didn’t know who left it. She didn’t know why. But she slid it onto her wrist anyway because though she doesn’t know who Remmick is, the mystery intrigues her. The bracelet is a tangible link to something beyond her ordinary life. 

The third gift came tucked into the crook of her window one night: a piece of ancient bogwood, dark as pitch, smooth and cool to the touch. Carved with faint spirals and symbols she didn’t recognize but felt drawn to all the same.

"It’s called bogwood. Older than me. Older than most things.

Wood that sank into the earth and let the dark water keep it, press it, change it. Didn’t rot. Didn’t break. Just waited.

It’s stubborn. Like you. Like me.

Touch it. Know it. Let it know you back.

It understands things that grow sweeter in the dark.

—Remmick"

She slept with it beneath her pillow, the weight of it pressing into her dreams.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺ ༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

Levi caught her once, leaving honey and bone at the crossroads. 

His boot came down hard, crushing the delicate offering beneath his heel, the honey bleeding into the dirt.

His lip curled, disgusted. “This ain’t our way, Y/N. You leave this filth. You belong in the church. Not in the dirt.”

But the dirt called her back.

The roots. The moss. The hush beneath the cypress.

She turned her hands toward sabotage. 

Flowers wilted.

Dresses vanished.

Seamstresses fell ill. 

The town whispered about her bad luck, the rot trailing in her wake.

Levi’s patience thinned to threads.

“We’re yoked by the Lord’s will,” he warned, gripping her wrist too tight. “Even the Lord’s patience wears thin. You will be my woman, and you best learn to become a proper one, worthy enough to stand beside me.”

She smiled, chin tucked, soft, agreeable.

Exactly what he wanted to see.

“Of course,” she murmured, syrup-thick. “A proper woman.”

Levi cupped her chin, rough and insistent. 

“I knew you’d come around.”

But Y/N wasn’t doing right by him.

She was buying time.

What Levi didn’t know was that she’d already thrown herself to powers he could never touch.

And what Y/N didn’t know was that something else had been watching.

And waiting.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺ ༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

Remmick watched her sleep.

Wild-eyed. Drooling. Hair tangled and damp, his sharp teeth bared, hunger dripping from his mouth.

“I forged this for you,” he whispered, his voice slow and heavy, laced with the weight of centuries.

“This torc holds my blood, my bone, my breath woven deep into gold and fire. It clings like earth to root, like wolf’s teeth in the hunt. You will never cast it off. No more than the river sheds its course or the night its stars.”

His voice crept closer.

“We are bound by blood older than gods, by vows carved in stone beneath the soil, whispered by hollow trees.

You are mine, as I am yours before time began. One shadow cast by the moon, one fire burning beneath the bones of the world, spun forever on the same unbroken thread.”

That night, she woke. Sweat slicking her throat, the air thick as syrup.

The window was already cracked open.

It was waiting.

A necklace.

Heavy and unyielding. 

No clasp. Just a bold arc of gold, open-ended, designed to slip smoothly around the neck and settle tight against the skin.

Its edges were outlined with fangs. Sharp and unfamiliar, belonging to some creature she was certain she’d never seen.

Wolves snarled at each crown, their teeth bared, fangs poised as if ready to strike.

It smelled like him.

Like the other gifts and notes.

Earth after rain. Peat smoke. The sharp tang of iron.

A pulse beat in the gold. She could feel it, a low thrum, steady and patient.

Knots and sharp lines curled along its curve, twisting like ivy. Ancient symbols cut deep.

Not from scripture. Not from her people’s stories.

Something different. Wilder.

Beneath it, a folded note, rough and yellowed, the words pressed hard as though he’d needed them to scar the page.

"You will wear me.

And in wearing me, you will know me.

My teeth will rest against your heartbeat.

You will feel me there...patient, but never still.

This torc does not bind you. It brings me home to you.

You carry what I thought I would never find again. A resting place, a rhythm that calls me home.

You are already mine.

And I will wait until you know it, too.

—Remmick."

She read it.

Again.

And again.

Until the words sank deep into her like a secret only her bones could hold.

Her fingers traced the sharp bite of the teeth pressed into the collar’s edge, pricking her skin just enough to remind her it was alive. That it was him.

She should have cast it away. 

She didn’t.

She slipped it over her head, deliberate, reverent.

It settled heavy against her throat, like it had always belonged there.

The mysterious fangs pressed to her pulse.

Her skin tingled where the gold kissed it.

A spark—a breath that wasn’t hers—ghosted along her neck. A touch soft as fog, but insistent. Like he was already reaching for her through the torc.

Her breath trembled.

She felt him. 

She wore him.

She was a hoodoo witch. She knew bindings. She knew the weight of power wrapped around flesh.

But this, this wasn’t just power. This was Remmick. His blood, his bone, his scent braided into her skin.

Her mother’s voice drifted from the hall, worried and soft.

“Y/N? You standin’ by that window again? Come away from there, baby. You’ll catch your death.”

“I’m fine, Mama,” she called, distant, her fingers coiled tight around the torc’s snarling edges.

Her thumb brushed the twisting symbols.

Her lips curled into something secret. Something sweet.

“Sometimes,” she murmured, “the darkest things leave the sweetest gifts.”

She didn’t close the window.

[vivsinkpot]

Motifs That Make Your Story Stick With People.

Motifs are more than vibes — they’re threads your readers follow without even realizing it. Here are some powerful ones by genre:

Romance

1. The Unfinished Letter

A confession that was never sent, a page torn halfway through — the kind of silence that says more than words ever could.

2. Worn-in Clothing

A lover’s coat still carrying their scent, a scarf borrowed and never returned. Intimacy without touch. Presence in absence.

3. The Empty Chair

Always set, never filled. Waiting becomes a quiet ritual. It’s not just about who’s missing — it’s about who you’re still hoping for.

4. Dancing (but not quite together)

Spinning at opposite ends of a room. Always out of sync. You almost touched, and didn’t — and that almost is what lingers.

5. A Shared Song

The one that plays at just the wrong time. In the supermarket. At a wedding. On the radio. A melody that aches like memory.

6. The Locked Drawer

Something hidden, maybe for protection, maybe out of fear. A love letter, a photograph, a ring. What’s kept secret still speaks.

7. Ghosts of Firsts

First glance. First argument. First goodbye. The early moments replay — not because they’re gone, but because they still matter.

8. Parallel Lives

The two of you live close — same café, same bookstore — but never meet. Until you do. And suddenly, everything clicks too well.

9. The Rain-Soaked Confession

A classic for a reason. It’s not about weather — it’s about chaos, vulnerability, cleansing, and raw emotion colliding all at once.

10. The Held Breath

Before a kiss. Before a touch. Before a truth. The pause between. The suspended yearning. The moment you want to live in forever.

Fantasy

1. The Prophecy Misread

Everyone thinks they know what it means — until it’s too late. The chosen one, the foretold fall, the wrong name. Destiny misinterpreted, yet inevitable.

2. Blood on Ancient Stone

A ritual, a sacrifice, a curse reawakened. Magic that demands a price — and history that bleeds into the present.

3. The Forest That Whispers

It’s alive, not with words, but memory. Paths shift. Trees remember. If you stray too far, you might never leave — or come back changed.

4. A Name That Holds Power

Speak it, and the sky cracks. Bind it, and a person is no longer free. The right name can open doors, or destroy worlds.

5. The Mirror That Lies

Or tells the truth too cruelly. A reflection that isn’t quite yours. A twin self trapped behind glass, waiting to be let out.

6. The Star That Falls

Not a wish — a warning. A guide, a lost god, a life flung from the heavens. You’re not meant to touch it, but you do.

7. The Blade That Refuses You

Not everyone can wield it. Not because you’re not strong, but because it knows. The weapon chooses the worthy — or the damned.

8. The Disguised Royal

Crownless, cloaked, quietly watching. They move through the world unknown, until the moment they must rise — and rule.

9. The Last Dragon Egg

Forgotten, fossilized — until it pulses with warmth. Legacy, extinction, hope. One life that could reshape an entire world.

10. The Map That Draws Itself

You wake, and a new line has appeared. Paths shift, dangers emerge, and someone — or something — is guiding your journey.

Mystery/Thriller

1. The Missing Hour

A chunk of time no one can account for. It’s not just gone — it’s hiding something. And the truth lies in what’s been forgotten.

2. The Locked Room

No windows. One entrance. No way out. Yet something — or someone — disappeared. It’s not a puzzle. It’s a trap.

3. The Photograph That Shouldn’t Exist

Everyone claims they were never there. And yet, there they are — in the background, staring at the camera. Smiling.

4. The Phone That Rings Once

Just one call. Just one word. No caller ID. And when you try to call back, there’s no record it ever happened.

5. Footsteps That Stop Midway

A trail in the snow. Mud tracked across the floor. And then — nothing. As if the person vanished, or was taken.

6. The Case Gone Cold

A file gathering dust. A girl who vanished. A detective who can’t let it go. Everyone’s moved on — except the one who matters.

7. The Voice On The Tape

Distorted, but familiar. Breathing between words. A secret only they would know. And they’re supposed to be dead.

8. The Key With No Lock

Left in your mailbox. Hidden in your coat. Ancient, brass, worn by time — and it doesn’t fit any door in your house.

9. The Red Herring

It’s so obvious, it has to be true — until it isn’t. The character you trusted. The story you followed. And now, you’re lost.

10. The Fog That Won’t Lift

It clings to everything. Cars vanish inside it. People say they hear voices. But the worst part? The fog smells like smoke.

Stories stay with us because of moments — not just plot twists, but symbols, patterns, echoes.

Motifs are more than decoration — they’re the emotional fingerprints of your story.

The way a name repeats. The fog that returns. The touch that doesn’t happen.

These are the threads readers don’t forget.

So plant them with care. Let them whisper. Let them haunt.

Let your story echo in the silence after it ends.