#dark and deep and yet weightless

[mill3rd]

LIGHT OF THE LORD

synopsis. a woman of divine beauty, grace and fairness has plagued remmick’s mind and being. no matter where he goes, what time he’s in—you’ve been around every corner. he cannot escape your watchful eye. he knows you aren’t human but you are no vampire like him. and while he finds everything about his situation frustrating, he finds you quite intriguing.

tags and warnings. remmicks pov, hes pining unknowingly, mythical ambiguity for the most part, temporal ambiguity so lots of time skips, readers race isnt specified or specific to the story, know-it-all gf vs quickly humbled bf, fluffy, bit angsty, some discriptions of feeding

wc. 10k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

1,385 years. one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five long, excruciating years in which remmick had no choice but to endure your presence—your seraphic presence. seraphic, not in beauty, but in that maddening way you carried righteousness like armor, wisdom like a curse. your face, ageless and untouched by time, only deepened his resentment. the more he was forced to see it—those eternal, untarnished features—the more unbearable you became. there was nothing soft or lovely about it anymore. your immortality was a wound that never healed, and he bled quietly beside you for centuries.

you came to him first in the rawness of your glory—nude, your flesh supple and unnervingly perfect, like something carved from the dreams of old gods. it was only weeks after the catholics had spilled into ireland, clinging to their bibles and breathing scripture like smoke. remmick, newly turned and still trembling in the dark, didn’t yet understand what he was. he thought he had died from the wounds carved into him by war and man, and he sobbed like a child beneath the stars when he saw you approaching—not through the river, but on it. your bare feet pressed the water’s skin as if it were solid, each step leaving behind a shimmer like fireflies or some underwater bloom. the stream itself was dull, lifeless. it had never glowed before. it never glowed again. only when you walked toward him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world did it come alive with light.

“the lord does not encourage such violence,” was all you said. or perhaps not to him at all—your voice was distant, almost drifting, as if carried on mist. it felt less like a warning and more like a half-forgotten thought, spoken aloud without meaning to. weightless, airy, like you were reminding yourself of some rule you no longer believed in, repeating it out of habit more than conviction. the words hung in the air, delicate and hollow, and remmick wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or the sky above.

your words unsettled him. the lord. even hearing the name turned his stomach. after everything he’d suffered—everything he’d lost—invoking the man upstairs felt like a cruel joke. it was tone-deaf, sanctimonious. so when you opened your arms, all light and grace, offering some divine comfort, he recoiled like you were poison.

“stay away from me!” he snapped, stumbling backward. “i ain't interested in walking with god’s so-called vessel.”

his voice cracked, thick with fury and something raw beneath it—betrayal, maybe. or grief.

you merely frown and watch as he scrambles off deeper into the trees.

remmick wandered deep into the woodlands, far enough that the moon vanished behind the thick weave of branches overhead. the air grew colder there, denser, and the only light came in faint silver slivers where the canopy broke. he let the owls guide him, their low, rhythmic hoots echoing like warnings through the underbrush. every step tangled him deeper in roots and bramble, the trees growing close and ancient around him, as if they were watching.

then—a sound. sharp, low, guttural. a growl, too deliberate to be the wind. it came from ahead, thick in the dark. his eyes adjusted, and he saw them: teeth gleaming like shards of polished bone, bared in a snarl that pulsed with threat. a wolf. broad-shouldered, fur rippling like smoke in the moonless dark. remmick froze.

good, he thought. maybe now, finally, it would all end.

but something inside him stirred—deep, primal, and hungry. not fear. not relief. hunger. sharp and sudden, like a spike to the gut. his throat burned. his limbs ached to move. and before he understood what he was doing, he stepped forward, slow and silent, toward the wolf.

it blinked, muscles tense, and backed away—eyes locked on him, more confused than afraid. it knew something was wrong. it sensed something unnatural.

remmick kept moving, drawn not by instinct to survive, but by something darker, something ancient coiled now inside him.

before he could even think to lunge, a light broke open behind him—blinding, radiant, pure white. it wasn’t overwhelming. no, it was no different to the faint light of a flame. it was just unnatural underneath the shade of the canopy. the wolf didn’t wait. it bolted, tail low and body vanishing into the underbrush with a panicked rustle.

remmick turned, breath sharp, pupils blown wide as his eyes locked onto the source.

you.

you, this insufferable, god-touched creature, glowing as if the stars themselves bent to your will. no flame, no torch—just you, radiating light as effortlessly as a flower bleeds scent. it was unnatural. it was maddening.

remmick let out a low, guttural growl. his body trembled with hunger, pain pulsing in his torn flesh like a second heartbeat. he was wounded, starving, half-mad—and there you stood, pristine, untouched, a walking symbol of everything he’d come to loathe.

he squinted at you through the harsh light, eyes narrowed, seething with anger and exhaustion. “wha’dyou want?” he snapped, voice rough like gravel. “i thought i told you to stay away.”

you didn’t answer. instead, your gaze drifted lazily to his face, head tilting slightly, eyes calm—almost amused.

“you are drooling,” you said, voice soft and unbothered.

remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling as he turned away. “can’t blame a man for being hungry,” he muttered, bitterness coating each word like tar.

you only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and without a word, followed him—silent, steady, undeterred by his resentment. his anger rolled off you like water on stone.

“you will have to learn how to control that hunger,” you said, voice light, almost distant, like the words weren’t really meant for him alone, “you are not the man you used to be. not anymore.”

there was a quiet finality to it, as if the truth had already settled in the soil around you, waiting for him to catch up.

“what am i then?” remmick asked, voice rough and brittle, like dried bark about to snap. there was a weight behind it, something choked and bruised, the kind of heaviness that clung to a man who’d wept alone through too many sunless nights—because the sun, once warm and welcoming, had turned its back on him completely.

your expression didn’t shift. your voice was steady, almost cold.

“inhuman.”

“an’ what about you?” remmick’s voice cut through the air, a mix of frustration and suspicion. “you look human, but you ain’t one.”

you nodded slowly, your gaze steady, almost serene, as if every word you spoke was steeped in something far beyond him.

“a keen observation, remmick,” you replied, your voice soft yet filled with an ancient grace. “i am not human, nor have i ever been. i merely wear this face, this form, for as long as my time among mortals endures.”

remmick jumped at the sound of his name, the echo of it like a whisper from a past he hadn't invited. he never told you his name. never gave you the right to know it. yet, there it was, hanging between you like a thread woven from the air itself.

the world around him swayed, and it wasn’t from too many drinks of ale or beer. it was something far heavier.

“how did ya know my name?” he demanded, voice tight with disbelief, as his hand shot out, gripping your shoulder with an urgency that bordered on panic. “what even are ya? there’s something... unorthodox about you. nobody radiates light like that! and absolutely nobody galavants around naked, óinseach!”

you regarded him with an almost sorrowful expression, lips pressing together in a faint frown.

“i apologize,” you murmured, your tone gentle but laced with something ancient. “i can tone down my appearance if it frightens you.”

remmick froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. then, before his very eyes, you shifted—your form bending, stretching, warping, as if reality itself could no longer hold the weight of your true essence. a blur of faces spun before him—his younger sister, laughing beneath the sun; his mother, her tired eyes soft with love; his wife, her smile warm, full of memories that felt like a dream; his older brothers, strong and brash, voices echoing through the corridors of his past; and his daughter, her innocent eyes full of questions, a life he’d lost forever.

each face flickered in and out of your shifting form, leaving a trail of aching familiarity in their wake, and remmick’s breath caught as the weight of it all settled over him.

a terrified yell ripped through remmick’s throat, his body jolting with a surge of panic as he stumbled backward, scrambling away from you. his legs carried him without thought, driven by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum of war.

he didn’t dare to look back. the images—the faces—clung to him like a curse, and the sight of them twisted something deep inside him.

this time, you didn’t follow.

you stood still, an immovable figure in the shifting darkness, watching him retreat with quiet understanding. your gaze lingered on the space where he had been, serene yet filled with a sorrow that was not yours to bear.

that was his first encounter with you and now he wears you like a burden. you didn’t show up for days after that and remmick began to believe you were a fever dream. something he made up due to delirium.

but then, just as suddenly, you appeared—the sound of waves washing softly on the shore marking your arrival. your natural glow was the only light beside the pale moon, soft and unearthly, illuminating the world around you in quiet brilliance.

remmick groaned in frustration upon seeing you, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “i thought ya’d have written me off by now. labelled me a lost cause.”

you shook your head, the motion slow and graceful, your presence like a steadying breath in the chaos of his mind.

“no,” was all you said, the simplicity of it carrying a weight beyond words.

without waiting for him to respond, you sat down beside him, where the sand darkened with the lingering traces of water’s touch. the cool salt air swept over you, and the ocean’s rhythm seemed to pulse in time with your being. the salty water kissed your skin, as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.

“i found some clothes so i would not stand out,” you chirped, your voice light and carefree as though nothing had transpired between you. remmick didn’t want any part of this conversation, but you were relentless.

he nodded, barely looking at you, pulling his head closer to his knee. “good on ya.”

“i wanted to give you space after our last conversation,” you continued, tone softening. “i realize i was... insensitive. and for that, i want to apologize.”

remmick raised an eyebrow, the bitterness in his voice sharper now. “if i accept it, will ya leave me alone?”

you laughed—a sound so unexpected and pure that it caught him off guard. the first time he’d heard it, and it was like a breath of wind through still air. “not forever, no. but for now, will that suffice?”

he sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders for a moment. “i forgive ya then.”

and just like that, you were gone. not with a quiet fade or a dramatic burst of smoke, but simply—gone. one second, remmick could hear the steady beat of your pulse, the rush of blood flowing beneath your skin, and the next, the world was empty, save for the sound of waves and the distant echo of his own heartbeat.

he waited in silence, the stillness of it pressing in on him, until his hunger clawed at him again, and he turned his focus to the water, waiting for a fish’s heartbeat to break the quiet.

it took remmick a long time to understand what he had become: a vampire. it wasn’t until he encountered others like himself that the true weight of his transformation hit him. in their eyes, he saw only the reflection of something monstrous—unnatural, evil. but remmick wasn’t evil. his life had been stolen from him, ripped away in a moment of violence, and now he was left to survive on instinct, just like any creature would.

that wasn’t evil. it was simply the harsh truth of nature’s cold hand. survival, stripped down to its most primal form. natural selection.

they taught him what it truly meant to feed, the raw satisfaction that came with fully indulging his hunger. feeding on humans—it felt strange, yes, but it also felt right, as if his body had been designed for this purpose and nothing else. there was no one to tell him there were other ways, no gentle voice reminding him of the choices he still had.

in truth, he hadn’t seen you in a long while. he hadn’t felt the comforting warmth of your light, nor the unsettling pull of your golden blood since that brief encounter at the beach. he had told you to leave him be, and you had listened—something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but feel grateful for.

still, as time passed, something gnawed at him. it was subtle, like a missing note in a melody, a strange emptiness in the quiet that followed your departure. part of him was glad you were gone, but there was another part—a part he couldn't ignore—that felt... unsettled.

when you finally appeared, remmick was nestled at the edge of an ancient castle ruin, tucked into the jagged rocks and rubble. the moonlight filtered through a gaping hole in the stone wall, casting silver beams across his form, and he lay there, eyes closed in quiet stillness. moonbathing, he called it. though, when you approached, he shot you a disgruntled look, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“moonbathing?” you asked, your head tilting in quiet curiosity, “i understand that the sun darkens the skin, but why would you try to tan in the moonlight?”

remmick shrugged, not bothering to lift his gaze. “ha'fta keep my pale complexion up to date," he muttered with a dry smirk, clearly unbothered by your confusion.

“so you have no intention of tanning?” you ask, still standing in the frame of the hole in the wall. remmick shakes his head, “if i tried to tan, i’d get a little more than sunburn.”

you nodded slowly, a thoughtful motion, but before you could speak, remmick waved a hand and grunted, “move outta the way. you’re blocking the moon.”

he hadn’t exactly told you to leave, so you quietly stepped over the rubble, your movements as fluid as mist, and settled down beside him, folding your body against the cool stone as if it belonged there.

“do you know about constellations?” you asked after a pause, turning your head to face him, your voice gentle, like a breeze trying not to wake the earth.

remmick kept his eyes closed, but he could feel your gaze on him, steady and curious.

“no,” he muttered, “ya gonna give me a random fact o’ the day?”

you smiled faintly and nodded, undeterred by his sarcasm.

“many constellations are tied to the zodiacs,” you began, your voice slipping into that melodic cadence you often carried when speaking of old things. “twelve of them form a path the sun appears to follow throughout the year. the ancients charted them to navigate the seas, tell time, even predict their fates. and if you look just there—” you lifted a hand, pointing skyward “—you can see libra, the scales. it is faint, but present. balance, even in darkness.”

your words trailed off into the night, soft and steady, like starlight dripping into silence.

remmick grunted, finally cracking one eye open to glance at you. “fascinating,” he muttered dryly, “write a book about all that and they’ll string you up as a witch.”

“no one knows i exist,” you replied, calm and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

remmick sighed and let his head fall back against the stone. “iontach. so i’m the lunatic talking to the ghost nobody else can see.”

“i am not a ghost either,” you said with a soft smile, the kind that barely touched your lips but somehow warmed the space between you. “i am sure you have figured out what i am by now.”

remmick let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and a little hollow. “my best guess?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “i’m seein’ things. you’re not real—just something my mind cooked up to keep me company when the silence gets too loud.”

“if that is what you believe,” you replied, your tone quiet, unreadable—neither confirming nor denying, as steady as still water.

then, without another word, you rose, movements fluid and precise. you stepped lightly across the scattered bricks, your figure momentarily silhouetted in the moonlight as you reached the jagged hole in the wall.

“until next time, remmick,” you said over your shoulder, voice echoing just slightly, like it belonged to the night itself.

remmick watches as you disappear but he swears your hand lingers on the brick for a second longer. he’s left in silence now until your words echo, until next time. he groans, what about never?

he does see you. again and again and again. your visits get more frequent until you’re both caught unexpectedly in war. the eleventh century. remmick thought he had escaped your watchful eye and found himself hitching rides with strangers in their carts, hiding under thick velvet rugs until nightfall where he bid his goodbyes and wandered off. he should’ve known you’d find him.

remmick stood at the edge of the treeline, deliberately keeping himself in the shadows, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight that hung stubbornly in the sky. his eyes scanned the valley below, where the battle raged fiercely, men clashing in a frenzy of steel and blood. the air was thick with the sounds of war—shouting, the clang of weapons, the stampede of hooves. it was chaos, but he was content to watch from afar, detached from the madness.

and then, as if summoned by some unseen force, you appeared. he didn’t need to see you fully to know—it was the light that gave you away. a soft, golden glow that seemed to push back against the fading daylight. it clung to you, hovering just at the edges of your presence, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world itself dimmed just to make room for you.

“ain’t bored o’ me yet?” remmick muttered, his voice laced with annoyance and something else—something he refused to acknowledge.

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, there was a slight rustle in the air, a shift in the atmosphere as you moved closer. when you did speak, your voice was serene, effortless. “not at all.”

he couldn’t see it, but he could feel the subtle shake of your head, the shift in the air that told him you were amused. you always were, always so certain and unbothered by his disdain.

he huffed, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to the battle below. you were like a persistent, unavoidable breeze—always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore you.

its silent between you two as you both experience the rage of the battle of hastings below, the cries of men filling the air as blood stains the earth beneath. the dying light of the sun casts long shadows across the field, and the sky is a mixture of fading reds and purples. you stand at the edge of the treeline, your presence almost otherworldly, that strange divine glow surrounding you like a halo. it's the kind of light that would make anyone believe you're something holy, untouchable, perfect. but remmick doesn't care about any of that.

he stands next to you, his arms crossed, eyes bored as they track the chaos below. his face is hard, indifferent—he's seen enough of human suffering to not bat an eye at it. to him, they're all just ants. he turns his attention to you, though, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his features. it’s the same thing every time. you show up, radiating light, acting like you’ve got a hand in this world’s fate. he’s sick of it.

you speak, your voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper. “do you ever wonder if they know what they are fighting for?”

remmick scoffs, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “i’m sure they’re all very aware of their ‘noble causes,’” he mutters. “but it don’t matter, do it? they’ll die anyway.”

you give him a sidelong glance, those piercing eyes of yours studying him like you always do. “do you think death is all they’re meant for?”

“i think most of them wan’ it,” he responds flippantly, his gaze flicking over to the chaos below. “or maybe they're just too stupid to know when to stop fighting.”

you shake your head, a quiet sigh escaping your lips, your tone almost sad. “you’re so jaded, remmick.”

he looks at you then, an eyebrow raised. “and you’re so holy.” he leans against a tree, crossing his arms tighter. “if you think they’re all so deserving of your pity, why don’t ya help ‘em out?”

you ignore his question, your gaze fixed on the battle once more. it’s almost as if you can’t help yourself—you have to watch, to be present. but then something catches his attention. the flicker of an arrow in the last rays of sunlight. it's a fleeting thing, but remmick notices it.

before he can react, the arrow strikes you.

it’s quick. too quick for him to fully process. he hears you gasp, and then you stumble slightly, your hand clutching at your side. the arrow, so perfectly aimed, has found its mark in the divine part of you, piercing through the space where your beauty and immortality should be untouched.

he doesn’t react immediately. instead, his gaze lingers on you, observing the way your breath hitches as the golden blood begins to seep through your fingers. his mouth curls into something that might have been a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. there’s nothing but quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that he’s right.

you’re not as untouchable as you think.

“oh, look at that,” he murmurs, the words coated in a kind of cruel humor, “a little scratch. guess you ain’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”

he watches for a moment longer as you stand there, your form still glowing faintly even as blood drips from you. you’re not the same now. you’re broken. you’ve been touched by the same death that touches everyone, and for some reason, that gives him a sense of relief.

you look at him, and there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—concern, maybe. or maybe just a question. but remmick isn’t interested. he’s never been interested in your divine presence. he’s only been stuck with you because you follow him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with you.

he takes a step back, turning his gaze away from you. “well, i’ve seen enough,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion, “you’ll be fine. immortals like you don’t just die from an arrow.”

he called you immortal because he didn’t know what else you were.

and with that, he turns, disappearing into the trees, leaving you there. blood staining the ground, your divine light flickering weakly.

he doesn’t care if you survive. in fact, a part of him hopes you don’t.

he leaves you there, under the dying light of the sunset, and walks away without a second thought. the darkness of night soon envelops him, and for the first time, he feels a strange sense of relief. maybe this is what he wanted all along—an escape from your presence, from your light, from the divine pressure of your existence.

he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t even think about it. he’s long gone, disappearing into the night.

remmick hadn’t seen you in over five hundred years. for a while, he thought the peace would last. the solitude had been... bearable. a century of living on his own terms, without your relentless light or your judgmental eyes, was a relief. he wandered through europe, a ghost in the shadows of history. he watched the rise of new dynasties, the endless wars of vikings, the decline of the roman empire, and the brutal reign of genghis khan. centuries passed, each one feeling like a whisper in time, and he thought he had finally outrun you.

but the renaissance? that was the point where it all fell apart. it was the 16th century in france, and somehow, against all logic, he had managed to convince the royal family that he, too, was royalty—a lost prince from some forgotten kingdom. he was skilled in deception, after all, and no one really questioned an enigmatic figure like him. they believed his stories, and the royal family, desperate to flaunt their connection to ancient lineages, eagerly threw a ball in his honor.

“to celebrate the visit of prince remmick i,” they announced, and the court was abuzz. everyone was charmed by the mysterious foreigner, the one whose origins were as hazy as the fog that rolled across the french countryside.

as the night stretched on, lit by shimmering chandeliers and the glittering eyes of aristocrats, remmick found himself drifting through the crowd, always watching, always smiling with that knowing smirk.

he should have known. he should have known that your light would pierce through the shadows of his false life. and yet, he didn’t hear your footsteps, didn’t see your radiance until you were already standing before him, like a vision from another time, another world.

"ain’t bored o’ me yet?" remmick asked, half-amused, half-resigned. he starts the greeting the same way he started the last one you had.

you smiled softly, as if you'd never left, "not at all," you replied, your voice soft as always, yet carrying a weight he could never ignore. you seem to remember too how he greeted you.

remmick’s fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into the flesh. how long had he really been free? how long could he ever escape your watchful eyes?

the music swirled through the air, soft and alluring, as the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom played their delicate tune. the sound of strings filled the grand hall, echoing off the gold-trimmed walls. remmick held you close, his hand firm on your waist as he led you in the dance, effortlessly twirling you through the sea of guests. each step felt like a rhythm he had known forever, like he'd danced this dance with you a thousand times, even though it was only now that he realized you were real—more than just a haunting image from his mind.

you moved with an ethereal grace, laughter bubbling from your lips like a song he couldn’t help but chase. when he spun you, the light caught in your hair, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the entire room faded away—just the two of you, floating through time. his chest tightened as you laughed, that soft, knowing sound, and he couldn’t help but notice how your presence filled the space around him. he’d never let himself feel this before, not for someone like you.

but before he could think on it too long, the dance shifted. your hand slipped from his and suddenly, you were in the arms of another man—an older figure, no doubt a noble, with a grasp on your waist that was far too close, intimate. you laughed again, a bright, airy sound that made remmick's stomach twist and churn.

this is the moment remmick realises you have a physical manifestation and you truly weren’t apart of his imagination.

he stood still for a moment, watching as you moved away, the warmth of your hand no longer in his, replaced by the weight of something heavy that clawed at his insides. his eyes narrowed instinctively as you, effortlessly, slipped into another’s embrace. the man held you close, spinning you with a tenderness that made remmick’s skin prickle.

it shouldn’t matter, but it did.

he swallowed down the odd bitterness that had risen in his throat. it was absurd. he wasn’t allowed to feel this way—this possessive ache. but still, he couldn’t help himself, watching the way you laughed in his arms, the way your eyes shone so brightly for someone else.

remmick shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. the princess he had been dancing with swirled into his arms, but his gaze never wavered from you. he couldn’t look away. it was as if the room had ceased to exist around him—there were no voices, just the sound of your laughter and the light that shimmered around you.

he knew it was futile to hold on to any of it, but for as long as he could, he would keep you in his line of sight, hoping you wouldn’t slip away again, like you always did.

as the music reached its final notes, remmick's gaze never left you. he watched as you slipped gracefully from the arms of your partner, your presence like a flicker of light lost among the throngs of well-dressed nobles. the man—his face now blurred by the growing distance between them—seemed unaware of the way you had subtly detached yourself, drifting into the crowd of silks and velvets, where the shadows danced just as intricately as the guests.

remmick felt an inexplicable urgency seize him. his fingers grazed the princess’s hand, and with a smooth smile, he pressed his lips to her delicate knuckles in a gesture that seemed far more rehearsed than genuine. “my apologies, princess,” he murmured, the words slow and languid, “but i’ve promised myself a moment alone. something about cutting the cake, you know? a royal tradition, i suppose.”

she blinked, clearly satisfied by the excuse, her smile warm and unsuspecting. “of course, prince remmick. go enjoy your cake.”

and with that, she was lost to the crowd of swirling dancers, her attention already diverted. remmick didn’t waste a second more. he gave her a lazy bow and watched her retreat into the gilded glamour of the ballroom. then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped into the labyrinth of bodies around him, the rich fabric of coats and gowns folding into a soft blur of color.

he didn’t care about the cake. he didn’t care about any of it. all that mattered was finding you again before you vanished into the shadows once more. his heart pounded as his feet carried him swiftly through the crowd, his eyes darting over the sea of faces, seeking that unmistakable glow that had haunted him for centuries.

there. between the columns of the balcony, under the flickering candlelight. your silhouette, radiant even in the midst of so many others, a beacon amidst the chaos. remmick’s pulse quickened, a feeling—half desire, half something darker—stirring deep in his chest.

“long time, no see…” you breathe, your voice soft as you stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out into the cool night. the moonlight catches the edge of your dress, making it shimmer in a way that feels almost too ethereal. “remmick.”

he swallows, his throat dry, and his eyes track the curve of your silhouette in the dim light. there’s something about the way the dress clings to you tonight—it suits you better than anything he’s seen you wear before. he can’t help but notice, even in the midst of everything else, how striking you are, even when you're so distant.

“yeah…” he hums, his voice rougher than he intends. “how long’s it been?”

you don’t turn to face him, but he knows you’re listening. “ah, five hundred years. it was quite the break from your presence,” he adds, with a hint of bitterness that slips from his lips before he can stop it.

you give a small nod, the movement subtle, but it feels like you’re acknowledging something deeper, something unsaid. your gaze doesn’t waver from the distant horizon, the city lights far below barely flickering. “it was quite the goodbye. if i remember correctly, you left me to die.”

remmick laughs, a hollow, cold sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you remember correct. i’m quite fond of that memory, actually.” the words fall out like a joke, but the edge to his tone betrays him. there’s something about it that feels unfinished, unsaid.

you remain silent for a moment, your eyes still lost in the night. then, slowly, your head falls into your hand, your fingers pressing lightly against your temple as if to hold back something that could break through. remmick watches you, his smile fading, the silence stretching between them.

he doesn’t say anything more, because he knows—no words would make this any less complicated.

so, he let’s you speak first.

“why did you leave me like that?” your voice is quiet, but it cuts clean through the space between you. you still don’t turn to face him, your figure leaning into the cold stone railing like it might offer some kind of answer he won’t give. the moonlight brushes your skin like a veil, softening the tension in your shoulders, but remmick can still see it—the weight you carry.

“i got quite the scolding after that,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “that was your… one hundred and fifty-sixth second chance.”

the number hangs heavy in the air. remmick shifts behind you, a half-sigh caught in his throat. he wasn’t keeping count—but of course you were. of course you would remember every time he failed to live up to whatever cosmic expectation you held over him.

you don’t sound angry. not really. just… tired. like the years haven’t worn you down, but his choices have.

“glad to know someone’s keeping count,” remmick mutters, easing in beside you. the stone railing presses into his spine as he leans back, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the moonlight.

your eyes drift to his—slow, reluctant—and for a moment, something catches in his chest. if he still breathed, it would’ve hitched, tight and sharp. you weren’t supposed to look like this.

he’d seen your face in every imaginable light: serene, righteous, unreadable. you always wore that same celestial calm like armor. but now… now you just look exhausted. not weary in the way mortals age and sag with time—but a deeper sadness, old and quiet, like the fading echo of a hymn long forgotten.

remmick isn’t sure what unsettles him more: the silence between you, or the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.

he swallows when you don’t respond, the silence stretching longer than he expects. so he tries again, voice lower this time, almost unsure, “if i’m on my one hundred and fifty-seventh chance… why didn’t you give up ages ago?”

you still don’t answer, and that unsettles him more than any sharp retort would have.

he shifts beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a crooked attempt at a smile. “seriously. you should probably reevaluate your standards after that.”

it’s meant to be a joke, light enough to pull you from whatever place your mind’s wandered to—but it lands heavy, as if even he knows it doesn’t quite cover the question he’s really asking.

after a long, deathly silence, you finally lift your head and meet his eyes. there’s no lightness in your expression—just that same quiet, ancient sorrow that’s lingered beneath your skin for centuries.

“do you want to know what i am?” you ask, voice soft but unwavering. “i am sure you have been wondering for a while.”

remmick lets out a dry chuckle, one corner of his mouth curling up. “you’re right about that,” he says, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for the answer there.

“i am an angel of the lord,” you say, finally standing upright, your voice calm, absolute. “i was sent down to watch you—because god knew you would be trouble. that you would walk on both sides of the line between chaos and order.”

remmick stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. his eyes narrow, brows knit in disbelief, but somewhere beneath the confusion, it starts to make a horrible sort of sense.

“an angel?” he mutters, almost to himself. “an actual angel’s been breathing down my neck this whole time?”

he lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “no wonder i couldn’t stand you.”

“you say that in past tense,” you note, stepping toward him, “it could not be that you havee grown fond of me, could it?”

remmick smirks, “it could be.”

“you are angry. i have seen it,” you say quietly, stepping down from the balcony into the courtyard, your voice almost drowned by the hush of the wind through the hedges. you gesture for him to follow, and after a beat, he does—reluctantly, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.

you walk side by side beneath the open sky, your glow washing over the stone path, brighter than the moonlight itself.

“when everything first happened—when the celts came, preaching christianity,” you begin, eyes forward, “it was not meant to be violent. but vikings... they are unpredictable, as you know. they brought fire to what should have been light.”

remmick stays quiet, glancing sidelong at you.

“god wanted someone to keep a close eye on you,” you continue. “he saw your heart. the way you could bend the world. not out of malice—but defiance. if left to your own instincts, you would unravel the threads of his design.”

you look at him then, calm, steady. “so, he sent me.”

remmick stops in his tracks, brow furrowed. “i’m sensing a but,” he mutters, voice dry. “there’s always a but.”

“but,” you say, and the word hangs in the air like judgment, “after a while, he realized you could not be saved. not in the way he intended. salvation was never going to come easy for you.”

remmick stiffens under your gaze, caught in the weight of your eyes—ancient, unwavering. he doesn’t need you to say it. he knows exactly when that shift happened. the moment everything inside him twisted beyond repair.

you step closer, your voice softer now, though no less resolute. “it took me five hundred years to convince him to let me walk the earth again… to stay in your shadow. because even if you could not be redeemed, you still needed watching. without guidance, you would leave only wreckage behind.”

remmick clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away.

“i thought,” you add, quieter, more human somehow, “if i told you the truth this time… maybe you would finally be open. maybe you would stop running long enough to let something reach you.”

the silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid.

“you seriously believe i can change?” remmick asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief.

you don’t nod. instead, you shake your head slowly and keep walking, the gravel beneath your feet crunching softly beneath your light steps.

“no,” you say. “you cannot change what you are. that isn’t the point.”

your voice is calm, measured, not cruel—just certain.

“what drives you is not redemption,” you continue, “it is motive. it has always been motive. family… yes? connection. people who see you. who understand you. who can stand to be near you without fear.”

you glance at him, eyes catching the dim moonlight. “that is what keeps you from falling completely.”

your voice fades as you round the edge of a hedge, soft as mist, leaving remmick behind for a moment in the quiet. he blinks, then stumbles forward, hurrying to catch up, boots crunching against the earth. there’s something in the way you move—slow, graceful, unbothered—that makes him wonder if you see him more clearly than he’s ever let on.

he walks beside you in silence for a beat, eyes narrowed in thought. then, low and uncertain, he asks,

“why’ve i been given another chance?”

the words feel foreign in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him.

“partly because i begged for it,” you admit, “but also because the fates favour you.”

remmick raises a brow, “favour me?”

you nod, slow and deliberate.

“they do,” you say, voice like distant thunder softened by the night. “you have been offered two paths. one carved from selfishness, where every step takes you closer to your own undoing. and the other…”

your eyes lift to the stars, catching their faint shimmer.

“the other is compassion. it asks more of you, but it gives something in return—quiet, contentment, maybe even joy. and one day, if you choose it, you might find yourself watching the sunrise not with dread, but with purpose.”

“so you know how i go out?” remmick asks and you nod, confirming his assumption. he wants to bombard you with questions but you hold your hand up, “we should head back.”

he listens without a protest.

before you part with him at the balcony entrance, you offer him some words of advice, “do not take my words lightly, think about your actions and do not rely on me to tell you what to do.”

remmick watches you as you glide through the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the nobility, your light drawing them in like moths to a flame. it’s a scene so far removed from him—so foreign—that the ache he had felt earlier surges back, tight and gnawing at his insides. it pulls at him, twisting his stomach in ways that leave him feeling hollow, desperate.

he tries to shake it off, but the hunger claws at him, demanding attention. he stumbles away from his place, moving quickly through the high, echoing halls of the palace. the walls, steeped in rich history, stretch endlessly before him, their reflection of his shadow twisted and distorted as he moves through them, a ghost within his own skin.

the overwhelming scent of life all around him hits like a wave, drowning his senses. the guests, oblivious, stand in clusters, their warmth and the steady pulse of their blood flooding his senses. it's all he can focus on now. the desire to feed is primal, insistent. there’s no escaping it, no distraction from it. not when the banquet is brimming with potential prey.

at the end of the hall, a figure catches his eye. the princess, the one he danced with earlier, stands alone for a moment, separated from the throngs. the hunger takes over before he can stop himself, and he jogs toward her, the rhythm of his steps faster than he intends.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. she smiles, a demure expression. she asks him about the cake, her voice light and innocent. he tells her, with a playful tone, how divine it was—how it tasted like nothing he had ever known.

she seems to believe him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, but her guard is down, naive to the danger she’s unwittingly stepped into. with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wants, remmick guides her away from the crowd, leading her into a quiet, dimly lit chamber.

the door closes softly behind them.

he doesn’t waste time. with a practiced movement, he presses her against the cold wall, his fangs sinking deep into her neck. the warmth of her blood fills his senses, and the ache, that terrible, gnawing ache, begins to fade with each drawn breath. he feeds greedily, thirstily, until there’s nothing left to take.

when it’s over, the room is silent, save for the faint echo of his own breath. her body slumps in his arms, lifeless, pale. he lets her fall to the floor, her blood staining the carpet beneath her.

remmick stands over her for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveys the damage. a small flicker of something—guilt, maybe? regret?—crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hunger sated, but the emptiness inside remains. the cycle repeats. it always does.

he’s not going to change.

not long after that night, remmick fled paris—your footsteps trailing his despite his growing resentment. he never lingered anywhere for long, slipping through cities like smoke through fingers. yet, somehow, you always followed. unwillingly bound or stubbornly tethered, you were there.

he dragged you through the winding streets of spain, the frostbitten stretches of russia, the misty peaks of the balkans. he even wandered through the dense, humming cities of asia for a time, lost in a sea of languages and lanternlight.

but no matter how far he roamed, his footsteps always led him back to ireland. something about the damp green hills, the crash of waves against the cliffs, the ache of memory in the stone—his heart answered to it like a song half-remembered. it was the one place that still felt like his. or at least, where the ghosts felt familiar.

you’d washed up on the english channel in 1888, clothes heavy with salt and divinity, and drifted through london’s smoke-stained streets before finally making your way toward ireland. but your journey was delayed—four months, to be exact—by a detour you hadn’t planned.

a pitstop, as remmick called it.

he confessed with a twisted grin that he’d developed a taste for the blood of london’s street women. easy prey, he said. no one missed them, and no one looked too hard when they vanished. they came willingly, and their fear made their blood taste as sweet as it was tangy, he added, and left quietly.

you spoke to him as you always did—with the calm patience of eternity. you reminded him of light, of the path laid by the divine, of mercy, and restraint. you quoted scripture, invoked parables, and offered him alternatives. but he only scoffed, sharp-eyed and smirking.

“nothing beats an easy target,” he muttered once, licking the blood from his fingers as if it were honey.

and that was when you realized: some pitstops aren’t delays. they’re tests.

remmick came home that final night drenched in blood, the crimson soaking through his shirt and shining beneath your glow like oil on water. you didn’t ask where he’d been. you already knew. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flung the bloodied fabric into a dark corner of the hostel you’d both occupied for months. you didn’t meet his eyes. instead, you recited, quiet and firm,

“violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.”

remmick snarled at the sound of scripture, his lip curling as if the words burned him, “i told you to quit spewing that holy bullshit around me, angel.”

he said your title like a curse, like something he’d spit into the dirt.

still, you smiled—an expression that almost reached your eyes, though it never truly did.

“you live in a world built from devastation and oppression,” you said gently, stepping closer, “but the real prison, vampire, is the one in your own mind.”

remmick, in a sudden fury, swept a plate of fine china off the rickety wooden table. it sailed past you and shattered against the headboard of your borrowed bed, shards of porcelain raining down like splinters of his frustration.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind,” he barked, chest heaving. “i’m livin’ off what i know. what i am!”

your frown deepened. the glow around you dimmed, like a flame shying from wind.

“rough night?” you asked softly.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood across his jaw.

“nearly got caught,” he muttered. “some fella interrupted my meal.”

you nodded slowly, walking toward the mess he’d made, stepping carefully over broken china.

“you have built quite the reputation for yourself,” you said. “jack the ripper, they are calling you now.”

remmick scoffed, holding up a hand as if to physically reject the accusation.

“that ain’t me,” he said. “there’s a difference. he—he guts ‘em. rips ‘em open like game. i just puncture the neck, nice and neat. drain ’em sideways, clean as i can. i got some standards.”

your eyes narrowed. “do you?”

“for my kind, i do,” remmick mutters, casting you a sidelong glance as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. the frame creaks beneath his weight.

he feels it again—that phantom pump, the ghost of a heartbeat that only stirs when you’re near. if blood still moved through his veins, it might’ve rushed to his face, warmed his skin. instead, he remains pale, a static figure carved in cold ash and shadow.

you don’t move. you stand there, still as a monument, graceful and ethereal. divine. everything about you—your poise, your silence, even the way the light bends to wrap around you—makes his chest ache with something unfamiliar. something like longing.

your glow brushes his skin like the edge of sunlight, and in that moment, he swears he can feel your heart. or maybe it’s his own, trying to remember how to beat. he shakes his head, breaking the moment like glass.

“i’m leaving tonight,” he says, voice flat. final.

you just watch him—silent, as always—as he picks up his old acoustic guitar. it fits in his hands like it was always meant to be there, an extension of him. he’s always had a gift for music. even in the earliest years, before he knew what he was, he’d whistle back at the birds when they sang at sunrise, tap rhythms into the bones of tables, the sides of carriages, the hollow of his own chest. it was instinct. but once he found the guitar, it all came together.

remmick doesn’t look at you as he starts to play, but you can see his shoulders ease. his fingers move fluidly over the strings, coaxing out a tune that feels older than this life. you pull out a chair and sit, the wood creaking softly beneath you. no words pass between you. for once, there’s no biting sarcasm or divine reprimands. just the melody, soft and unhurried.

he plays like it’s the only honest language he’s fluent in. and you listen, like it’s the only time you truly hear him. it's brief, but in that moment, there’s peace.

remmick knows it, you know it. you’ll follow him wherever he goes.

remmick stayed in ireland for three decades, tucked away in green hills and rain-soaked stone villages. of course, you were there—always there. disappearing for weeks, months even, only to reappear when he least expected it, glowing like a bad omen he couldn’t shake.

then came 1921. something called to him—a sound, delicate and haunting. a woman playing an instrument so beautiful it made his dead heart ache. he boarded a ship of irish immigrants bound for boston, chasing the echo of her melody. he claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots, to find the family he’d left behind. the truth was more selfish.

the voyage was a disaster.

desperate to reclaim what he thought he’d lost—music, love, belonging—remmick tried to turn them all. everyone on board: children, parents, the elderly. but vampirism is no gift, and none of them survived the transformation. blood ran like wine below deck, and the woman with the gifted hands? lost to the chaos. he never even learned her name.

when the ship docked three days later, reeking of death and silence, he slipped off unnoticed. another new instrument slung over his shoulder like a trophy. the only thing he managed to save.

but you? you were gone.

no glow in the shadows.

no soft footsteps trailing behind him.

for once, he was truly alone.

the last time he saw you—really saw you—was at a juke joint deep in the mississippi delta, about twenty years later.

he’d been lingering just outside the shack, half-shrouded in trees and night, the thrum of blues rolling out of the open door like the sweet aroma of pie out a window. his mouth was wet, glistening—thick ropes of blood and spit clung to his lips, soaked into the collar of his shirt, cooling on his skin.

he was a mess. a predator fresh from the hunt.

but even in that haze, he felt it. that pull. that warmth.

you.

your light slipped through the trees before you did, soft and steady, brighter than the porch lamps and louder than the music.

he didn’t need to feel warmth anymore to know it was you.

he’d always know.

"i should be more surprised that you’re here," remmick groaned, not bothering to turn around. he didn’t need to see your face to know what expression you wore—he could picture it perfectly: the sharp furrow of your brow, the disappointment etched into every line.

he leaned against a tree, dragging a bloodied sleeve across his mouth.

"why now?" he muttered. "gonna try and talk me down again? throw a bible verse at me like it’s some kind of holy water? think i’m gonna suddenly grow a conscience 'cause you showed up glowing?"

his voice was tired, bitter.

"you always show up when i’m at my worst. like clockwork."

“you are straying from your righteous path,” you say, your face unreadable but your voice heavy with sorrow. “are you sure you want to do this?”

remmick waves a dismissive hand, “i’m sure.”

you shake your head slowly. “you did not heed my warning.”

he arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you warn me all the time. how’m i s’pposed to know which one?”

he knows exactly which warning you mean. but remmick aims not just for the best—he strives for something beyond that. his selfish path feels carved into stone, unchangeable. you’ve spoken of another way, a second path meant to offer hope. but he never entertained that hope. not once.

“i know what you think i do not know,” you begin, your voice steady, eyes fixed on the back of his head, “there is more for you, if only you listen to my age-old warning.”

remmick clicks his tongue in frustration, something sharp and bitter rising in his chest.

you continue, voice gentle but firm,

“life is beautiful, remmick—whether you see it or not. and i know you are unable to, not anymore. you have grown bitter, i have watched it happen, piece by piece. but it does not have to stay that way.”

your eyes focus on his form, steady and unwavering.

“you still have time. you can make peace with them, with yourself. you can reclaim what you have lost. not everything is beyond reach.”

you pause, searching for something in his body language—anything.

“do not do this. do not spill the blood of good people just because you have forgotten what goodness looks like.”

your calmness feels like mockery. he snaps—like a wire pulled too tight—spinning around so fast it startles you.

“you can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you have to say,” he growls, eyes burning, “not after you vanished for twenty damn years just because you finally saw what i was capable of! how are you supposed to be my guardian angel when you’re so unbelievably shit at your job?”

you think your heart breaks—and remmick thinks he hears it. not a dramatic crack, but something quieter, crueler. like dry glass splintering under pressure.

his eyes flash a deep, dangerous red. for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it—really considering tearing into something holy.

he’d been cruel before, callous beyond belief. but something about tonight lands differently.

you don’t shout, you don’t plead, you don’t fall apart.

instead, just a few tears slide down your cheeks, slow and soundless.

and that’s what gets him.

he never thought he’d see the day an angel would cry. from what he knew, you were carved from calm, built to endure without cracking.

but now, standing under the weak light of a crooked moon, he sees it. sees you.

not a symbol, not a mission. just someone deeply, utterly tired.

you don’t let him linger in your sorrow. as soon as you feel the tears, you turn away—too proud to let him see what he’s done. too divine to shatter completely in front of him.

your wings unfurl—slow, deliberate, and unlike anything he’s ever seen. vast and radiant, feathers pure as untouched snow, glowing faintly with a divinity that makes the dark around him feel smaller, weaker. they catch the breeze like sails on a departing ship.

remmick freezes. not because he’s scared, but because he understands.

this is it.

you’re leaving.

and this time, you won’t come back.

a part of him, the part still clinging to something human, wants to call out. wants to say don’t.

but he doesn’t.

he stays silent, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he watches with empty eyes.

you offer him one last verse—your final tether, a hope you quietly beg he'll remember.

“judge not, that ye be not judged. for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

your voice echoes long after your wings do.

with a single, mighty flap, the earth stirs beneath you. dust kicks up, grass bends, and then—

you’re gone.

all that remains is the soft imprint of your departure, a shallow crater in the earth where heaven once touched down.

his heart no longer beats in faux rhythm.

and when the sun finally rises, catching him where the shadows fail, remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t snarl or thrash or claw at the light like some cornered beast. he doesn’t beg, doesn’t run.

he just stares.

the light crawls across his skin, golden and relentless, and for the first time in one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five years, he lets it. he watches the sunrise not with fear or hatred, but with something else—something closer to awe.

his inhuman eyes brim with tears, not from pain, but from peace.

he knows you’re near. he can feel it. after all this time, he can still sense the pull of your presence like gravity. maybe you’re watching the same sunrise from some rooftop or ruin, silently praying for what’s left of him.

and maybe—just maybe—he’s praying too.

he imagines his ancestors waiting for him, the ones he lost to time and blood and tragedy, their arms open and music playing. but more than anything, he hopes you're there too.

and as the fire takes him, a slow, searing bloom that begins at his chest and spreads outward like a star going nova, he closes his eyes.

not in fear.

but in surrender.

in peace.

and he smiles.

you stand over the scorch-marked earth where remmick had burned. there’s no trace left of him—no body, no ash, just the faint smell of smoke clinging to the morning air and a body of water that moved indifferently as if remmick was never there.

you do not cry.

you knew this ending. had seen it coming centuries ago.

but still, your chest aches in a way that feels foreign. not divine. not righteous. just… human.

quietly, you kneel by the edge of a shallow stream, its waters catching the soft gold of the rising sun. your hand, steady and sacred, slips beneath the surface. it doesn’t take long. the chain finds you, just like he always did.

you pull it from the water—his gold chain, warm despite the cold stream, still whole.

your fingers trace its pattern, each link familiar, worn from centuries of wear.

you smile. not wide. not bright. but soft. pained. knowing.

“goodbye, old friend,” you whisper.

the wind stirs the trees behind you, and the morning continues.

you would not see his soul in the holy place.

not because he was born into darkness—he wasn’t. not because he was forced to live as he did—though that part was true.

but because remmick’s choices stretched far beyond instinct, beyond what was natural. he had time. he had chances. and every time, he chose wrong. knowingly, willfully.

and heaven does not make room for those who choose to burn.

[yelhsaa-a]

Caleb doesn't just like being stronger than you—he relishes it. It’s in the way his fingers curl around your wrist, how he yanks you effortlessly into place like you’re weightless, like you're his to move however he wants. There’s no hesitation, no gentleness—just raw force wrapped in a man who knows exactly how powerful he is and isn't afraid to show it.

He loves when you squirm, when you fight back with that stubborn little spark—because it only makes it sweeter when he overpowers you anyway. Your resistance is laughable, cute. He shoves you against the wall, his hand flat on your spine, keeping you bent as he grinds against your ass like he owns it. “You done whining yet?” he grits out, tone sharp, eyes dark.

And when he finally fucks into you, it’s brutal—hips slamming into the backs of your thighs, one hand tangled in your hair while the other squeezes your throat from behind, not enough to cut off breath, but enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“Feel that?” he growls in your ear, panting hard. “That’s me rearranging your guts.” He thrusts harder, rougher. “You like being tossed around, don’t you? Like when I manhandle you—stretch this tight little cunt until you can't think straight.”

You can’t even speak, just moan—mind blank, body shaking, clinging to the last shred of composure while he ruins you from the inside out. He chuckles, deep and breathless. “Fucking ruined. And I’m not even close to done with you yet.”

[leclerc-hs]

tides of us pt. 2 - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader summary: in which you and lando are stuck in a swell of unknown territory and feelings. warnings: language, NOT PROOFREAD, smut under the cut!!!!, kinda toxic but really they just don't know how to handle emotions. ANGST word count: 12.1k... author's note: SURPRISE!! she's a long one. PLEASE let me know what you think as I love to hear from you all. hearing your thoughts is what keeps me going!!

part 1

“Oh my fucking god…Don’t stop.”

You couldn’t remember the last time a one-night stand had felt this intense…or more accurately, the last time a fleeting, ‘one-off’ encounter had inexplicably morphed into something far more complex, something that seemed to repeat itself, each meeting even more consuming than the last.

A recurring one-night stand, if you even dared to label it that.

Since that morning on the yacht, weeks ago, everything had shifted. Kind of. You still fought like fucking hell. With the new addition of an unrelenting cycle of burning, sensual fucking. Each time more addictive than the last. You couldn’t stop, no matter how often you told yourself you hated each other.

His fingers would graze your skin like flames licking at dry wood, igniting a trail of heat that spread through every godforsaken inch of you.

It made no sense. None of it did. It was supposed to be nothing. Just a one-time thing. In fact, it wasn’t supposed to be anything at all.

You hated each other. You should still hate each other. 

Yet, here you are. With your face pressed hard against the cold, smooth surface of the wooden dresser, and his arm a relentless, possessive presence against the small of your back, locking you in place. The weight of his touch had you pinned, forcing your eyes to meet the reflection of the two of you in the mirror, as he  buries his cock so deep in you that he manages to hit that spot in your tummy just right.

Lando’s usual blue-green eyes, so often bright and full of life, were now a dark, smoldering shade that seemed almost unnatural, like a storm gathering on the horizon. 

They no longer sparkled with mischief but instead had deepened into pools of liquid steel, so intense that they appeared to consume the very light around them. His heavy-lidded gaze pierced through the reflection, burning you with an unsettling heat, as though he could see straight through your skin.

The smirk curling at the edges of his lips was effortlessly wicked, a sly, knowing expression that held a thousand secrets. It was enough to make your breath hitch and your eyes narrow, instinctively wanting to do nothing but smack that fucking smirk right off of his beautiful face. Wait what?

Lando, like you, is wrecked. A complete mess of desire and restraint as he feels his body on the verge of trembling with each stroke of his cock into your tight cunt. His body was aching with an intensity he hadn’t expected, a hunger he couldn’t suppress, no matter how hard he tried.

“M’fucking god,” You outright moan.

Lando groans, dragging his fingers upwards to the back of your neck, digging into the skin of it hard enough to bruise. His cock throbs inside of you, and fuck…he’s obsessed. 

“Yeah?” His teeth graze his bottom lip as he angles his hips to somehow hit you deeper, and you swear you might just come on the spot.

“I’m gonna-“

The sudden shift in motion takes you by surprise, a fleeting moment where you feel weightless, suspended between his raw strength and the gravity of the world around you. His presence is consuming, an irresistible force as he lifts your head from the dresser, his touch firm and sure. Your back presses against the solid warmth of his chest, the heat of his body radiating through you, grounding you in his unyielding embrace. His grip tightens, pulling you even closer, and before you can fully process it, you’re falling, swept toward the bed that had once seemed so distant.

The soft sheets welcome you, cushioning your fall, but his hold remains steadfast, his arms wrapped around you with an unrelenting force as he hovers. There’s no escape, only the sensation of being claimed.

He glides the head of his cock between your slick folds, teasing you, and you swear you might punch him if he doesn’t do something soon.

“Lando, if you don’t-“

“If I don’t what?” He interrupts, his voice a smooth, teasing drawl. His lips curl into a smirk, the flicker of mischief in his eyes dark and mocking, as if daring you to finish your thought. The weight of his gaze lingers, intense and unreadable, leaving you caught between the sharp edge of his challenge and the magnetic pull of his presence. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin, as if savoring the moment, waiting for you to make your move. “Beg.”

The frustration in your eyes is undeniable, a flickering fire that burns with defiance. Lando notices it instantly, the way it sharpens your features and tightens your jaw. And despite the teasing edge in his tone, despite the challenge he laid out before you, something stirs in him.

He feels a familiar ache deep within him, a pull that tightens his chest in a way he hadn’t expected. It’s not just the defiance in your eyes, but the way your flushed cheeks betray the heat of the moment, the wild strands of your messy hair that fall across your face, adding to your raw, untamed beauty.

For a split second, the teasing smirk fades from his lips, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. His eyes linger on you.

“You’re such an ass,” You groan, grinding your hips in hopes the friction of his cock against your folds would be enough. But it isn’t.

The smirk on Lando’s lips is back almost instantly.

“Just beg, baby.” Lando’s voice rumbles, low and commanding, the words slipping from his lips with an effortless authority. He trails one hand to your breast, his thumb rubbing smooth circles around your nipple in the meantime.

The nickname hits you like a wave. Your stomach flutters almost instantly, a flutter of warmth spreading through you, as if his voice alone has the power to unsettle every nerve.

“Please,” Your voice is low, sounds so small.

“What?” Lando pinches your nipple. “Could you repeat that? My hearing’s quite shit.”

“Lan, are you fuckin-“

You don’t get to finish your sentence as Lando stuffs his cock back into you with a harsh slam of his hips.

“No. I’m not fucking kidding.” He grunts into your ear, his voice dropping an octave. “Say my name again.”

It’s not until he lifts your hips a fraction of an inch off the bed, his cock hitting that spot just right all over again, that had you nearly shouting.

“Lan, I’m gonna-“ Your voice falters, trembling with the weight of him. Your fingers dig deep into the hard muscles of his biceps, nails trailing harshly against his skin, leaving faint red marks in their wake. The sensation is sharp, almost painful, but he doesn’t flinch. In fact, he smiles.

His breath quickens, but there’s no sign of retreat. If anything, he leans into it, relishing the pressure, the intensity. He doesn’t care if it hurts; the marks you leave are a reminder. A brand, of sorts. And in these moments, he finds comfort in the sting.

“Yeah, c’mon.” He urges, his voice a low, rough growl that sends a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm, brushing against the curve of your neck, stirring the hairs there to life. You can feel the heat of him close, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The proximity, the tension, it’s intoxicating.

He know’s exactly what he’s doing. Pushing, coaxing, his presence a magnetic pull that constantly threatens to unravel you.

He knew, without a doubt, that the moment his lips met yours, it would be the tipping point— the one thing that always sent you spiraling, completely undone. It was a delicate, powerful thing.

But this time, as he barely brushed his lips against yours, lingering just long enough to make you ache for more, and then pulled away, he caught it. The flicker of pain in your eyes. It was subtle, but undeniable. 

“You like it when I fuck you like this?” Lando groans as your walls tighten around him from his words. “Yeah?”

You nod, your pupils dilated and cheeks flushed red.

“You just wanna come all over m’cock, hm?”

The words claw at your throat, the struggle of needing to come becoming almost too powerful. 

“Please.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw, right by your ear, and it has you groaning out. “You’re so fuckin’ hot when you get like this.”

“Please, please, please.” You begin repeating, not caring how pathetic you sound. “Need t’come.”

“So needy and pliable.” He groans hotly into your ear. “My own personal fuck toy, yeah.” He begins to laugh, and it has goosebumps rising on your skin almost instantly.

“Shut up and make me come.” You’re so close. Right at the tipping point.

He drags his fingers up your neck, curling around your chin with a grip just firm enough to assert his dominance. His touch glides along your jaw, and he presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, before gently slipping it into your mouth.

“This pretty, filthy fucking mouth…” he groans, his voice hushed with desire as he pushes down against your tongue, feeling you suck in response.

He wastes no time, pulling his finger from your mouth, dragging it down and pressing roughly against your clit. Without warning, his mouth crashes against yours, hot and demanding. His tongue forces its way inside, urgent and unrelenting. The kiss is frantic, messy, as if he can’t get enough, the raw need palpable in every movement.

His cock throbs inside of you and he swears he never wants this to stop. Wants you wrapped around his cock with every waking second for the rest of his life.

The white hot-sticky pleasure consumes you, as your groan vibrates right against his tongue. The sound you make is guttural, as you arch into him as much as you can in this position with your legs twisted so tightly around his hips as he continues to fuck you through it.The mixture of his cock fucking into you, and the pad of his thumb circling right against your clit had you on sensory fucking overload.

No matter how much you squealed and groaned against his tongue, he didn’t let up. Didn’t stop. He swallowed every moan, every squeal, every push of your tongue as it lapped against his. 

His other hand loops into your hair, holding it tightly as you continue to arch off the bed, keeping your head against the mattress until he has to pull out, frantically pulling his tongue from your mouth with a loud ‘pop’ and fisting his cock until hot spurts of his white come cover your belly. The sight of you covered in him had his head falling back with a loud groan.

His skin is flushed red, down his neck to his collarbone. And you can’t help but admire hot fucking hot he looks with his lips parted open and eyes squeezed shut. There’s so much of it, oozing and pooling over your skin that you feel your cunt clench and ache at the sight.

He collapses on top of you, no care in the world as his come smears against his own skin in between the both of you. He pulls you in for one last kiss, his tongue hot against yours, pushing against yours in slow, languid motions before pulling off. His hands trail your face, pushing your hair back as you give him a soft sleep smile that makes his heart clench.

And he smiles right back.

-

“Y’know, I probably could’ve done that faster if you let me help.”

Lando leans over your shoulder, peering at what you’re doing, his breath warm against the side of your neck. The heat of him is impossible to ignore. So close that you can feel the faint press of his chest against your back.

Without missing a beat, you keep chopping, casting him a sideways glance. “You? With a knife? Yeah, I’ll pass.”

Lando’s eyes widen in mock offense, his lips curling into a smirk. Before you can react, his hands settle lightly on your hips, fingers grazing just enough to send a shiver rippling through you. The touch is effortless, familiar. Like he belongs there.

“I can cook, y’know.” He murmurs, leaning in closer, his voice dipping just enough to make your pulse stutter.

His chest brushes against your back, and despite yourself, you falter for half a second, the rhythm of your chopping momentarily thrown off. You force yourself to focus, but it’s getting harder when every slight movement of his sends a spark of warmth through you.

“Oh, yeah?” You challenge, a teasing edge to your voice. “And when was the last time you actually cooked something?”

Lando’s fingers flex at your waist, his grip tightening just slightly in a silent dare. When you glance up, you catch the glint in his eyes. Mischievous, knowing, and suddenly the kitchen feels much, much smaller.

“That pasta the other night,” he quips, far too quick with his answer.

A laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. “I said cooked, Lando. Not burned.”

He gasps, scandalized, but the grin tugging his lips gives him away. 

“Wow. No faith in me whatsoever.”

You smirk, setting the knife down and finally turn in his hold. His hands don’t leave your hips. In fact, if anything, they tighten just slightly, as if anchoring you in place. His face is close, impossibly so, and the teasing glint in his eyes is shadowed by something softer, something warmer.

“I have faith,” you admit, tilting your head “Just…not in your cooking.”

His lips part in mock outrage, but you catch the way his gaze flickers, tracing the curve of your mouth before meeting your eyes again. “Alright, now you’re just rude.” He murmurs, voice lower than before.

You roll your eyes, but the way your breath catches betrays you. “It’s honesty.”

Lando hums, fingers soothing slow, absentminded circles over your hips. “Mmm. I think you just like making fun of me.”

You grin. “That’s a given.”

His fingers twitch, his grip shifting just enough to pull you the slightest bit closer. Your hands instinctively lift, catching at the front of his hoodie, and his smirk deepens like he just won some kind of silent challenge.

“Y’know,” he muses, voice ripping into something dangerous, “if you don’t trust me in the kitchen, I could always just…” He leans in, lips barely brushing your jaw, slipping his hands up your skirt as he whispers, “…stay right here. Supervise.”

The warmth of his breath sends a shiver racing down your spine as a small moan slips past your lips when his fingers rub gently against your covered core. And you can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “For safety reasons.”

You swallow hard, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “For safety reasons,” you echo, pretending to consider it as his fingers push past the thin fabric, finding your clit with ease where he rubs gentle tiny circles that has you careening forward into his hold.

“Always fuckin’ soaked.” He groans, pushing two fingers into you and scissoring them. 

Lando grins, tilting his head as you fumble slightly from the pleasure. “Can’t have you getting distracted, can we?”

Safe to say, you were very distracted. And dinner was not cooked, but burned.

-

It was one of those rare, peaceful weekday afternoons where Lando was home between races, sunlight streaming through the windows of the grocery store, the air cool and crisp with the faint hum of background music. You hadn’t planned on going shopping with Lando, but somehow, here you were, pushing a half-filled cart together down the aisles.

Lando was usually a whirlwind of energy, but today, he was relaxed, strolling beside you with a lazy grin as you both debated over which brand of cereal was the best.

“No way,” you said, holding up the box of Honey Nut Cheerios. “This one is clearly superior. It’s simple, timeless.”

Lando shot you a look, his eyebrow arching with playful disbelief. “Timeless? It’s just Cheerios.” He grabbed another box from the shelf, one that was all brightly colored with pictures of fruit and some kind of sugar dusting. “This is the one to go for.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You just wait,” he reaches to grab another item of the shelf. “You’re gonna try it and you’ll be converted. I’ll even let you have the first bowl.”

“Oh, really? Your Highness is willing to share his precious cereal?” You say sarcastically, but the playful tone gave it away—you were just as amused as he was.

“Of course,” Lando replied, completely deadpan.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m honestly kind of impressed by your cart,” Lando says, peering into the basket with a playful smirk. “You’ve got, like, actual food in there. What happened to the usual ‘chocolate and chips for every meal’ routine?”

You made a face, swatting him lightly with a bag of coffee beans you’d picked up. “Excuse me, I am a grown up. I have vegetables in there.”

“Sure, sure. I’m here for the snacks. You know, real food.”

You rolled your eyes but the smile never left your face. “Yeah, whatever.”

-

The restaurant was alive with energy, a steady hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. Your group had been seated at a long table near the windows, overlooking the city skyline, the kind of view that made for a perfect, relaxed evening.

Except for the fact that Max and Pietra had made it their mission to set you up with someone tonight.

You should have seen it coming. The way Pietra had been watching you all evening, the knowing glances exchanged, the hushed whispers right before dinner was served. Now, as Pietra leaned in across the table, her eyes twinkling with mischief, you braced yourself for whatever was coming.

“Okay, hear me out,” she began, swirling her wine glass between her fingers. “Alex—tall, handsome, and completely into you. You should at least talk to him.”

You let out a slow breath, pushing your fork against the edge of your plate. “I’m good, Piet.”

Max, ever the instigator, smirked as he cut into his steak. “C’mon, he’s a great guy. And single.”

Across from you, Lando let out a soft scoff, barely audible over the clinking of plates and low chatter. You glanced up at him, catching the quick flicker of irritation in his expression before he masked it with practiced indifference, taking a slow sip of his drink.

It was dangerous, this game you were playing, pretending there was nothing between you when, in reality, there was everything.

Because no one knew.

No one knew how hard Lando kissed you breathless against his front door, hands gripping you with bruising intensity. No one knew that less than twenty four hours ago, his mouth had been on your skin, his voice rough and desperate as her murmured your name. No one knew that after weeks of sneaking around, you still hadn’t figured out how to stop yourself from wanting him.

And Lando was pretending right along with you.

But right now, as he sat there, his fingers drumming against the base of his wine glass, jaw set a little too tightly, you could tell it was wearing thin.

“Oh, and you know who else would be perfect for you?” Pietra continued, completely unaware. “Nick. He was asking about you the other day.”

Lando’s grip on his glass tightened slightly. “Right,” he muttered, his voice neutral but edged with something sharp. “Because that’s exactly what she needs.”

You shot him a quick look, wondering why he was behaving this way. You weren’t dating.

This wasn’t supposed to be anything more than what it was—just late nights, whispered moans, the heat of his body pressing into yours when the rest of the world wasn’t looking. It wasn’t supposed to spill over into moments like this, where his voice took on an edge at the mere mention of someone else being interested in you.

But here he was, jaw tight, shoulders tense, barely touching his food as Pietra and Max continued.

“She needs someone good for her. Someone who actually wants to be with her.” Pietra chimed in, not picking up on the energy of the table.

You felt your stomach tighten.

Lando huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly as he swirled the wine in his glass. His lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable.

“Maybe she doesn’t want that,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was something unspoken there, something only you could decipher.

Your throat went dry.

“Well, maybe she should.” Max cut in, oblivious to the silent storm brewing across the table. “I hate what he did to you. I don’t want to see you closed off.” Max looks at you with a soft smile, sincerely.

Pietra nodded in agreement. “Exactly! So, Alex or Nick? your pick. Both are great options.”

Lando exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back in his chair as if distancing himself from the conversation entirely. His hand ran along his jaw, irritation flickering across his face before he smoothed it over with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, voice light but forced. “She should definitely go for it.”

You hated the way that sentence made you feel.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have felt like a challenge, like a dare, like a knife pressed just below the surface of your skin. It shouldn’t have sent that ugly twist of frustration curling deep in your stomach, because this is exactly what you wanted…right?

Lando meant nothing.

That was what you had been telling yourself for weeks. That was what you reminded yourself every time you left his bed before the sun came up, every time you pulled your clothes back on in the dark while he watched you from half-lidded eyes. Every time you walked past him the next morning and pretended like your body didn’t still remember the way his hands had pressed into your skin.

So you swallowed, forcing a smile, forcing yourself to meet his gaze with something sharp and detached, as if this didn’t affect you at all. As if his words hadn’t just buried themselves under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t dig out.

You lifted your glass, took a slow sip, and shrugged.

“Maybe I will.”

The words left your lips smoothly, but they tasted bitter. You weren’t sure why you said it—maybe to push him, to see if he would finally break that carefully crafted mask he always wore. Maybe you wanted to see him react the way you always did when he threw careless words in your direction, pretending this was nothing, pretending you were nothing.

Or maybe you just wanted to hurt him the way he was hurting you.

“Good for you, then,” he murmured, his voice light but laced with something sharp. “Hope he can keep up.”

It was the kind of sentence that said so little, and yet everything. 

Before you could even muster a retort, Pietra clapped her hands together, full of chaotic energy and romantic optimism.

“Oh! A triple date!” She beamed, eyes darting with excitement. “Max and I, you and Nick, Lando and..well, we’ll find someone for him.”

You blinked.

The shift in your stomach was instant and brutal, like someone had reached inside and twisted. A slow, churning weight settled deep in your gut, spreading tendrils of cold through your limbs. Your grip on your glass tightened, fingers suddenly clammy against the delicate stem.

No way.

Your brain was scrambling to keep up, but your body had already gone tense, like it was bracing for impact.

Then Lando spoke.

His voice was smooth, measure. Calm. But there was a tautness underneath, something too rehearsed, too clean.

“I already have someone in mind.”

The words dropped like stone in the center of the table, sinking into the middle of everything and pulling it down.

Pietra, sitting across from you, blinked. You watched her process the words like they hadn’t quite made sense at first. Her eyes brightened with interest as she leaned forward.

“Oh?” She said, her voice lifting with genuine curiosity, her wine glass cradled between both hands.

You barely registered her.

You could feel Lando’s gaze before you even looked. Heavy. Steady. Deliberate. It was the kind of look you felt on your skin before you even met it with your own.

He wasn’t lying. Not exactly. But he wasn’t telling the whole truth either. He was saying it without saying it.

Pietra was still smiling. “You didn’t tell us you were seeing someone!” She said, laughing lightly. “Who is she?”

Max raised his brows beside you, clearly intrigued. “Since when?”

Lando glanced back to them slowly, taking his time, like he was weighing each word like it might explode if he said too much. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, but his eyes. God, his eyes were sharp. Watching. Waiting. Calculated.

“It’s…new,” he says, his voice light. Too light. The kind of casual that didn’t sound casual at all. “We’ve been keeping it quiet.”

Quiet.

New.

Not real.

Your throat tightened.

You dropped your gaze, locking it on the soft white tablecloth like it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment. There was a tiny crease in the fabric, a barely-there fold near your fork, and you fixated on it, traced it with your eyes, anything to avoid looking up. Anything to avoid him.

Because if you did—if you met his gaze— you knew you’d say something you didn’t mean. Or worse: something you did.

Quiet.

Like the stolen moments at his flat.

Like the way he’d kiss you and pull you in when no one else was looking.

Like the way he’d pull you close and whisper things into your ear that he never said in daylight.

New.

Like he hadn’t already carved himself into you.

Like this hadn’t been happening for weeks. 

Like he hadn’t looked at you last night like you were something exquisite.

Not real.

It was supposed to be pretend. Supposed to be physical. Easy.

But you knew the truth. And so did he.

“Anyone we know?” Pietra asks brightly, laughing a little as she sips her wine, unaware of the way your entire world was caving in, breath by breath.

Lando didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch.

Thick. Heavy. Measured.

You didn’t need to look to feel him watching you again. It prickled down your spine. Crawled under your skin. Sat between your ribs like heat.

“Maybe,” he says, voice dropping a notch lower. Smooth. Controlled. Dangerous. “Maybe not.”

A faint shrug followed. The ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth…just enough to make it hurt. And then, he looked away.

The conversation moved on, but you didn’t.

You didn’t remember dessert. You didn’t taste the wine. The jokes around you blurred, distant and hollow, like they were happening underwater.

-

He didn’t know when it stopped being casual. Only that it had.

The second you walked into the restaurant—dressed in that effortlessly unfair way, that dressing hugging you in all the places his hand did. Lando knew he was completely, utterly fucked.

He watched you walk in beside Nick, your laugh soft, your eyes flicking up toward the warm lighting overhead as you took in the space. You looked calm. Gorgeous. Untouchable.

You didn’t even glance at him.

That was the first hit.

You took your seat at the far side of the table, next to Pietra, and right across from him. And beside you…Nick, all easy smiles and buttoned up charm. The guy had clearly tried tonight. Collared shirt. Fresh shave. Perfect posture.

Lando didn’t care.

What he cared about was how close Nick was sitting to you. How he leaned in when he talked to you, how he looked at you like he thought he had a chance. Like he deserved one.

And Lando couldn’t say anything.

Because next to him sat Sofia. Sweet. Funny. Stunning. The kind of girl everyone expected someone like him to be with. She laughed too loud at things he didn’t find funny and touched his arm too often like she was already claiming him.

He smiled at all the right moments. Said all the right things. Played the part.

But the entire time, his attention kept drifting back to you.

You, sipping your wine slowly.

You, pretending you didn’t feel his eyes burning holes into you across the table.

You, biting your lip to hide a smirk when Nick whispered something in your ear.

He fucking hated it.

He hated how he could still feel the weight of your legs around his waist from the week before.

Hated that his mouth still ached with the memory of your name breaking in his throat.

Hated that while everyone else saw this dinner as casual, he was sitting there fighting not to drag you out of the restaurant just to remind you that he was still the one who knew your body better than anyone else ever would.

At one point, Nick reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Lando’s jaw clenched. Hard.

He reached for his wine, a little too quickly, the glass nearly tipping as he took a long, slow sip. Sofia turned toward him, asking about the last race. He answered, but his voice sounded distant even to himself. His eyes had drifted again.

Right back to you.

Because you were glowing in the candlelight.

That was the worst part.

The soft, amber glow danced across your skin, catching the high points of your cheekbones, curling like warmth around your collarbone, and flickering in the shine of your eyes. You looked soft. Beautiful. Untouchable.

Radiant.

Like nothing was wrong. Like none of this was hard for you.

Like you weren’t unraveling from the inside the way he was.

You laughed at something Nick said, threw your head back, eyes crinkling, your fingertips brushed against Nick’s hand, and Lando swore he felt it in his fucking chest.

A clean hit. Center mass.

It wasn’t even about Nick. Not really. It was about you. About the way you smiled like someone hadn’t just lit a fire under the table. About the way you looked at Nick with polite interest instead of the burning heat Lando had seen in your eyes a hundred times when you looked at him.

He didn’t want to do this anymore.

He didn’t want to sit there with Sofia’s fingers trailing slowly up his thigh like she thought she had any idea what he needed. Like she hadn’t been talking for ten straight minutes while his pulse thudded beneath her touch, not from desire but from restraint.

He didn’t want to smile and nod while she laughed at stories he barely remembered telling, all the while watching you lean in closer to another man.

He didn’t want to play pretend anymore.

Not when his hands still ached with the memory of your body.

Not when your voice was still stuck in his head from the other night, low and wrecked and saying his name like it meant something.

Because it had meant something.

He didn’t know when it stopped being casual. Only that it had.

Somewhere between the first kiss and the first time you said just sex.

Somewhere between the time you stole his hoodies and didn’t give them back and the time he kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep.

Somewhere between all the things he wasn’t supposed to feel— but did.

And now, watching you lean into Nick’s shoulder, your lips parted like you were about to say something else clever and teasing and not for him.

He felt sick. 

Angry.

A quiet, simmering kind of rage that sat just beneath the surface, coiled tight in his chest like a spring ready to snap. Not the kind of anger that you yell with. The kind that burns through your bone.

Because Nick was sitting there like he belonged next to you. Like he deserved your attention, your laughter, the soft little smile you gave him when he held the chair our for you. Nick, who didn’t know the first fucking thing about you. Who hadn’t memorized the exact sound your breath made when you were trying not to moan, or the way your fingertips trembled when you let your guard down. 

And you were letting it happen.

Worse—you were playing along.

Lando wanted to leave. Wanted to drag you with him.

Wanted to take you outside, press you against the car, and say everything he’d been choking on…

Don’t look at him like that

You’re mine.

I hate this.

But he didn’t.

Because it was casual. Right?

-

This wasn’t silence. This was screaming without sound.

The ride back to Lando’s felt endless. A tension wound so tight it made the air between you brittle. The kind of silence that made your skin itch. That pressed against your chest and made it hard to breathe.

Lando hadn’t even given you a choice.

“I’ll take you home,” he’d said, sharp and possessive and final.

And you didn’t argue. Because technically, he was right. You were staying with him.

Your things were still scattered in his guest room, your toothbrush still sat next to his like none of this was falling apart.

Lando didn’t look at you once during the drive. His fingers gripped the wheel so tightly you could see the tendons flexing beneath his skin, his jaw clenched like he was holding his entire body together by force.

The lights of the city washed over him in streaks…cool and gold and flickering, softening the hard line of his profile.

You stared out the window, eyes burning, refusing to let anything fall. Not with him next to you, pretending like he hadn’t gutted you.

You hated him.

You hated the way he looked you across the dinner table like he owned you.

You hated how he let Sofia touch his arm, laugh at his jokes, smile like she had any idea what it felt like to really be looked at by him.

You hated that he sat beside someone else and still had the audacity to act like you were the one who crossed a line.

And worst of all, you hated that it worked.

That his gaze still made your stomach twist.

That your hands still ached with the need to reach for him.

That even now, even after this, a part of you still wanted him.

By the time the car slid into the garage, your blood felt like fire in your veins.

You stepped out before he could say anything, storming past him and into the apartment, heels sharp on tile. The door slammed behind you.

You didn’t even make it halfway down the hall before his voice followed you—low, cold, frayed at the edges.

“You really couldn’t wait to laugh at everything he said, huh?”

You stopped. Slowly turned.

Your voice came out too calm. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He stood there in the entryway, eyes dark, fists clenched at his sides. “Pretend it didn’t drive me insane?”

You scoffed. “You don’t get to do that, Lando. Not when you had her clinging to you all night. Not when you chose to bring her and do this.”

“She means nothing.”

“Then why bring her?”

“Why bring him?”

You stared at each other, chest heaving, the pain stretching taut between you like wire.

He steps forward, slow but dangerous, like something barely caged. “I brought her because I couldn’t stand the thought of being there and watching you with someone else.” His voice cracks, raw and ragged. “Because I thought maybe if I saw it for myself, I’d feel nothing.”

You swallowed hard. “And?”

His eyes locked with yours. “I felt everything.”

That was all it took.

You were on him in a second, fingers tangled in his shirt, mouths crashing like a car wreck. It wasn’t a kiss—it was a breaking point. Desperate. Vicious. Full of fury and need and heartbreak.

He backed you into the wall with a grunt, your hands fumbling at his buttons, his teeth dragging along your jaw like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or devour you.

Your breath hitches as he presses his forehead to yours.

“I hate this,” you whisper, “I hate you.”

“I know,” he murmurs, voice gutted. “I hate you too.”

And then you were kissing again—angry, breathless, clinging like you were trying to hurt each other with how badly you still wanted this.

You didn’t make it to the bed. You didn’t need to. Because this wasn’t about comfort. It wasn’t about love.

It was punishment. It was grief in the shape of bodies.

He fucks you hard against the wall of the hallway, your lace panties pushed to the side, his belt barely unbuckled as his pants are shoved down just enough so that he can stuff his cock into you.

It was every unspoken thing you said through bitten lips and bruised skin.

And afterward, as you lay tangled in the mess of it—neither of you moved.

You didn’t look at him. And he didn’t touch you. 

But in the silence, you felt everything. 

And it hurt more than it ever had.

-

The tension in the room was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. Conversation that had once flowed easily now hovered in awkward limbo as every pair of eyes flickered between you and Lando, watching the sparks ignite into something dangerously close to an explosion.

You sat on one side of the couch, arms crossed so tightly it felt like it was the only thing holding you together. Across from you, Lando lounged back like he had all the time in the world, legs stretched out, fingers drumming idly against his knee. The picture of nonchalance, except for the telltale clench of his jaw. 

“I swear to God, you are the most self-absorbed, arrogant asshole I’ve ever met,” you bit out, your voice dripping with irritation.

Lando scoffed, eyes flinging under the warm light. “Oh, I’m arrogant? That’s rich, coming from you.” He leans forward slightly, head tilting, tone mocking. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk? It’s exhausting.”

A sharp laugh escapes you, humorless. “Sorry I don’t let your little asshole comments slip by.” You leaned forward, heat rising to your face. “God forbid, someone doesn’t worship the ground you walk on for five fucking seconds.”

Across the room, Max raises an eyebrow, shifting uncomfortably. “C’mon guys, seriously? This again?”

Neither of you acknowledge him.

Your ands clench into fists against your thighs. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Lando shot back, grin widening, “you’re always right fucking here.”

The room went still. You make a move to stand up, no longer wanting to be near him.

“Nothing about this is funny, Lando,” you seethe. “But I guess that’s all you ever do, right? Crack a joke, act like nothing fucking matters—“

“Yeah?” Lando cut in sharply, eyes narrowing. “And you act like you don’t care when you obviously fucking do. No wonder your ex left you.”

The words slice through the air like a blade, cutting through the noise, through the tension, through you.

A suffocating silence falls over the room, pressing against your chest like a vice. Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out the quiet gasps and awkward shuffling around you. Max shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting between you and Lando. Pietra sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t dare say anything. Keegan leans back, his drink momentarily forgotten in his hand.

But you don’t register any of them.

Your entire world has narrowed down to Lando, sitting across from you, shoulders squared, chin tilted up in defiance, that sharp, reckless fire still burning in his gaze. He knows exactly what he just did. He threw a dagger straight to the heart and hit his mark. And he’s daring you to react.

You swallow hard, the initial sting of his words curdling into something darker, something lethal. Your hands tremble at your sides, but not with hurt. No. This is rage, white-hot and searing, clawing up your throat.

Then, Lando sees it. The barely-there quiver of your lip. The way your breath catches for just a second too long.

And in that instant, it hits him.

His expression falters. His cocky smirk flickers, like a candle struggling against the wind. Realization slams into him like a freight train, knocking the air from his lungs. His posture stiffens, and for the first time tonight, he looks uneasy.

“Wait,” he blurts out, moving to sit up. His voice softer now, tinged with something close to regret. “I’m sor—“

But you don’t wait to hear it.

You’re already on your feet, already walking away, your movements sharp and deliberate. You refuse to let them see your face, refuse to give Lando the satisfaction of seeing just how deep his words had cut.

The air feels too thick, too heavy, pressing in on you from all sides. You need to get out. Now.

“Wait,” Lando tries again, his voice more urgent this time, but you don’t slow down,

You make it to the front door in four strides, wrenching it open without hesitation. Cold air from the hallway rushes in, biting at your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

And then—

“Fuck,” Lando mutters.

The sound of your name leaving his lips is the last thing you hear before the door slams shut behind you.

-

The apartment felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken words and a tension that had been building for days.

You stood in the doorway of the living room, watching Lando as he sat on the couch, his body sprawled lazily, but his eyes not quite focused on the screen of his phone. The silence between you two felt heavier than it had in days, thick like the humidity before a storm.

You took a deep breath, the weight of your decision settling like lead in your chest. You’d been avoiding this moment, dancing around it with every silent exchange and every time you deliberately didn’t look him in the eye.

You needed to leave.

“Lando,” you said, voice steady but quieter than you wanted it to be.

He didn’t immediately look up. He just shifted on the couch, adjusting his position, still fixated on the phone in his hands. The faintest sigh escaped your lips.

“Lando,” you repeated, this time a little louder.

At your tone, he finally glanced up, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of curiosity and that same old guardedness you’d gotten used to over the past few days. His lips parted, like he was about to say something, but then his expression faltered.

Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “I’m moving out,” you said, the words tumbling out faster than you could stop them.

There was a beat of silence, a long, drawn-out moment where neither of you spoke. Lando’s gaze flickered, searching your face, but he didn’t seem to fully understand.

“What?” He asked, his voice flat, as if the words were foreign to him. “What do you mean, moving out?”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your chest ached as you looked at him, trying to stay calm. “I’m moving out.”

Lando blinked, but his eyes never left you. There was no anger, no defensiveness—not yet. Instead, there was this cold detachment, like he was trying to keep himself from feeling anything at all. His jaw clenched, but the words didn’t come right away.

“Right.” His voice was quieter now, like he was speaking to himself. “I see.” He leans back against the couch, his posture casual, but there was a strain in the way his arms crossed over his chest. His lips pressed together in a thin line, and for the first time in a long while, you saw the cracks in his usual cool demeanor.

It was as if he was trying to shrug off what you’d just said, to act like it didn’t matter. But you saw through him. 

“You’re acting like you don’t care,” you said, the words cursing through the room.

His eyes flickered for a second, the mask slipping, but then he quickly recovers. He gives you a hollow smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes, and then shrugs. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He said it flatly, like it was something he’d rehearsed, something he thought he should say. “But if that’s what you want, then fine. Whatever.”

You tried to ignore the sting that spread through you. It’s not like you were dating, you told yourself. You weren’t together. But that didn’t make the hurt go away. 

“Right.” Your voice cracked, and you quickly swallowed down the bitterness that was threatening to break free. “I’ll be out by the end of the week.”

-

The weeks had passed in a blur. The days filled with endless work, deadlines, and a weight of responsibilities that distracted you enough to almost forget about him. Lando. The sting of that last conversation with him had faded, but it was still there, lingering in the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Things didn’t go back to how they were, but they didn’t stay as tense either. It was like a slow, reluctant return to some kind of normal, where the pain of the past still lingered, but you were both too stubborn to let it completely define everything.

You existed in this weird limbo, where you’d exchanged a few awkward words here and there for the sake of your friends, but never anything that went deeper than the surface. You spoke in the way that people who once had some sort of bond but now tip toe around each there did. Casual, clipped, and a little too guarded.

It wasn’t fun. Hell, it wasn’t even close, but it was manageable. And sometimes, that was all you could ask for.

One night, your group of friends were hanging out at a local bar, the usual crowd. You were sitting on a bar stool, nursing a drink that wasn’t quite strong as you’d like it to be, but it would do. Across the room, Lando was in the middle of an animated conversation with Max, his hands flying through the air as he gestured with the same over-the-top energy he always has when he’s passionate about something.

The laughter in the room was warm, but it felt distant. 

Later, as the night wore on, you found yourself standing near the pool table, watching the others play. Lando came over, tossing his jacket on the back of the nearby chair. The energy between you was familiar enough that you didn’t hesitate to speak to him, but also it felt strained.

“You still suck at pool,” you said, your tone more playful than it should’ve been, but it was the kind of jab you used to throw without second thought.

Lando smirked, leaning agains the table with an exaggerated cocky posture.”You wish,” he replied, his voice laced with that same arrogance you knew all too well.

You chuckled, but there was no real warmth behind it. Just the act of getting through the conversation without letting things get too weird.

And yet, there was still something in the way he looked at you. A flicker of something that wasn’t quite indifference. Maybe a hint of regret. Maybe it was something else.

-

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t some big, dramatic moment where everything was fine again. Instead, it happened gradually, in the quiet in-between moments, in the casual interactions that didn’t feel like landmines anymore.

At first, it was just existing in the same space without tension suffocating the room. Group hangouts weren’t as unbearable, and the awkwardness that once weighed down every conversation started to fade. You could talk again without it feeling forced, without the sharp edge of unresolved anger lingering between you two.

Then, one day, Max invited everyone over for a movie night, and you barely hesitated before showing up. A few weeks ago, you might’ve thought twice, might’ve made up some excuses to avoid another night of dodging Lando’s presence. But this time, it felt…easier.

Lando was already there when you arrived, sprawled across the couch in the way he always was, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, his legs taking up more space than necessary. He barely looked up when you walked in, just gave a quick nod and a muttered, “Hey,” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Weeks later, you were at a dinner with friends, and without thinking, you slid into the seat next to him. It wasn’t a conscious decision—you weren’t trying to prove anything, weren’t trying to reclaim something lost. It just…happened. And he didn’t tense up. Didn’t shift away. He just leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table absentmindedly as he listened to the conversation.

At some point, you made a comment that had the table laughing, and Lando snorted, shaking his head before muttering, “Still annoying as ever.”

It was teasing, lighthearted. The kind of jab he used to throw away all the time. 

“Yeah, well,” you shot back easily, stealing a fry form his plate like it was second nature, “you’re still an asshole.

-

Lando Norris had finally done it. After 110 race starts and 15 podiums, he clinched his first Formula 1 victory ever. The McLaren team erupted in celebration, the garage a blur of orange and blue as the mechanics and engineers reveled in the long-awaited triumph.

You watched from the sidelines with Pietra and Max, the roar of the crowd vibrating through your chest as champagne sprayed across the podium. Lando stood at the top step, his grin so wide it could have split his face in two. You should have looked away, should have focused on the bigger moment at hand, but you couldn’t tear your eyes off him.

Not when his eyes flickered toward you, just for a second.

The after party was chaos. A whirlwind of lights, music, and expensive champagne flowing as if the entire world had been waiting for this night. Everyone was drunk on victory…especially Lando, who was making his way through the club, grinning as he accepted every congratulatory slap on the back, every cheer raised in his name.

You stayed back, nursing a drink, watching from the shadows. It had been weeks, months, since you’d really talked. Since things between you shattered into something so complicated, neither of you had really figured out how to fix.

But tonight, the past felt different.

“Didn’t think I’d see you hiding in a corner,” Lando drawls, dropping into the seat beside you, eyes bright from alcohol and adrenaline.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t think you’d come looking.”

He scoffs, running a hand through his messy curls. “You’re acting like I haven’t been waiting for you to come congratulate me properly.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Fine. Congratulations, Norris. You finally did it.”

He smirk softens into something more genuine, something real. “Yeah. I did.” He pauses, watching you, his knee knocking against yours. “You proud of me?”

The question caught you off guard. You hesitated, then let out a breath. “Yeah, Lando. I’m proud of you.”

The words settled between you, something shifting in the air. You should’ve walked away then, should have left it at that. But instead, you stayed.

And later, when the party started winding down, when the night had blurred into warm laughter and lingering touches in secrecy, when Lando leaned in, breath ghosting over your cheek as he murmured, “Come with me,”— you didn’t say no.

You should have.

But instead, you let him take your hand, let him lead you through the dimly lit corridors of the hotel, the air thick with something heavy, something inevitable.

The door barely clicked shut before Lando was on you.

His hands found your waist, rough and desperate, pulling you against him in one swift motion. His mouth crashed onto yours, all heat and hunger, like he had been waiting for this for far too long.

It was messy, rushed, pure heat and desperation. He tastes like whiskey and something inherently him, something you had no business still craving. 

You gasped against his lips, fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just hard enough to make him ground. He presses you back against the wall, his body slotting perfectly against yours, the hard planes of his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.

“Tell me to stop.” He mutters against your lips.

You could have.

You should have.

But instead, you pulled him back in, whispering against his skin, “No.”

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, his voice low, strained, as his lips moved to your jaw, then your neck, leaving a trail in their wake. “Missed this.”

Your nails scrape down his back, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch. “Shut up,” you whispered, voice just as wrecked as his.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, and you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the way he groans at the contact. He stumbles backwards until you hit the bed, the mattress dipping as he hovers over you, his breath heavy, eyes dark and hooded.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” He admits, voice thick with want, his fingers tracing along your skin as he leans down, capturing your lips again.

His forehead rests against yours for half a second, his breath uneven, before he pulls back just enough to really look at you.

“This is just sex,” you said first, voice barely above a whisper, but firm. A boundary. A reminder.

Lando’s lips twitched, like he wanted to say something. Instead, his grip tightens slightly, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed the anchor. The reminder that you’re really here. Under him. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice rough. “Whatever you say.”

And yet, the way he kisses you after—slow, deep, like he was memorizing every inch of you—made it feel like a lie.

-

It had been weeks. Weeks of avoidance, of pretending that last time had been a lapse in judgment rather than the inevitable. Weeks of stolen glances across rooms, of brushing past each other like it didn’t mean anything. Like you hadn’t memorized the feeling of his hands on your skin, the way he groaned hotly in your ear as he whispered your name in the dark.

And yet, here you were again. 

The door had barely closed behind you and already the air felt different. Dense. Loaded.

You were only supposed to drop off a hoodie. That was the plan. A thin, pathetic excuse, but you told yourself it was fine. It had found its way into your suitcase after that night—the one that bled into morning, where you left his bed before the sun rose, skin still warm, mouth still tasting like him.

Now you stood in his living room, holding that hoodie too tightly. Your knuckles white around soft, worn fabric.

You hadn’t planned on staying. But neither of you were moving.

Lando stood just a few feet away, barefoot, fresh from the shower. Damp curls hung over his forehead in messy, lazy waves. The soft black t-shirt clung to his chest, still damp at the collar, and his grey sweatpants sat low on his lips like a careless invitation.

He looked effortlessly undone. And completely unreadable.

He wasn’t relaxed. Not really.

Your pulse fluttered.

The silence between you stretched long and thin, tight like a pulled wire. One wrong word, one wrong breath, and it would snap.

You swallowed. The words in your throat tasted like regret.

“I just—“ you started, holding the hoodie out like it was a peace offering. “This was yours.”

Lando didn’t move to take it.

His eyes flicked down to it, then back to you. “You came all the way here for that?”

There it was. The challenge. Quiet. Sharp.

Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric. “It was in my bag.”

“Right.” A beat passed. “You could’ve just texted.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry. “I know.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

He took a slow step toward you, not enough to close the space, but enough to make your heart stutter.

You hated how his presence still made your skin feel electric.

Lando’s voice dropped, softer now. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

His eyes search yours like he was trying to solve you, like he already knew the answer and was waiting for you to admit it.

You let the hoodie fall from your hands. It hits the floor soundlessly and he wastes no time.

He crosses the rest of the distance in a single stride, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist.

It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate. Like he was punishing you for staying away. Like you were punishing him for letting you.

You melted into it anyway. Because you didn’t come for the hoodie.

You came for this.

-

It didn’t change.

Even after all this time: weeks of distance, of pretending it never happened, of triple dates and fake smiles and sleeping in separate beds…it still hadn’t changed.

You and Lando were right back where you started.

Back to silence thick with want.

Back to tension disguised as indifference.

Back to hooking up in secret like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did. God, it did.

You had told yourself it would be different this time. That avoiding each other meant you were finally doing the right thing. That letting him go would mean letting this go, the late nights, the whispering moans muffled into his mattress, the lingering touches that felt too much like wanting.

But here you were.

Back in his bed.

Back in the dark

Back in his arms.

Hooking up in secret like it didn’t matter.

Like your hands didn't shake when they touched him.

Like his mouth on your skin didn’t ruin you every time.

His mouth hot against your neck, your fingers fisting the sheets like they were the only thing tethering you to sanity.

You had tried to stay away. You had tried to be good. But when his hands found your waist and he kissed you like he needed you, every reason, every rule, every line blurred until it vanished.

“Fucking christ,” he whispers against your skin, voice low, like he even hated that this felt so right.

Your nails dug into his shoulder. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know,” He murmurs, breathless, forehead pressed against yours. 

“Tell me you missed it,” he rasped, lips dragging down your throat, his voice already wrecked. “Tell me you still fucking want me.”

You gasp as his teeth graze the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “You already know I do.”

He groans, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. His hands were everywhere. Your thighs, your ass, the back of your neck…gripping, pulling, desperate like he was trying to commit you to memory.

Clothes came off in frantic, uneven tugs. His mouth found yours again and again, each kiss dirtier, deeper, messier than the last.

“This means nothing,” you whisper between kisses, your voice shaking as his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.

“Bullshit,” he breathes against your mouth. “You feel like mine.”

And you did.

Right then, you did.

Because Lando touched you like he owned you.

Fucked you like he was trying to erase every other man from your body.

Kissed you like he was starving for something he’d been denying himself for too long.

And when it was over, when your bodies were tangled in the sheets, skin flushed, and slick with sweat, chests rising and falling in sync. You didn’t say a word.

-

The door doesn’t just click shut behind him, it slams, rattling the walls and sending a violent tremor through your chest. The sound rings in your ears, sharp and final, like the crack of a gunshot.

The silence afterward is deafening.

Your breath comes in short, jagged bursts, chest heaving like you’ve just sprinted a mile. Your fists are balled at your sides, nails digging so deep into your palms you’re almost positive you’ve broken skin. But the sting doesn’t register. You’re too far gone.

The anger is molten in your veins. It scorches. It consumes.

How dare he?

How dare he look at you like that? Say that to you? Act like you’re the one who’s done something unforgivable. Like you betrayed him. Like you stabbed him in the back just for having a fucking conversation with another guy at an event you didn't even want to go to in the first place.

“If you want to whore yourself out to the world, be my guest. It’s not like we’re together anyway.”

The words slam into your skull like they’re on repeat, looping endlessly, cruel and cutting and so beneath him.

The inside of your mouth tastes like blood from biting your tongue too hard. Trying not to scream when he said it, trying not to cry.

But now?

You want to throw everything in sight. Smash every glass, every plate, everything that he’s touched. You want to tear apart the sofa where he kissed you last week like it meant something. You want to rip your own skin open just to let the fury out. 

Instead, you reach for the closest thing.

A glass on the counter.

Heavy. Clear. Innocent.

You barely register your arm moving before you hurl it at the wall with everything you’ve got.

The sound is instant. Shattering. Violent.

Glass explodes across the hardwood like a thousand tiny pieces of your own rage, catching the light as they scatter, beautiful and broken.

But it’s not enough.

The ache in your chest is too deep. The burn in your throat too raw.

You move. Fast. Pacing the kitchen like a wild animal, hands raking through your hair, pulling, scratching at your scalp as if you could dig the fury out from under your skin. But it lingers. It festers. 

It builds

Because how fucking dare he?

He just wanted to be the victim. Wanted to twist it into something that made you the villain. As if he hadn’t been the one who pulled away the second things started feeling too real.

Your eyes sting—but no tears come. You won’t let them.

You face faster, chest tight, heart racing. The apartment feels too small, too suffocating. And underneath all the rage, all the fire—beneath the storm you’ve become—there’s something else.

Buried deep. Almost too deep to recognize.

A sliver of something raw. Something real.

Hurt.

Because for all his flaws—all the fights, the secrecy, the push and pull—you wanted him. You still do.

And now, all you can think is:

If he wants to believe you’re some villain in his story—

Maybe it’s time you start acting like one.

-

The club is a mistake.

But right now, you want to make mistakes.

You want to be reckless. You want to be wild. You want to be seen.

The bass pounds like a heartbeat, steady and hard, syncing with the blood roaring in your ears. The room is alive—neon flashes streak across sweat-slicked skin, strangers press against each other like they’re starving, and the air smells like spilled drinks and something sweet and desperate.

Its the perfect place to forget.

Or pretend to.

Your dress clings to you like it was sewn on, your make up still flawless despite the storm you barely survived earlier, and your glass is already half-empty, liquid courage numbing the parts of you that ache too much to name.

You don’t think. You just move.

The guy with a sharp jawline and the too-easy smile finds you on the dance floor, and you let him. His hands slide down your waist, anchor you to the rhythm, and you let yourself fall into it. Not because you want him. Not really.

But because you know exactly who is watching.

Leaned against the bar like he owned the night. Curls a little messy, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his shirt carelessly unbuttoned just enough to make you burn.

Sofia tucked into his side like she belonged there.

Her hand on his chest. His smirk. His laugh.

You nearly choked on it.

Because it wasn’t just a random girl. It was her.

And he looked like he was enjoying it. Like he hadn’t just stormed out of your apartment, like he hadn’t called you something cruel and cold and unforgivable.

Like you hadn’t spent the last two weeks trying not to cry every time someone mentioned his name

Fine.

You can play that game too.

You turn toward the stranger, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like a scene pulled straight from a revenge fantasy. His hands skate lower. His mouth finds your jaw.

But your eyes stay locked on Lando.

And he’s watching.

You can see it from across the room. The way his jaw clenches. The way his drink stills in his hand. The way Sofia keeps talking, oblivious, while his eyes are glued to you like you’re gravity itself.

You lean into the stranger’s mouth, laugh at something he says even though you don’t hear a word. You press your body closer, let his hands wander.

And Lando snaps.

You see it in the twitch of his brow. The way he straightens. His drink hits the bar a little too hard, liquid sloshing over the edge. He says something to Sofia…quick, dismissive. She frowns. He doesn’t explain

He’s already walking.

Straight toward you.

Your breath catches, but you don’t back down.

Lando’s chest collides with yours before he even says a word, a hand curling around your wrist as he yanks you, gently, but firmly, away from the guy, who looks like he’s about to protest until he sees Lando’s face.

“Don’t,” Lando mutters over his shoulder, eyes never leaving yours. “She’s not interested.”

-

This wasn’t forgiveness. This was combustion.

The bass of the club still pounded behind you like a heartbeat, muffled now by the thick walls of the dim hallway Lando had all but dragged you down before pushing you into the private lounge. Your back hit the wall hard enough to rattle the frame of the private lounge door, but you didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

He stood in front of you, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile, his hands braced on either side of your head, trapping you in. Not physically. Emotionally. Because it was always like this with him. His presence bigger than his body, his silence louder than any scream.

He was staring at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or tear you apart.

And you felt just the same.

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” you hissed, voice shaking with the fury that had been burning in you since the moment he’d walked into the club like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t ghosted you for two weeks, like he hadn’t looked you in the eye and accused you of being disposable.

Lando’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark and dangerous in the low light. “Don’t.”

“No. You don’t get to stand here and act like I’m the one who crossed a line,” you spat. “You left. You disappeared. You brought her like I meant nothing. And now you’re pissed that I danced with someone else?”

His breath came faster. You saw it. The flicker of guilt, of pain, of jealousy he didn’t know how to hide.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he said, voice rough, almost hoarse. “I was angry. I said it because I knew it would hurt.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. Mission accomplished.”

His hands slammed against the wall, framing your face but never touching you, and you hated how it made your heart stutter. Hated that even now, even when you wanted to slap him across the face, your body still leaned into him like muscle memory.

“You think it didn’t kill me?” he growled, his voice low and guttural. “Watching him touch you? Watching you pretend like I didn’t exist?”

“You don’t get to say that,” you snapped, eyes burning. “Not after what you said. Not after two weeks of silence. You can’t just show up and expect me to—”

“I didn’t know how to talk to you,” he cut in. “I didn’t know how to look at you and not fucking want you.”

The confession hit like a thunderclap.

Your breath caught, and the weight of everything unsaid; every word buried under bitterness and pride—rose to the surface, choking the air between you.

Your voice cracked. “You think this is just wanting?”

Lando didn’t answer.

He stepped forward instead, one hand curling around your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t help himself. His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot against your mouth.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate how much I still want you. I hate that I can’t get you out of my head.”

“Then walk away,” you whispered back.

But he didn’t.

He kissed you.

It was fire. All teeth and desperation, mouths crashing together like neither of you cared who got hurt in the process. His hands were on your waist, sliding under your dress, gripping your hips like they were familiar territory…because they were.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging hard, earning a low growl from his throat as he pressed his body into yours.

Clothes were tugged aside, not removed. This wasn’t soft. This was reckless. This was months of frustration and fury and ache pouring out in frantic touches and bruising kisses.

He hoisted you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist, your back arching into him as his mouth moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he murmured, voice ragged and low, the words slipping from his lips like a dare, like he already knew you wouldn’t.

His breath was hot against your cheek, his hands trembling slightly where they held you like you were something breakable. And for the first time in weeks, you saw it.

The fear. The want.

The truth he had tried so hard to bury under anger and distance and pride.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Because you did feel it.

You always had.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling around the back of his neck as you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. The space between you vanished, not just physically but completely, like there had never been a single inch there to begin with.

Your voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “I never stopped feeling it.”

Lando exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months. His eyes fluttered shut, and you felt the tension in him loosen, melt, unravel. His hand slid up your back, holding you tighter, anchoring himself to you like he didn’t trust this to be real.

“You scare the shit out of me,” he said quietly. “You make me want things I told myself I wasn’t allowed to want.”

You smiled, small and soft, but real. “Then stop pretending you don’t want them.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, but this time it wasn’t desperate or punishing. It wasn’t angry or messy or anything born from frustration. It was slow. Careful. Like he was learning you all over again. Like he finally understood what it meant to have you in his arms.

Like he didn’t want to lose it this time.

And you let yourself fall into it.

Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like running.

Or hiding.

Or a mistake waiting to happen.

It felt like home.

[crescenthistory]

Okay, Fine, Maybe We're In Love!

Pairing: Regulus Black x Reader

Summary: Part 3 to Totally Just the Fifth and Sixth Wheel and Still Just Totally the Fifth and Sixth Wheel, You Guys. Regulus' resolve is crumbling, you are starting to realise the others might have a point, and there is a Quidditch game against Ravenclaw today.

Words: 6.7k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, use of y/n, pining as per usual, bickering/banter/teasing, minor injury, minor fight, public displays of affection, best friends to lovers, mental spiraling over feelings, possible inaccurate depiction of quidditch, background dorlene and rosekiller

Note: this is so much later than i promised, BUT it's also longer so... fair deal? it's been so sweet how many of you requested this one, hope it lives up to your expectations<3 final part

Regulus rarely had dreams that were not nightmares, but when he did, they were of you.

Something he never gave much thought to, it was a given for him – he spent most of his waking time with you, it only makes sense that you sneak into his dreams. If you were bathed in a soft, ethereal glow in each one, Regulus did not let himself notice.

As he turned in his emerald sheets, face twisting into the pillow, consciousness started its pull on him while his mind still remained in his dream, you were all he saw.

The dream had started simply. It was you and him, sitting on one of the low stone walls on the castle grounds, somewhere half-hidden by ivy, a soft breeze rustling through the trees. Away from pestering friends and professors, just the two of you, finally allowing peace to settle in his heart. Your knee was brushing his from where you sat close by him, and your scent was filling his nose, in an overwhelming way he did not quite think possible. You were talking to him, but Regulus had no idea what you were saying, only that you were laughing and your hand was on his shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was saying something to you, and you smiled at him, all brightness and warmth, the one he knew you reserved for people you actually trusted. It glowed in a hazy way he knew to be the product of the dream he was becoming increasingly aware was a dream, but he let himself bask in it. The way you looked at him – really looked at him, eyes dark and deep and full of something he didn’t know if he was allowed to name – made his chest tighten. He felt your fingers curl slightly into his arm, pulling him closer, and he knew he could lean in and–

In the surreal way dreams sometimes shift, he was in the middle of kissing you. Hands already cupping your face, holding onto you like a lifeline. Your lips were soft and he was floating with a strange weightlessness as he fell deeper and deeper into you, like you were the only real thing in the world and a world in and of yourself all at the same time. You responded to him with gentle sighs against his lips that filled his mind and turned it into a whirlwind. Your hands were scorching hot against him as you pulled him closer, a heat that should hurt but instead was something he savoured. It was warm and sweet and completely, blissfully easy, like something he had done a thousand times.

It was a moment that felt like it should stretch on forever, never-ending, but with a thud on the horizon of his consciousness, your face was replaced with his pillow and your arms with his duvet.

Sigh.

For a few brief, hazy moments, he half-expected to open his eyes and see you there beside him, maybe giving him that slightly incredulous look you got whenever you thought he had done something too sentimental. Like a deer caught in headlights. Instead, all he saw was the dim light of his dorm room, and he realised with building force that it had been a dream. Better yet, that he was dreaming about kissing you. His lips tingled with the ghost of that kiss, as if you had actually been there, as if he could just close his eyes and fall back into it. Into you.

Regulus swallowed, his chest tightening as the dream slipped further from his reach, leaving only the hollow ache of waking up. Kissing you was the last thing he should be thinking about – you were his best friend, dammit, someone who kept insisting that friends were all you were. It was clear cut. Yet, that was all he had been thinking, and now dreaming, about ever since Hogsmeade. If he was being honest with himself, he had for years, he just had not allowed himself to acknowledge it. Minds are fickle things, what they conjure up after dark holds no merit. Yet his heart was the one getting increasingly involved, and that was harder to ignore.

Propping himself up on his elbow he looked towards his canopy as if it held an answer to his predicament. When all he was met with was silence, he shook his head as if it would knock out his thoughts, curls messily spilling into his vision.

It's nothing. It's stupid. Ignore it.

No matter how many times he told himself it was just a stupid dream, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way your hand had rested on his shoulder, the softness of your lips, the warmth of your smile. The dream lingered just out of reach, but when he imagined himself grabbing at it, all he saw was you.

Bollocks.

"Oi, Reg!"

Regulus looked up to where Barty was sitting on his own bed, already tying his shoelaces and grinning at him through the green strands of hair falling into his eyes. "What's got you in a tizzy, mate? You look like someone hexed your pillow."

"It's not like you to be the last to wake up," Evan grumbled from behind him, working on buttoning his pants.

"And what a joy it is to wake up to the two of you," Regulus commented dryly before he wiped his hands harshly over his face, slinging his legs out to hit the ground.

"I'm glad you acknowledge it," Barty grinned. "Now, what'cha dream about?" There was a knowing gleam in his eyes that made Regulus roll his own.

"The match. Which I should be getting ready for."

It was gameday, Ravenclaw against Slytherin. A match that usually was considered in the bag, but the Ravenclaw team had truly been challenging everyone this year. Their beaters had grown aggressive and the other seeker was fast. It had been on his mind for the week leading up to it, so really, Regulus told himself, he wasn't really lying.

Nothing gets past Junior though.

"Cute deflection. Did you practise it in the mirror?" Barty asked smugly, continuing without waiting for a response. "We're more or less ready, we're just waiting for your dreamy arse."

"Glad to know you think my arse is dreamy," Regulus replied at the same time as Evan slapped Barty in the back of the head with his quidditch gloves.

"Ugh, you know what I mean!" Barty flopped back onto his bed, just as patient as always. "Hurry up now!"

Regulus had his strict morning routines to fall into, which he always thanked himself for when he woke up frazzled like this. He knew what steps to do when and how to speed up the process, allowing him to grasp onto a sense of control that always calmed his nerves.

Yet, you were still ravaging his mind.

What you were doing, who you were with. If you remembered to set aside time to meet up with him before the game, even though the two of you always did and you had never once forgotten. If he could get there – the stone wall outside the locker rooms – a bit earlier than you today to properly gather himself before he sees you.

If he would have the guts to kiss you.

That last thought he shook out of his head, trying to imagine it falling out of his ears and disappearing like a Healer once told him to when he divulged his struggles with intrusive thoughts. It usually helped, but did little for him today as the idea of kissing you kept falling back into the forefront of his mind. I can't, I can't, I can't.

I want to.

"You have that look on your face again." Barty once more cut into Regulus' mind's inner workings, gazing at him with interest from where his head was hanging upside down from the edge of his bed. Regulus was hurrying his way through his routine and barely spared him a glance, accustomed to his antics.

"What look?" He forced any hint of his emotional turmoil from his expression in preparation, as he began to pack his quidditch gear bag.

"I'm asking you," Barty drawled. "I already know, I'm just interested in if you know."

At the same time, Evan shot in from where he was waiting by the door. "You look like you're hoping someone is willing to go to Azkaban just to put you out of whatever misery you believe yourself to be in."

"Aren't you two cheery today?"

"Following your beautiful example, my boy." Barty grinned, moving to grab his bag as he could tell Regulus was almost ready. "Still can't believe we got up before you. I'm disappointed in you, for shame."

"Yeah, yeah," Regulus muttered. "You didn't have to get up yet, though, I always head off to the pitch before you."

Evan gave him a knowing look as the three of them moved towards the common room. "No, you always head off to meet with your good luck charm before the games."

"Tell our lovely Y/N that we say hi, by the way." Barty shot him another wide grin as he plopped down in an armchair by the exit. "We'll be focusing on the actual game plan."

Regulus chose to ignore the first part. "Your only game plan today is to keep those bloody Ravenclaw beaters off their brooms."

The groan that escaped Barty was entirely too loud and dramatic. "Salazar, they are annoying me."

"Then do something about it." Regulus gave him a pat on the shoulder as he began to move away, nodding to Evan who was sat too far away. "I'm off."

"Have fun with your girl!" Barty called as he exited, and he could barely hear him giggle to Evan about it before the door shut behind him.

Lovely silence. Regulus stood still and breathed it in for a second, but with Barty's voice out of his ears, it only gave ample space for yours to fill his head instead.

The walk to your usual meeting place felt like a practised choreography, his heart beating harder on the way up. Though you often laughed about how meeting outside is inconvenient, given the tendency for bad weather in Scotland, he was grateful for it today as he hoped the fresh air would clear his mind of you. Or at the very least, of kissing you.

It seemed that as much as you were an angel in his dreams, you were a bit devilish in reality, because when he turned the corner to your spot you were already there, leaning against the wall with that easy confidence you seemed to wear only in his presence, reading a book to pass the time.

"There's our seeker!" You greeted him with a hug and he fought back any panic in his face over your shoulder as he breathed you in, hands splayed delicately over your back.

"Good morning, love," he all but whispered back.

You pulled away from him all too quickly, leaning back against the wall with a mischievous smile that always seemed to undo him a little. "Ready to kick some Ravenclaw ass?"

Despite his hummingbird heart, the ease of being around you settled into his body at the sight of your smile, and it took him no effort to mirror it. "As ready as one can be."

"I mean, all you have to do is find a teeny-tiny golden sphere flying through the sky at high speeds. Easy, yeah?"

He loved when you were in your more sassy moods. He loved how you looked at him when you were. He loved–

"Super easy," he laughed. "That's why I always catch it."

You scoffed in place of saying well, duh and looked at him with mirth in your eyes. "Always?"

"Are you doubting me, amour?" If he didn't know better, Regulus would say your breath hitched at the nickname. Why would it, though, he calls you that all the time?

"Do I have any reason to?" you shot back, leaning a bit into him as if he would let you in on a secret.

"No, not when I have a pretty girl like you cheering me on in the stands." He said it breezily, feigning nonchalance, but studied your reaction intently. He revelled when he saw the faint pinch of your cheeks at that, indicating a blush, glad that he has some effect on you, too.

"Are you calling me your good luck charm, Black?" Regulus couldn't bite back the laugh at that.

"You know, Evan called you that earlier today as well."

You cocked a brow at him. "Really? Pray tell why?"

This time it was Regulus' turn to blush a little, and though he hoped you wouldn't notice, he also knew deep in his bones that you would. "Just him and Barty messing around as usual. They say hi by the way."

"I'll see them on the pitch in less than an hour," you laughed at your friends' antics. Any leftover tension in his shoulders eased out at the sound.

"You know how they are." Regulus' smile softened as he turned his body towards yours were it was leaned against the raw stone.

"Some causes are lost, indeed," you chortled. "Much like this game, of course, which Ravenclaw lost ages ago."

"That's the spirit of a true luck charm. Keep that up in the stands, yeah?"

"Of course. What can I say, I take my job very seriously."

When Regulus looked at you through his laughter, he knew you must be able to see every emotion flashing across his face. He could never hide, not from you. He let his eyes travel across your face, taking in every beautiful divot and crevice, fighting the urge to reach out and caress them with his fingers. What he could not fight, though, was his eyes flickering to your lips, memories of how they felt against his in his dream rushing through him once more. It would be so easy to reach forward and slot them with his, you were already standing closer than most people would. Even best friends like the two of you, and Gods, when Regulus thought that, he knew in his heart he did not just want to be best friends with you.

He almost did it, he swears he almost closed that gap – but then he looked up and met your eyes once more, saw the understanding, the confusion and the hesitation there, and he was knocked off course.

With a rough clearing of his throat, he broke the spell that had captured the two of you, even if just for a moment. "I should probably head off to meet with the team soon," he said, embarrassed at how raw his voice sounded.

You shook your head a little, clearing your own mind, and Regulus imagined thoughts falling from your ears. He desperately wanted to know what they were.

"No rest for the wicked?" you said with a smile, and he was almost jealous at how at ease you seemed.

"Not with the way Ravenclaw's been playing, no."

"You'll do great, Reg. As always." The softness of your voice did not go by him and his smile grew more genuine and assured.

"Thanks, amour. I'll look for you in the stands."

"And you'll find me there, probably surrounded by pestering friends and freezing my arse off." You all but giggled, and an idea formed in his head at impressive speed.

"Well, I can't have that," he laughed. Before he could think better of it, he opened his quidditch bag and pulled out his quidditch jersey. "Here, take this. It'll keep you warm for me."

His heart was hammering in his chest, but he managed to keep his hand steady as it held the Slytherin jersey between you. It was far from the first time you wore his clothes – though usually it would be classified more as stealing than just wearing – but he was aware that this type of hand-off held a different charge. The tradition of wearing your partner's jersey during their games was tried and true at Hogwarts. He could tell by the way your eyes flitted almost nervously from his jersey to his face, searching for an answer, that you felt the same way. By some miracle of courage, his resolve didn't falter.

At last, you put him out of his misery as you chuckled a little, taking the jumper from his hands, feeling the soft wool against your skin. "There'll be no confusing who I'm cheering on now," you said cheekily, turning the jersey over to where his name and number were printed in bold.

"Don't think there ever was any, to be honest," Regulus shrugged at you. "But if so, we have to set the record straight. What if Ravenclaw tries to steal you?"

"Can you imagine how much flack I'll get from your brother and his friends for wearing this?" you laughed, contradicting your own joking concern by beginning to pull it on over your own clothes.

Regulus furrowed his brows, unable to defeat the pang of insecurity in his chest. "If you're worried, you don't have to–"

"No, I want to. You gave it to me, it's mine now," you reassured him, holding your arms up in faux defence against him. Regulus let out a relieved laugh.

"Gonna have to go get a new extra one after this, I see."

"Clever boy."

He began backing away from you ever so slowly, face still turned towards yours with a smile. "I'll see you up there then?"

"Warm and toasty," you agreed, smiling brightly at him. "Break a leg."

Regulus stopped in his tracks, tilting his head at you, confused. "Why would you want me to break a leg?"

You shook your head at him with a smile. "You're such a pureblood. It means good luck."

"Ah, in that case, I'll break all my bones."

"Not what I meant!" you call after him, and just before he walks out of sight, he gives you a quick wink.

You're grateful that he is not around to see the flush that takes over your cheeks.

You're left reeling for several moments more than you're proud of. What just happened?

With your head still spinning, you headed off to the stands, feeling the weight of Regulus’ jersey on your shoulders like a warm reminder of that moment. Your fingers tugged at the edges of the jersey, trying to steady yourself, but every time you remembered the look in Regulus' eyes, the corner of his lips curving up just slightly as he handed it to you, your stomach flipped over itself. You had not allowed yourself to believe your feelings for him ran so deep, not until this moment, anyway.

Maybe you always knew, though, if you were being honest. Maybe you had always ignored it, because the alternative was terrifying.

Arriving at the stands, you spotted your friends instantly. Marlene waved you over, grinning, while James and Sirius were huddled close on each side of Remus, gesticulating wildly to each other about something. The latter looked prepared to be accidentally hit in the face any minute now. Peter was probably putting money on the match, judging by the low tones and suspicious glances he kept sending around. Lily and Mary were sharing a large Gryffindor scarf, leaning into each other for warmth.

“Oh, look who’s gracing us with her presence!” James shouted, dramatically clapping a hand to his heart as you arrived, while Remus, Mary and Lily each greeted you more quietly with soft smiles.

“And with a certain someone’s name on her back!” Marlene pointed out with a smirk, eyeing Regulus' jersey with devilish amusement.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could explain, Sirius zeroed in on it, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Is that my darling baby brother’s jersey?”

"He wouldn't like you calling him that," you said simply, taking your seat on the bench in front of the three boys and Marlene, painfully aware that it put the back of your jersey in their direct line of sight. Beside you sat Mary and Lily, whose smiles were warm but no less teasing.

"I'm not under the impression he much likes anything these days," Sirius huffed petulantly.

"Except you." Remus mumbled it so quietly you almost missed it, but you didn't. Neither did James and Marlene, if their snickers were anything to go off of.

"So," Marlene drawled, poking you slightly in the back. You have spent a decent chunk of time with her as of late through Dorcas, which unfortunately meant she had joined in on the teasing. "Is Regulus aware of you representing him loud and proud, or is this a bout of kleptomania we should be worried about?"

"You should always be worried, McKinnon. With shiny jewellery like yours, a confrontation with one of our household nifflers is bound to happen." You looked over your shoulder and smiled at her to show you mean no harm.

"You have household nifflers?" Mary asked curiously.

"Barty," chorused you, Marlene, Remus and Sirius with decreasing humour and increasing worry in that order. “And Pandora,” you added.

"And if you must know," you sighed while biting back a smile. "Regulus willingly gave me his jersey when I complained of the cold in the stands. You know these things are better adjusted to the climate." You waved the sleeve of the jersey slightly to demonstrate your point.

"Ah, what a true gentleman." Sirius' grin was bordering on wolfish. "I raised him right, I see."

Remus elbowed him, causing Sirius to dramatically fake a fall into Marlene. "You cannot teach what you don't know, dear Pads."

You smiled at how much more seamless your integration into the friend group felt, a true display of the work the Black brothers had put in. Though, you knew it would feel better if the younger of the two was here too.

At the thought, you turned your gaze towards the field, spying for a glimpse of your friends.

"Any thoughts on the game?" you asked absentmindedly to steer the conversation away.

"My only thought is that if those Ravenclaw beaters send even one bludger at Cas I will obliterate them next game." Marlene's words were laced with a malice you knew she was not scared to act on.

"Sentiment's shared," you all but whispered.

Sirius leaned forward – across poor Remus, mind you – to jostle your shoulders slightly. "Don't worry, bub, Reggie's the furthest away from action one can be."

"I'm not worried," you said simply, no reaction at practically being manhandled.

"I am!" Mary said then. "Quidditch's violent enough as is, we don't need Marlene and Sirius to have a vendetta for their next game."

"I've always found they play their best when they have a vendetta," James said through a sheepish smile. "Maybe some revenge-worthy offences would be helpful."

"Oi! You wishin' assault on my darling baby brother?"

With that, some more tussling occurred behind you, but you didn't deign to look around, just sighing through a smile. "Let me know if you need to escape to the front bench, Lupin," you threw over your shoulder.

"Don't mind if I do." His voice was already much closer to you as you saw the lanky boy scrambling into your right field of vision.

You turned to look at him half-incredulously, laughing when he wore what must be a mirrored expression. When he chuckled along with you, the lines around his eyes crinkled.

"Look at the in-laws cahooting together," Marlene cooed from beside Sirius and James, unaffected by their scuffle.

Remus' hand stretched over your shoulder towards Marlene in some gesture you couldn't see. Her gasp clued you in on what it was, though.

At last, you saw the small green figures walk out on the pitch, brooms in hand. You could barely make out Barty trying to climb onto Evan's shoulders, while Regulus and Dorcas were chatting, faces turned towards the stands.

You couldn't help the skip of your heart or the immediate grin that took over your face as you waved – as casually as possible, due to current company – to them both. Perhaps mostly the former, though.

Even from a distance, you could see how Regulus lit up, waving back at you in a more dramatic gesture than you would expect from him. At the same time, Marlene stood up behind you and wolf-whistled at Dorcas, waving at her with even more theatrics. The poor girl on the pitch turned her face away, whether to laugh or cringe you were unsure, before she gave a small wave back.

"You're really going for it, Marls," James commented happily.

"With more success than you've ever had, Jamie."

Suddenly Marlene was included in the squabble behind you.

On the pitch, the teams lined up in front of each other and mounted their brooms before flying into formation. Ravenclaw blue and Slytherin green decorated the otherwise grey skies adorning Hogwarts' landscapes today.

"Welcome to this most anticipated match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin!" Pandora's voice floated through the stadium, somehow still as elegant while booming. "A match where I must admit I am conflicted, my house versus my twin, but alas today is not about me."

Her light oddities brought a sense of familiar calmness through you as Pandora began to outline the scores so far in the season and what this match would mean. You wonder if that was why she was chosen as commentator.

When she introduced Slytherin's team, you beamed with pride, paying closer attention. "And of course we have the stoic Regulus Black, who is looking rather dashing in his green jersey, which the lovely Y/N has dutifully matched today it seems."

Just like that, calmness was replaced by a painful flush shooting across your face, both at the incredibly public comment and the immediate hoots and hollers and yeahs that exploded from behind you.

The unsuppressed giggle from Pandora revealed her intentions. Clearly, she's spent too much time with Barty, you decided.

"He is rather dashing, isn't he, Y/N?" James asked from behind you.

"If you spent more of your time complimenting Evans, maybe she'd actually go out with you," you said drily. To emphasise your point and feeling perhaps emboldened by the Gryffindor bravado that engulfed you, you looked at both Mary and Lily. "You two look beautiful today, by the way."

The girls smirked at you and you could hear James guffawing behind you.

Remus bumped his knee against yours with a sly smile. "I must say, you're fitting right in with your in-laws."

"Don't start," was all you offered, but your smile held more warmth after that. Remus held up his hands in a display of innocence, but his laugh betrayed any pretence.

The sound of the whistle alerted you all to the game being in motion.

Players zoomed across the field at speeds that would tighten any friend's heart, gracing you with some silence from those around you as everyone zeroed in on the game. Regulus flew around the pitch, keeping out of the way, but close enough to pay attention. You could tell how alert he was even from a distance, ready to twist after the snitch at any given moment, even before it came into play.

Pandora continued her commentary with her typical flights of fancy, describing the players’ movements like they were graceful choreographies and making odd analogies that half the stadium likely didn’t follow. “Ah, and Ravenclaw’s beater winds up to swing like a very determined house elf polishing silver. Look at that tenacity!”

Regulus looked so in his element out there, still his assertive, poised self, but with a decisive ruggedness about him. It almost made you want to play alongside him, to witness this version of him as well.

With the years you had found you wanted to see every version of Regulus.

Even with your distractedness by overwhelming emotion that just wouldn't stay away like you instructed it to, you saw the moment Regulus caught sight of the snitch. His body gave little reaction as to not give away that he had seen it, but the increased speed and determinism of his broom could not be mistaken.

You found yourself sitting on the edge of your seat, watching his every move. You could hear the exact moment James, Marlene and Sirius – in that order – recognised it as well.

"Come on, Reggie," Sirius whispered. You weren't sure if he knew he had said it.

With your eyes fixated on Regulus, you barely registered when the Ravenclaw team realised the snitch had been spotted. Their seeker hauled around, following Regulus, but she was too slow. Excitement built in your chest, victory within Regulus' reach. The small golden sphere was close to his broom now, enough that Regulus made to grasp at it, when another ball came into view, bigger and darker.

The bludger collided into Regulus' elbow. A second one immediately went for his head, which he was barely able to dodge, but it still made connection with his upper chest.

You jumped up from where you stood, a yell of fear and protest already making its way out of your lungs before you could think. A collective gasp went through the crowd before the stands erupted in boos at the clear foul.

In the skies, Regulus barely kept his balance on his broom before Dorcas was at his side, stabilising him. You could see him flinch when she accidentally grabbed at his hurt elbow. The whistle went off before any further developments in the game could occur. For a moment you thought it was due to Regulus' injury, before you caught sight of Barty and Evan engaged in mid-air fist-fights with the Ravenclaw beaters.

Good.

As Dorcas steered Regulus downwards to the Healer's station on the side of the pitch, underneath a makeshift rooftop, there were few thoughts that went through your head other than Regulus' name.

Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.

Which is the only explanation you had for why you ran out of the stands with no hesitation nor explanation.

You could barely hear Sirius and the others call after you, but you were already taking the stairs three at a time, making your way down to the pitch – making your way to the Healer's station. Your brain didn't turn on again before you saw Regulus, already sitting down beside the 7th year interns of Madam Pomfrey who were wrapping up his elbow.

His face was wrung up in a pained grimace, which he quickly tried to school away once he saw you, eyes widening. He waved the healers off with his good arm and stood up a bit wobbly as you ran up to him.

"Regulus," you breathed out as you stopped before him.

"Amour, I–" he started, but you cut him off as you grabbed at his chin to move his face around and look for pain or injury. You tugged his jersey down slightly to take a look at the purple bruising spreading beneath his collarbone.

"Those absolute fucking bastards," you murmured, fingers tracing lightly over the colouring that kept all of your attention.

Regulus brought his good hand up to your own chin, tilting it so that your eyes were on his once more, small smile hidden within his irises. "I'm alright," he whispered.

"No, you're beaten literally black and blue," you huffed.

"I'll be alright, though." His face aimed at being reassuring, but it was difficult through the pain. "I've been given pain potion, healing cream and they episkey’d my–"

"Those tossers broke your bones?!" you cut him off incredulously at the mention of the healing spell.

"You did tell me to break them before, did you not?" Regulus said teasingly. You realised his hand migrated from your chin to the side of your jaw when he brushed his thumb calmingly over it once.

You narrowed your gaze at him. "Not. What. I. Meant." You punctuated each word with a poke to the non-bruised side of his chest.

"I'm alright," he repeated softly. You still wanted him to say it one more time.

"Black!" The referee called and you both turned around, like a deer caught in headlights. "Will you be good to return to the game or do you need a reserve to take over?" Behind him, the Ravenclaw beaters and Barty and Evan had finally been separated and quickly patched up. You hope episkey was needed for those two as well.

"I'm good!" he called at the same time as you said "Reserve!" You whipped your face around to look at him incredulously.

"Regulus. You are injured."

"I'm patched up and there's just a few minutes left anyway. I'd go crazy if I didn't finish this game, amour." Regulus was so attentive when he reassured you, returning his hand to your face, massaging at the back of your neck.

"And what do you think would happen to me if you went back out? I'll go crazy." You felt almost childish as you said it, like a 5 year old stomping your foot, but you felt justified in it nonetheless.

"It'll be alright. I'll catch the snitch and come right back to you, yeah?"

He was already starting to pull away from you as he said it, to return to the pitch. It was only then you realised you had stood nearly flush against each other. Your hand shot out to grasp at the side of his jersey.

"Y/N–" Regulus started.

You cut him off with a kiss.

It was soft despite the tension in your body and your knuckles whitening from the strength of your grip on him. His lips were cold from flying, but responded to yours in an instant. It was brief in its sweetness, but sweet all the same.

You pulled away and took a step back immediately, hands dropping at each of your sides. Regulus stared at you dumbly.

"Was that– was that to keep me off the broom?" he asked carefully. You almost wanted to say yes from the possible willingness in his voice.

You just smiled at him. "It was for good luck. Since you clearly can't be trusted with my muggle idioms."

A slow grin spread across his face at the same time as the referee called his name more harshly. "Okay," he whispered, seemingly awestruck as he backed away from you for the second time that day. "Okay, I'll be back in a moment, promise," he said more loudly.

Behind him Dorcas was grinning at you over her shoulder as she walked away from the edge of the tent. You felt bad you hadn’t realised she was near, but it didn’t seem like it bothered her at the time, smug happiness evident in her features.

How Regulus was able to play with a bruised collarbone and a just-repaired elbow you had no idea. Yet you knew he had done worse, so it shouldn't surprise you even as it horrified you to no end. You remained in the Healer's tent, shielded from view in the stands, and chewing on the side of your thumb as you watched Regulus' every move in the sky. The beaters were still on him, but so were Barty and Evan, more incessant than ever. You all but flinched when Regulus reached out once more with his injured arm, and the sigh that took over your body when his gloved fingers closed around the snitch was nothing but pure relief.

The stadium burst into loud cheers and you could vaguely make out Pandora's melodic voice over the roar, but it all fell on deaf ears. Your eyes were locked with Regulus' from the moment the players neared the ground.

While worry still clenched in your heart, now that Regulus was officially safe, the shock of what you did was able to wash over you.

You kissed Regulus. He kissed you back. He smiled. He seemed okay with it. What the fuck? Your mind was going a mile a minute as you kept looking at him, recognising to the fullest extent how his tousled hair makes your heart spin, how you longed for his presence in your arms in every form of the word. It was both disorientating and oddly familiar to you. Natural. Right.

You swallowed it up as the players landed.

When their boots hit the pitch, Evan and Dorcas physically collided into a hug in a way that must have hurt, practically screaming in victory as they shook each other.

Likewise, Barty was on Regulus, but it seemed for a different reason. Mindful of his injuries, Barty lifted Regulus up by the waist, spinning him around twice while yelling something along the lines of "Took you bloody long enough!" before all but launching him towards the Healer's tent – towards you.

"Fucking finally!" Barty once more screeched cheerily behind him as Regulus used the momentum from Barty's manhandling to jog towards you. "Finally!" Then he turned around and joined Evan and Dorcas' howling.

Regulus smiled as he came up towards you and when you opened your arms for a hug, his hands went up to cup your face and he went straight for the kiss.

You melted against his body, holding one arm around his waist and another at the nape of his neck. This kiss was longer, deeper, in a way that made your stomach flip and toes curl. It felt real. It felt like it meant something.

"Sorry, I wanted to be the first to do it," Regulus mumbled against your lips. He pulled away slightly, body still flush against yours as he studied your face curiously. "I– You want this? You want me?"

"I've always wanted you, Reg," you whispered.

His eyes flitted between yours, your eyebrows, your lips, even your nose and the way it crinkled slightly. "Like this?" His voice was raw and honest, laying everything bare.

"Yeah," you laughed almost tearily. "Like this."

He smiled as he brought you in for another kiss before scattering them rapidly around your lips, your cheeks, your nose, crinkling it once more. You laughed against him and it felt perfectly right.

Regulus flinched a little when he tried to tighten his hold on you and his elbow collided with yours. You immediately sobered up.

"We're going to Pomfrey's," you declared, stroking a hand up and down his back consolingly. "Now."

"I just have to finish up with the team first–" He tried, but you cut him off.

"You won the game for the team, I think you've done enough." You smiled knowingly, but the sternness did not leave you. "We are going to get you properly patched up and receive in-depth instructions on how to deal with the injuries."

Regulus nodded, reluctance fading away. "Okay. I just have to let Sirius know I'm okay first."

You sighed, indulgence flickering through your eyes. "You're impossible."

"Got it from him."

"We'll check in with Sirius and then head off to the infirmary." You were mapping out the plan in your head and Regulus stared at you fondly. You cheekily added, "I can't very well kiss this better."

Regulus’s eyes softened, a warm glow flooding his gaze. His voice was quiet, tone raw. “Could you please try anyway?”

You shook your head fondly at him. Slowly, you brought him down for a lingering kiss, breathing him in.

Regulus was smiling against your lips when a wolf-whistle pierced your silence.

"Is the gig finally up then?" Sirius called. 

You both turned your heads, still all up in each other's space to see Sirius strolling up to you, friends in tow. Marlene was guilty of the whistling and bore matching grins with Sirius, James and Remus.

Regulus looked down at you, almost as if to check if you're okay with it. Upon your indulgent smile, he turned back towards his brother and said, "Okay, fine, maybe we're in love!"

[mangooes]

The Cat-tastrophe, A runaway kitten

This is the part 2 of the Cat-tastrophe series! Soo i deff recommend for you to read the first part before continuing on this~!

Part 1!

Sylus had spent hours tracking his runaway wife.

If anyone had told him years ago that he would one day be scouring the city for his wife—who had turned into a tiny, sassy cat—he would have laughed in their face. And yet, here he was, standing beneath the moonlit branches of a large, old tree, crimson eyes glinting in amusement as he finally found her.

Perched lazily on a thick tree branch, her tail flicking with leisure, was his beloved (Name)—fluffy, tiny, and incredibly smug wife.

Mephisto had been the one to track her down, the mechanical bird circling above before landing on Sylus’s shoulder with a mechanical whir. "Target located," the bird reported, tilting its head toward the tree.

Sylus sighed, but a deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Of course, she ran here."

Tipping his head back to look up at the massive oak tree standing tall in the quiet park. The very same tree where years ago, beneath the glow of the streetlamps, he had first confessed to his stubborn wife. The night she had stormed off in anger, demanding answers, before he had finally told her the truth— as his feelings laid bare infront of the woman he loves.

And in the end, he had sealed it with a kiss, holding her close right beneath this tree’s branches.

Now?

Now, that same woman—his fierce, untamable wife—was curled up on a high branch, in the form of a fluffy, sassy cat. Lounging as if she hadn’t just given him a headache by running off.

Sylus let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head.

"Sweetie," Sylus drawled, tilting his head up at the feline sprawled out in the tree. "I’ve been looking for you everywhere."

"Of all places, you ran here? I'm touched, kitten." He smirked, the nostalgic warmth filling his chest. "Guess that night meant something to you too, hmm?"

From her perch, Cat-(Name) flicked her tail at him, utterly unbothered. Deliberately turned away from him, stretching her tiny paws like she had all the time in the world. Her eyes blinked lazily as if saying: Yes, and?

Sylus exhaled, amused but exasperated. "Alright, kitten. You’ve had your fun. Come down now."

She simply stretched, her tiny paws reaching forward, then curled back into her spot, smugly ignoring him.

He arched a brow. "Playing hard to get again? Just like back then?"

His wife-the-cat let out a small huff, which only made his grin widen.

"Fine," he murmured. "If you won’t come down, I’ll just bring you down myself."

With a flick of his wrist, black and red mist curled around his fingers, twisting upwards. His Evol—his energy manipulation—snaked toward the tree branch, forming into gentle, smoke-like tendrils. Before she could react, the tendrils coiled under her small form, lifting her up smoothly, weightless in the air.

Her eyes widened in surprise, she immediately started wiggling as she let out an indignant little meow!

"Ah ah ah—no running now, kitten." Sylus smirked. "What’s wrong? Didn’t think I’d fetch you myself?"

She squirmed, clearly protesting her capture, but Sylus was already reaching out, plucking her from the air and securing her against his chest.

“Caught you,” he murmured, smugly.

Cat-(Name) huffed, ears flattening, but didn’t fight him when he wrapped his dark jacket around her small body, tucking her in snugly against the warmth of his chest.

"See? Now isn’t this much better?" Sylus murmured as he held her close, nuzzling his wife's soft feline fur, feeling her tiny heartbeat against his palm.

"You always run," he murmured, stroking a finger under her chin. "But you never get away from me, sweetie."

He took one last glance at the tree before turning on his heel, heading back towards his parked bike.

"Now, Let's go home shall we?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment they stepped inside, the warmth of their home welcomed them. Sylus barely made it past the living room before he noticed the small, soft weight in his arms getting heavier.

He smirked, looking down at the tiny cat in his jacket.

Her breathing had slowed, her small paws tucked under her chin.

“Already getting sleepy?” he murmured, his voice softer now.

She let out a slow, relaxed sigh, nestling deeper into his chest.

Sylus exhaled, his grip tightening protectively around her as he carried her straight to their bedroom.

By the time he made it into the hallway, Luke and Kieran appeared at the end of it.

"Boss!" Luke panted, holding up a small glass vial with a shimmering liquid inside. "We found it—the antidote!"

“The antidote,” Kieran added. “Should bring her back to normal.”

Luke grinned, elbowing his twin beside him. "Aren’t you gonna thank us, Boss? We did find the cure to turn the missus back into a non-furry version of herself."

Kieran standing beside, shot him a look.

Sylus took the vial, rolling it between his fingers as he glanced at the tiny, peacefully sleeping cat curled up in his arms. His red eyes softened.

Then he cast them a slow, unimpressed look.

"Am I thanking you?" he said in a dangerously soft tone. "You two were the ones who let her escape in the first place."

Luke and Kieran went rigid.

"Uh—technically, she outsmarted us—"

"Lucky," Sylus interrupted, his voice dark, "that I haven’t told you to run laps all night for failing to keep my wife in check."

The twins shut their mouths immediately, and make a run for it.

Returning to the bedroom, he carefully opened the door, and laid her down to their shared bed gently, as he sat down beside her.

Sylus carefully coaxed Cat-(Name) onto his lap, stroking her soft fur as he gently held the vial to her lips.

"Come on, sweetie," he murmured, voice laced with quiet patience. "Drink up for me."

(Name), still drowsy, instinctively let out a small drowsy meow in protest.

Then his lips curled upwards, teasing, playfull.

"You don't want to stay as a cat forever, don't you sweetie? Not that i mind keeping you like this forever."

Her ears straightened, as she licked at the liquid before huffing and curling up again, letting out a tiny yawn. Sylus smirked, smitten, enchanted by his wife's adorable antics, shaking his head as he set the now-empty vial aside.

"Good girl," he murmured fondly.

Lying back against the pillows, he pulled her close against his chest, his arms circling around her small frame. Sylus rarely slept at night—his business ran in the darkness, and sleep had always been secondary to him.

But tonight?

Tonight, he decided he could take the night off.

Holding his wife—cat or not—was far more important.

After all, the N109 Zone could definitely manage without his presence for just one night.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sylus felt warmth.

A very familiar warmth.

Slowly, his crimson eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the morning light that peeked through the curtains.

And there she was.

When he finally adjusted his crimson gaze, he was met with the sight of her.

(Name), back in her human form, lying in his arms, her breathing slow and even as she slept.

His gaze softened.

Reaching up, Sylus gently brushed a few messy strands of curls from her face. Her features were peaceful, relaxed—so utterly beautiful that something in his chest clenched.

Completely unaware of how deeply she had him wrapped around her little finger.

His wife. His home. His (Name). His everything.

Leaning down, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, careful not to wake her.

"Welcome back, my naughty runaway kitten," he whispered against her skin.

Then, with a quiet chuckle, he tightened his arms around her, pulling her impossibly closer, as if making sure she was really there.

"You’re never running from me again, sweetie," he murmured, closing his eyes with a satisfied smile.

He wasn’t letting her go. Not now. Not ever.

Yo! I finished part 2 and i am satisfied with how this played out <3 I couldnt put the other lis as cameo here since i dont wanna mix up the story lines and such and i couldnt think of a scenario to put them in- so here have Sylus with his cat wife back to normal <3

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. ﹙ mad doctor naga x afab gn reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . sit on my face !! 🍒 :  villains ˖ mad scientist ˖ mad doctor﹙ verse 209 jingyi. ﹚

getting on top of his face for him to relax a bit, cw: face sitting, cunnilingus, snake tongue

"Sweetheart," his deep sigh has you biting on your lip. Delicate, strong hands splay out on your thighs. Urge you closer once more. You strain back in a small buck and bite back a whine. "I cannot do this properly if you do not sit."

"I'm worried - " you whine, one hand buried in his dark strands. The other against the headboard. To say you expected to sit on your doctor lover's face when he came on home after a long surgery. . . well.

"Did you not wish to help me relax?"

Amber slit slither up from below your cunt. The arch of his brows has you pressing your lips together. But not your hips. You remain hovered. Much to Jingyi's dismay.

"I did but - but gege -"

Another sigh, this time you nearly feel bad. Here is he is, having to coax you again. The silence only stirs the feeling worse and you try to look down an catch his eyes. An apology on your lips —

"Ah-!"

Hands that previously splayed now yank, hard. You stumble over. Cunt pressed down to his face. His awaiting tongue catches. A fat strip lines your folds before cold lips kiss from the slit to your awaiting clit. He wastes no time in wrapping around the sensitive bud. Suckles. Groans even. Before he's back to your dripping cunt.

You shoot to grip onto his hair with both hands. Any protests fall into moans. Your hips rock down into his face and your whines sing his name so clearly.

"J-Jin - Jingyi - ! Oh - "

The loud slurp has your eyes rolled back. That grip on your thigh squeezes on the fat and grinds you down. You're slopping up his face. You can feel it. From his chin to his nose — and he doesn't seem to mind one bit.

The only response you receive are his sharp eyes from below. The small creases at the corner spell out his smugness. If you weren't crumbling from the sheer intensity of his pussy-eating, you might have cussed him out.

You're the one on top. And yet you feel helpless. Weightless. The kisses around your cunt. The suckles. Licks. Hell - the second his elongated tongue ventured into your slit you're a goner. Unable to do anything but ride your boyfriend's face and whine in embarrassment over your wet cunt making louder noises than you.

You'll double over. Cling to the headboard. Buck. Gasp as you squeeze out an orgasm all over his face. Does he stop?

Of course not. His groan vibrates your wet pussy and he starts lapping immediately. Shoves his tongue back in. Grinds you down firmer. You're gasping for breath. Crumbling.

How the hell is he breathing down there? As he's said countless times. He doesn't need air when burried in your sweet cunt. He's proved that tonight.

[subliminalwish]

A Blooming Predicament

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Pairing: Sylus x Reader Summary: What you thought was a chance encounter with someone on the run might not be as random as you thought. Content: reader is not MC, reader is female, have I mentioned this is a slow burn? mentions of blood & violence

------

You stumble into your small apartment a little later than usual.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. You barely make it a step before pressing your back against the wood and sliding down until you're sitting on the floor, legs bent, hands limp at your sides, the aftermath of what happened beginning to press in on you.

Your heart isn’t racing anymore, but the memory of it is fresh, lingering just beneath your skin. The scent of blood and gunpowder, the cool press of your fingertip against his collar, the heat of him when you brushed against his skin. Realising that you felt the movement of his throat, the slow bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. His eyes, burning red, unreadable, locked on yours as if he was trying to decipher something that only he could see.

You close your eyes, exhaling through your nose. It’s fine. You handled it. It was just a moment, nothing more. You aren’t the type to get caught up in things that don’t concern you.

And yet.

Your fingers brush against the fabric of your uniform, right where he had slipped something into your pocket. You hesitate before pulling it out.

The black feather sits against your palm, soft and weightless, light on your skin and heavy with a promise.

"If you ever find yourself in need of assistance, call me."

You exhale, a mirthless chuckle escaping you as you turn the feather in your hand, the light of the fluorescent above you reflecting on its smooth iridescent sheen. It almost doesn’t seem real, much like what transpired in the shop just hours before.

Assistance. Right.

What on earth kind of assistance would you need from a man being chased by armed thugs?

You push yourself off the floor, ready to put this night behind you. You give the feather on your hand one last lingering look, gently twirling it with your finger, remembering scarlet moons searing into your soul, peeling back layers and stirring emotions you dare not name.

The thought sends a ripple of unease through your chest, but before you can push it away, something shifts between your fingers. A smoky flicker of black and red wisps around the feather, curling at the edges like smouldering embers.

You barely have time to react before it vanishes in an instant, reduced to nothing before it materializes into something small and thin. It falls to the floor with a soft clatter.

You bend down to pick up what had fallen, your heart thumping against your chest. The smooth black card glints faintly under the dim light, its surface elegant yet strangely ominous. There’s no name, no instructions – only a single phone number written in deep red ink, standing out stark against the darkness of the card.

It feels heavier than it should.

You stare at the card for a long moment, your fingers ghosting over the raised ink, feeling the smoothness of it against your skin, the weight of the night pressing against your shoulders. The lingering scent of flowers clings to your clothes, yet underneath it, you swear you can still smell traces of smoky leather and something dark, something that doesn’t belong, like something out of a dream.

“What the fuck?” Was all you could muster.

You shake your head, exhaling sharply, tossing the card onto the counter, determined to forget about everything. This is far too much excitement for one day.

The moment you slump onto the couch, your phone rings. Your friend’s name flashes on the screen – calling from halfway across the city. You haven’t spoken with them in ages, remembering your mutual promise to keep in touch every now and then.

You answer with a smile, eager for something normal.

“Hey, Simone! How’s the Hunter life treating you?”

You barely register the loud flutter of feathered wings outside your window as you chat with your friend.

------

You’re pretty sure the store got robbed last night after you left.

You didn’t think much of it when you woke up feeling a weight to the late morning, took you a few seconds to remember why – like you’ve left your handprints on glass, your memory of last night shrouded in smoky wisps of black and red. There’s a sense that you’ve crossed something you don’t have words for yet, only for the feeling to be ignored as you get ready for your shift.

And yet there you stood, barely a few steps into the shop to find every single shelf devoid of flowers.

It takes you a full ten seconds to process what you’re looking at before you hear another noise from further into the shop.

Your co-worker stumbles in from the storeroom behind the counter, their face brightening up when they register your shock.

“Hey, you’re just in time!” They wave excitedly. You don’t respond, still in shock, and they chuckle at your bewilderment.

“You won’t believe what happened this morning!” They’re practically vibrating with excitement as they offer the explanation your face was begging for. “Someone called as soon as we opened and bought out our whole inventory!”

Okay, maybe not a robbery. “Who was it? And what for?”

“Well,” they pause, sounding unsure. “It was weird. They said it was to thank a friend? Maybe it’s for some fancy tribute? They said only our shop had what they wanted. Bought everything we’ve got! And because of the recent Wanderer attacks all our suppliers’ routes are messed up. We won’t get new stocks for days! Can you believe it?”

You look around again at the empty shelves, hoping this wasn’t some elaborate prank. “If a TV crew pops out from behind you, I will punch you in the face.” Your co-worker bends over the counter with laughter, clearly amused.

But no one jumps out, and it’s just you and your colleague in the empty shop, their quiet laughter echoing in the small space. Which means some obscenely rich lunatic has single-handedly decimated the shop's inventory overnight. And while it was a modest shop, you held some pride in it being well-stocked most of the time. So what kind of unhinged, last-minute event needs this many flowers?

“So, what do we do now? Do we go home?” You ask, uncertainty laced in your words.

They wipe their tears and straighten up. “Yeah, already spoke with the owner. They said we can have the next three days off since every supplier in the area is busy trying to find new routes.” You start to open your mouth, but they hold their hand up. “I already asked – we’re still getting paid.”

You let out a sigh of relief, mood already lightening up at the reassurance, and those hazy strands of black and red ease their grip on your memory a little.

Last night, you half-joked to Simone about needing a break, complaining out loud about wanting more time to sleep. Now, standing outside the shop with three unexpected days off, you can’t help but wonder if the universe has a sense of humour – or if it just enjoys messing with you.

Or if perhaps the devil had been listening.

------

The phone screen glares too bright against the dimming sky, the message from your coworker stark and matter-of-fact: new shift timings, your three days off over just like that. You sigh, pocketing the device as reality sets in.

Still, you were grateful for the respite, and as you walk home carrying your small bag of snacks you hum a soft tune to yourself.

The sky has darkened fast, thick clouds rolling in with the promise of sudden rain. Your steps were unhurried, your hand rummaging through your bag for the umbrella you always carry.

Your steps slow down even more as you busy yourself with fishing it out of your bag, fingers skimming over the hard case of your EpiPen – its smooth surface a familiar comfort – as you gently shift it aside to pull the umbrella out, the raindrops now increasing in intensity.

You pause as you click it open and as you lift it to shield you from the rain, your gaze falls to the dark alley to your left, expecting to see the usual scenery of city clutter; maybe a lost stray would dart from the corners to ask for pets or even shelter, something you might even inevitably end up taking home. You've always had a soft spot for strays.

As your eyes adjust to the dimness of the alley you see a large shape slumped against the alley wall, unmoving, half-hidden by the rubbish bins. You furrow your brows and squint.

Your vision takes in its limp arms and long legs splayed haphazardly, a puddle of something dark and thick pooling beneath the shape, mixing with the rain. The man wasn’t making any motion to escape the drizzle.

A split second of frozen horror – someone is bleeding out – before recognition slams into you.

That mess of white hair looked oddly familiar.

You were moving before you even realized it, your umbrella and bag of snacks left abandoned on the sidewalk as you ran to his side. Cupping his cheek with one hand to feel his warmth, fingers of your other hand sliding to the side of his neck to check his pulse – weak but it’s there.

He lets out a sharp exhale, casts hooded eyes at you, but he makes no other attempt to move. You didn’t like how unfocused those eyes looked. His lashes barely fluttered.

You grip his arm, heaving it over your shoulders, but his weight nearly sends you staggering. Too heavy, too limp – dead weight. You tighten your grip, knees shaking, every muscle in your body screaming protest.

It’s going to be a slow, agonising walk back to your apartment.

You take a step. And then another. You aren’t the type to get caught up in things that don’t concern you.

You don’t even know his name.

[ateezscupid]

─── FEB FILTH FEST: Mmmh - SIZE KINK ♡

SUMMARY / You've always loved how big your boyfriend was.

warnings ✩ PORN LINK, SMUT, DOM/SUB dynamics, dom!mingi, brat sub!reader, size kink, established relationship, reader is - well - very small in comparison to mingi, unprotected sex, praise, pet names (tiny, princess, little one, etc.)

word count ✩ 1,96k

tags ✩ @desirehorizon @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @bbdeongi @dawn-iscozy @xh01bri @mallielovssyou @clxssy1997 @soreberry @nopension @kitten4sannie @faeriehwas @lustfxq @ashistrashhhhhh @hwallazia

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / REQUEST / FEB FILTH FEST

The second you laid your eyes on Mingi, you fell in love. He was tall, built, had a pretty face -- but most importantly, he was bigger than you entirely. In every way that mattered, Mingi was a giant. You had a thing for guys like him, a size kink that had been a secret delight of yours for as long as you could remember. And here he was, your boyfriend, all yours.

You were scared to bring it up at first because you didn't want him to think you were weird, but the second you even mentioned it, Mingi's eyes lit up with excitement. He had always been open about his own kinks, and your size kink just added another layer to the intimacy you shared.

"It turns me on knowing I could fill you up so completely."

God, he was so hot. And tonight, he went all out. You could feel your knees trembling as Mingi wrapped his muscular arms around you, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing at all. His eyes, those deep, dark pools of desire, searched yours for the consent that you were more than eager to give. You nodded, your heart racing with excitement. He knew exactly how to play into your kink, how to make you feel so small and vulnerable yet so incredibly desired.

"So you really like being thrown around like this? Like some sorta doll?" Mingi's grin was wicked, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. You couldn't help but nod again, your cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. The way he handled you, like you were so much smaller than him, was intoxicating.

Mingi took a step back, eyeing you up and down, his gaze lingering on your thighs. "I always hated saying you were easy to throw around because of how small you are but, I mean, if you're into that-"

"Obviously it's weird if a stranger says it but not you. You're my giant," you replied breathlessly, feeling a rush of arousal at the thought of his immense power over you. Mingi chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest like a distant earthquake, and with one swift movement, he grabbed you by the thighs, hoisting you up in the air until your legs were dangling and your arms were wrapped tightly around his neck. Your body felt weightless in his strong grip, the blood rushing to your head and pooling in your cheeks as you gazed up at him.

"And you're my doll." he smiles, waddling his way toward the bed with you in his arms. He lays you down gently, the soft mattress giving way beneath your combined weight. He hovers over you, his large hands planted firmly beside your head. You feel his warm breath on your neck as he leans down, whispering sweet nothings that make your heart race even faster.

"Min," you moan. "Cmon, please. Touch me."

Mingi's smile widens as he looks down at you. He runs a finger along your jaw, his touch so gentle it feels like the brush of a feather. He backs away and lifts his hoodie over his head, revealing the abs and muscles that you've come to adore. His hands move to his belt, unbuckling it with a swift motion, and his pants follow shortly after. His size is breathtaking, making your mouth water at the sight.

He was silent as he rid himself of his clothes. Once he was done with his, he pulled you closer by your legs and started taking yours off too. You felt a mix of nervousness and excitement as the fabric of your pants slid down your legs and your feet kicked them away. You were wearing your favorite lacy underwear today, and you hoped he liked the sight of them.

"Aw, you're wearing my favorites." Mingi's voice was a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the very air around you as he took in the sight of your dainty underwear. He traced his thumb over the delicate lace, the pad of his thumb brushing against your sensitive skin and making you squirm beneath him.

"S-Shut up," you murmur, trying to hide your smile. "They're just-"

But your protests are cut short as Mingi leans down and captures your lips with a gentle yet firm kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting every corner with a hunger that leaves you panting. The sensation of his massive body looming over yours, his weight pressing you into the bed, sends a delicious thrill through you. You can feel his erection, hot and heavy, pressing against your stomach, and the anticipation of what's to come is almost too much to handle.

He flipped himself over and brought you along with him, sitting you on top of him. You felt the tip of his cock brush against your wet pussy, and you gasped at the sheer size of it. It was like sitting on a throne made of flesh, and you couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed. But you didn't want to show it, not when Mingi was looking at you with those hungry eyes.

"Princess," Mingi says, his voice a low growl. "You know what to do."

You shake your head. "No I don't," you smile, playing coy. But you do know. You straddle him, the heat of his body searing into yours, and you start to rock back and forth, letting his length slide against your folds. The fabric of your underwear is the only barrier between the two of you, and the friction is driving you wild.

"Really? Cmon tiny," he says with a smirk, his hands on your hips, guiding you back and forth. He's so big, so powerful, and you can't help but feel like a plaything in his grasp. The way he controls your movements is maddening, but in the best way possible. You bite your bottom lip as the fabric gets wetter, his cock straining against it, begging for more.

"You're so big." you whisper, your voice barely a breath. The anticipation is thick, hanging in the air like a mist of desire that surrounds you both. Mingi's hands tighten on your hips as you lean down, your breasts brushing against his chest, your heart beating a wild tattoo against his ribs.

You lift your hips and grab his cock with once hand, gently stroking it as you lean back down to kiss him again. The fabric of your underwear is soaked through now, and it's clear that it won't hold up much longer. Mingi groans into your mouth as you increase the pressure, his hands moving to cup your ass, encouraging you to keep moving. The head of his cock slips under the elastic and you gasp, the sensation of his bare skin against yours making you shiver.

You pull away from the kiss and push him inside inch by inch, feeling yourself stretch around his girth. Your eyes widen with a mix of pleasure and pain as he fills you completely, his cock pressing against your walls with a gentle but firm insistence. It's a feeling like no other, one that sends waves of pleasure through your body and leaves you panting for more.

"S-So big," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper as he stretches you open. His cock feels like it's splitting you in two, yet it's the most amazing feeling you've ever experienced. You tighten your grip on his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin, as you take him all in. His eyes never leave yours, watching your every reaction, the hunger in them growing with every inch you take.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin as he watches your face contort with pleasure. "Take all of me." His voice is deep, commanding, and you can't help but obey. You rock your hips back and forth, taking him deeper with every stroke, until you're fully seated on his cock. The pressure is intense, but it's a good pain, the kind that makes you feel alive.

"Such a cute little thing, aren’t you?" Mingi murmurs, his voice thick with lust as he watches your face contort with pleasure. His large hands are still on your hips, guiding your movements, but he's letting you set the pace. "Bein' so small and still bein' able to take all of me," You feel so small and delicate on top of him, like a doll being played with by a giant, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod, biting your lip to keep from screaming as the pressure builds inside you. You start to move faster, your movements more frantic, your hips rising and falling in a steady rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart. You can feel every inch of him, every vein and ridge, and it's like nothing you've ever felt before. Your body feels like it's been made for this, for him, and the thought sends you spiraling closer to the edge.

"Yeah, tiny," he groaned, digging his nails into your skin. "Look how good your pussy is taking me, baby."

"O-Oh my god," you manage to say, your voice strained as you try to keep up with the delicious friction building between your legs. Mingi's cock feels like it's everywhere, stretching you, filling you so completely that you can't help but clench down around him. His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging in as he watches you ride him. You're so close, so close to coming, and the thought of him watching you, feeling you clench around his cock like a vice, sends you hurtling over the edge.

"You're so close, aren't you? Can't even take everything I'm giving you?" Mingi teased, his voice a low, taunting growl that sent shivers down your spine. You nodded frantically, trying to form words through the haze of pleasure. His smirk grew as he sat up, wrapping his arms around your waist and flipping you over, so you were on your back with his cock still buried inside you. The shift in position made you gasp, his size feeling even more overwhelming as he pinned you down with his weight.

"M-Min, I'm-" you start to protest, but he cuts you off with a firm thrust, burying himself even deeper inside you. Your eyes roll back in your head and a strangled cry escapes your lips. The new angle hits you just right, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. His muscular chest loomed over you, each of his movements causing his abs to flex and bulge, casting shadows in the dimly lit room.

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand. "You're so tiny under me like this," he whispered, his breath hot in your ear. The feeling of his weight and his power made your body respond in ways you couldn't explain. You moaned as he began to fuck you with deep, deliberate strokes, his hips moving like a piston, each thrust driving his cock into you so far you could feel it in your stomach.

"Look at this," his other hand pressed down on your stomach, pushing you further into the mattress. "You're so tight, baby. So. Fucking. Tight." His words were punctuated by deep, powerful thrusts, each one pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel his abs tighten and release as he moved above you, the muscles in his arms bulging with the effort of holding himself up and controlling his movements.

"'m gonna cum," you moan, the words slipping out of your mouth like a desperate plea. Mingi's grip on your wrists tightens, his pace unrelenting.

"Good," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "Cum for me, princess."

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

I Put A Spell On You.

(Part Two)

Smoke and Rosetta got some makin’ up to do

It was a reflex for him to reach for his revolver. The sound of a withering floorboard caused Smokes to jump up from his sleep and grab it from the side table swiftly.

Click.

He was ready to aim and shoot down. Smokes’ unwavering gaze in that dimly-lit room cased out every dark corner and his ears listened for any signs of an intruder. He had good form and a lethal mental. He’d heard the sound again and instantly he aimed for the floor, finger on the trigger ready to pull.

A low meow followed by a pretty tabby-cat relaxed his tense muscles. Smokes lowered his weapon with ease before silently putting the revolver back on the night stand. His brandy-colored eyes tracked the movements of the cat between his legs, trying to get a feel of who this stranger was. Eventually, the sound of music on the jukebox and Rosetta’s soft snoring helped to steady his breathing and lower his pulse. Smokes reached to flick off the lamp light and carefully settled back into the rickety mattress. He took one look at Rosetta’s sleeping face before staring up at the ceiling.

Imagine rainfall, accompanied by the sound of a warm guitar slowly picking away at the layer of your sorrows, haunting, yet beautiful. A sense of serenity entered his mind, extinguishing the flames that burn his soul. For a moment, Smokes could feel, and think nothing. So brief, yet so long, he felt at ease. The melody carrying him across distant shores, feeling weightless in its entranced groove. He flew with the progression of the song, eyes closed, allowing his emotions to guide his path. Up and down his chest rose. Beyond the murky sky, the white glow of the moon shown through the window.

A dainty hand touched his chest. Smokes reached up to grasp it, rubbing it with his thumb. His bare dick against his thigh began to grow. Smokes brought her hand to his plump lips and kissed her there gently. The bed creaked beneath them. Smokes glanced down within the darkness, his eyes connecting with the sleepy, doe eyes of his Rosey. Her naked silhouette entranced him. The dip of her hip and the way her breasts hung from her chest aroused him to no end.

It was the way her long, deep wavy hair fell over the pillow. The pearls around her neck made her look ritzy and those red-tinged kissers made him salivate to taste her again. She was breathtaking. And Smokes didn’t lie when he meant she’s the most beautiful in N’awlins. Rosetta sat up and Smokes looked up into her heavenly face. Her fingertips danced across the ridges of muscle on his torso, her eyes never leaving his.

“Can’t sleep, daddy?” She says, voice soft and warm.

“That cat of yours woke me up out my sleep, gal…”

“Not you afraid of cats now…”

Rosetta giggled. Smokes chuckled slightly.

“I ain’t afraid of no fuckin’ cat…I’m just…been out there in some shit, baby. This the first time I had decent sleep.”

Rosetta looked towards Smokes’ revolver. Smoke followed her eyesight.

“I want one. My own gun.” Rosetta said.

“Oh?” Smokes sat up, “is that so?”

“Mhm. You can show me how to point that thang since you back home. Remember, you said you would…”

“I did.”

Rosetta sat up and Smokes situated her between his legs with her back against his chest. Grabbing the revolver, Smokes pointed it in a safe direction. A safe direction means that the gun is pointed in such a way that an accidental fire would not cause any harm. Rosetta watched with great interest. Smokes accessed the cylinder, emptying the bullets before clicking it back in place.

“Aight, Rosey…wrap your dominant hand ‘round the handle…use this hand for support.”

Arms outstretched, Smokes helped Rosetta point the revolver straight ahead at a wall covered with peeling paper.

“Straighten ya elbows, doll…no need to cock it, but steady ya breath…finger on the trigger…”

“It feels…heavy.”

“Hm. Imagine it with bullets.”

Smokes grazed Rosetta’s neck with his fluffy lips. The lingering smell of amber and sweat against his broad nose.

“That’s how you do it. I’ll take ya’ out to shoot soon…”

The urge to stuff his fat dick in her again created a tickling sensation just beneath his navel. Smokes felt at ease being with his woman again. He’d never leave her side again. Even if Stacks got in the way.

Smokes gave Rosey a wet sloppy kiss to her neck. She tilted her head and his thick tongue grazed over the rapid pulse in her neck and directly over that spot that got her wet every time. His thicker fingers were groping her breasts. Rosey released a breathy moan before looking back at Smokes, one hand on the back of his neck, forcing his lips against hers.

Their tongues moved in tandem, the squeaky springs of her not so sturdy bed surrounding them. Rosetta spun around and straddled his lap. Smokes kicked the sheets away from him, adjusting his large body to accommodate Rosetta. The wobbly, metal headboard banged against the wall when she flopped down into his lap.

One hand around her neck, Smokes tugged lightly, bringing Rosetta’s lips to his again. His other hand reached between her meaty thighs to feel the heat and dampness of her folds. Smokes growled against her lips. His dick was cast iron hard and read to fit inside her tight snatch again.

“Tilt ‘dem hips…atta, girl,” Smokes tapped her pussy with his big dick, “Time to fuck on this dick again, baby…”

“Yes, Papa…”

Rosetta wiggled her hips down onto Smokes thick pipe and her mouth dropped open in surprise. Smokes popped her on the ass hard, his way of telling her to get all the way down. Fully stuffed, Rosetta grabbed onto Smokes shoulders and with a whirl of her hips and a bounce she rode him on that rickety bed like it was her last time.

The fullness stretching her out made her shout Papa, Papa, Papa over and over. Smokes was too damn big for that bed but he made it work. He dug his heels into the lumpy mattress and with both hands he kept her cheeks spread while pumping up into her as she dropped down. Wet, skin slapping noises mixed with the way the bed jumped and creaked beneath them.

The steel of the revolver pressed against Rosetta’s knee each time she bounced. It was rough like she needed it. Deep dicking in her bedroom beneath the moonlight. Smokes slammed up in her so good Rosetta spread her thighs more to feel it stretch her. She craved the soreness, the way it tugged on her clit, the slight sting of his heavy balls slapping her ass.

Pop pop pop

Smack smack smack

Clap clap clap

“Damn, Rosey, gettin’ real whacky on that dick, fuck.”

Smokes grabbed her hips and helped her bounce on his length like a good little fuck doll. Her wavy hair shielded her eyes and those pretty titties swayed in his face.

“You hittin’ my spot, Big Daddy…you hittin’ it so good…make your pussy cum…make your bitch pussy cum…”

“Rosey–”

“Dig deeper, Papa–”

“Grip this dick and wet it up with that sweet nectar!”

Rosetta choked his dick with her walls and her cum trickled down his dick and over his balls. Hand in her hair, Smokes slammed his lips against hers while thrusting deeper.

He needed her more.

Smokes put Rosetta on her back and her legs in the air. He dived back in that pussy with his toes planted against the mattress. Rosetta clawed his back up and they both watched it go in and out. Smokes savored her nipples with his lips and tongue, ignoring the hollow dents in the wall from the headboard.

He grabbed a foot and stuck her red–painted toes in his mouth. Rosetta was super soaker wet on that dick, creating a large stain beneath her ass.

“I just wanna eat you up and fuck you…”

Smokes stared down at that hairy pussy with her leg thrown over his shoulder. He released a breath that came out like the hiss of a locomotive. That shit looked beautiful. If he could paint a picture of the way his dick all big and long spread her open he would. The sweat and humidity in that room made it hard to breath. All he wanted to do was be in his woman. They’ll crack a window eventually.

Well, I’ve got a meat grinder, it belongs to me

It's got good movements, I use it constantly

I’ve got a meat grinder, it belongs to me

It's got good movements, I use it constantly

You don't like good grindin', you ain't gotta bit of sense

It's been going on ever since the world commenced

If you don't like good grindin', ain't gotta bit of sense

‘Cause it's been going on, ever since the world commenced…

“That’s it, Big Daddy, cum all in your fat pussy…”

“Oh, yeah?”

Smokes folded Rosetta in half and pounded the fuck outta her. She furrowed her brows, chewed on that lip hard, and spread her pussy lips with those red nails like she wasn’t open enough already.

“Smokes! Yes! Don’t stop fucking me! Don’t stop fuckin’ your creamy pussy! Milk it, Daddy! Fill me up! Papa! That good hard dick!”

“Ahhhhhhhh–”

“Smoke…oooh…yes…yes…right there, daddy…don’t stop…ooooo shiiiit, daddy…fuuck….get it, da–DDY…”

Smokes gave Rosetta a heated glare and just like that he was filling her to the brim with his thick semen, painting her walls heavily. Dick slipping out, he painted her clit with more. Smokes rubbed his tip between her folds, eliciting a creamy noise. Their tired breaths mingled. Smokes slipped from the bed and stumbled on his way to the bathroom.

He ran a bath and took a piss. Rosetta perched her gorgeous frame against the doorway, body glistening from sweat and cum. She was a sight to behold. Smokes is a lucky man. A bar of Palmolive sat untouched on the edge of the claw foot tub. While Smokes shook the access urine from his dick, Rosetta opened a jar filled with lavender, rosemary, and chamomile herbs, sprinkling it into the tub.

It was big enough to fit the both of them. Smokes slipped in first and then Rosetta settled in front of him. They used a soap sponge to clean each other off thoroughly. This was serenity. Encased in her sweet embrace.

“I love you, Rosey.” He whispered.

“And I love you…”

——

The smell of bacon and butter wafted Rosetta’s nose that early morning. She sat up, messy hair in her face while she stretched her tired arms above her head. Smokes being gone told her that he was cooking up some breakfast. Rosetta threw her sheets back from her body and snatched a satin robe from a coat hanger next to her bed. Feet sliding into a pair of house shoes, she looked down and noticed deep scratches in the wood paneling.

She would need to cover that up with a rug or get someone to buffer that out. She didn’t want her mama to have a fit.

Rosetta made her way into the kitchen, the tea kettle whistling as she approached. Smokes moved about the small room with a blunt between his lips and his dick out and swangin. Rosetta admired his tight ass before her eyes swept over his muscular back. She could see that he was making bacon, buttered toast, eggs, and grits. Smokes sat the cast iron on the stove and looked back when he’d heard footsteps.

“Mornin’ sunshine…”

He pecked her lips.

“Smells real good in here,” Rosetta stole a slice of bacon, “I’m hungry from all that sex.”

“Gotta feed you then, huh?” Smokes winked at Rosetta.

Rosetta stole the blunt from his lips and took a hit.

She coughed slightly, Smokes chuckling.

“Careful wit’ that there, Rosey…”

She took another hit and blew smoke towards him to taunt him before sticking her tongue out. Smoke tapped her on the booty.

“Sit that pretty tail down. I’m a plate this food up.”

Rosetta settled in a dining chair. She noticed the news paper and fresh milk on the table. He must of gone to grab it. Rosetta grabbed the paper and opened it to read. She crossed one shapely leg over the other blunt between her fingers as she held the paper up.

“A train hijacking?” Rosetta announced with surprise.

Smokes glanced over at Rosetta while her brown eyes were glued to the paper. He packed her plate and walked over, placing it in front of her. Back at the stove, Smokes poured her a cup of tea.

“Jesus, killed everyone on board…”

“Gimme’ some neck…”

Rosetta tilted her lips towards Smokes and he stuck his tongue in her mouth. The grip she had on the paper slipped. Smokes snatched it from her grasp and placed it on the table with a loud slap.

“Eat, girl.”

Rosetta grabbed her fork but her eyes remained on Smokes. He could feel her staring while he situated himself across from her.

“Level with me, Smokes…you know ‘bout this?”

“Don’t know from nothing, gal. Eat.”

“I’ll eat when you talk to me.”

“Ain’t nothin to share, baby. Everything is copacetic…”

“Did Stacks do this?” Rosetta questioned.

Smokes’ fork clashed with the table. He gave Rosetta a pointed look of warning. Letting her know to drop it.

“Wasn’t Stacks. Wasn’t me. Wasn’t nobody to get all worked up over. I’m good. We’re good.”

“Smokes…I don’t want you gettin’ yourself in trouble. It’s enough that Phonzo wants you dead—”

“Phonzo punk ass already dead. Might as well call it what it is.”

Rosetta bit her tongue. She knew arguing wouldn’t get her the answers she needed. She didn’t want Smokes to return and get himself into deep shit. She knew he was more than capable of handling himself, but Rosetta needed him alive, especially if she planned to marry him and have his butterball babies.

They ate in silence, the food tasty. Smokes sensed that she wanted more, so he filled her plate up again and Rosetta thanked him with a small smile and a kiss. Smokes watched her eat while smoking his weed and when she finished he cleaned. Rosetta drank her tea with those smooth and thick ol’ gams teasing Smoke’s eyes.

As he scrubbed, Rosetta spread her legs in that chair and spread her lower lips with her fingers. Sweet pink graced his eyes. Smokes watched her stroke her clit. He was high and horny again. Dick stood out like a flag pole.

“You want daddy to eat that pussy…”

“Mhm,” Rosetta licked her plump lips.

Smokes dried his hands and marched over to Rosetta. He picked her up and walked her to the couch.

“Wait, not here—”

“This Miss. Doris’ good furniture,” Smokes laughed, not caring at all about the sofa, “Good thing it’s covered in plastic…”

Her legs parted like the Red Sea. Hips aching and inner thighs burning. Smokes wasted no time slurping on her pussy with a wet tongue and thick lips. Rosetta palmed the back of his head and mushed his face in it. He had a habit of being loud while eating pussy. She could feel herself creaming on his chin when he latched onto her clit to suck.

“Yes, oh, fuck, mmmm….”

Rosetta frowned her pretty face. She had a face that belonged in movies. A rare beauty. Smokes never took his eyes off of her, not even when she came in his mouth. He stuck his tongue so far up her pussy to catch it all. Her robe had spilled open, revealing that hot body to him again. Smokes reached up and rolled her nipples between his fingers while continuing to feast on her overflowing pussy.

Smokes popped his lips off her clit to stare down at his work, “you betta cum again,” He sucked again before stopping, “Cum in my mouth before I stuff you again,” He slurped her up again and Rosetta moaned out, “You know who this pussy belong to. Not Phonzo, not no other nigga…”

Rosetta had to pick her lip up to stop herself from drooling. Her eyes crossed as another orgasm rocked her body. She closed her thighs around Smokes head, unable to take the licks he was giving her.

“Got me ready to fuck again,” Smokes took it upon himself to bend Rosetta over the couch, “Bend that back…atta girl…daddy’s good girl,” Smokes spread her ass cheeks wide and grunted, “Shit, Rosey…”

He hunched his body and with the power of his hips he sank into that good twat. Rosetta rode his tip before he could even fit in. He popped her on the ass with his wide palm before thrusting up and deep. Already she was creaming on his dick. Smokes had her by the arms as he pounded.

Rosetta had that IT like no other. Pretty ass voice, pretty ass doll, perfect pussy, perfect face. Smokes watched her head loll back and forth from the momentous pounding he was giving her. That back arched and that ass jiggling. Her knees almost slipped from the sofa so Smokes had to fix her and put his hand in the middle of her back to keep her stationary.

“I’m a fuck a baby in you.”

Rosetta moaned and clenched his dick.

“Like that? Like when I tell you how I’m a get you pregnant? Like that, sweet baby? Make me a Daddy?”

“YES!”

“All wet on Big Daddy’s dick.”

“Oh, Jesus!” Rosetta yelped when his hand wrapped around her neck from the front, bucking those strong hips and slapping those big nuts against her clit.

Smokes growled deep and with two staggering strokes he came inside of her again. He abruptly turned Rosetta’s head and plunged his tongue into her mouth.

Crack!

Smokes slipped out of Rosey fast and stood tall. Rosetta turned onto her backside quickly, staring up at Smokes with wide eyes.

“Fuck was dat?”

Smokes moved with a brisk pace towards the window within the kitchen, he peered down past the small glass panel at his car.

“What is it, Elijah?”

Rosetta stood behind him with a worried look etched into her beautiful face. Smokes took deep breaths before exiting the kitchen, Rosetta on his heels. He entered her room and grabbed up his pants, uncaring that his underwear sat on the floor.

“Elijah!”

“Stay here…”

Smokes grabbed up his revolve and loaded it up.

Click.

He stormed out of Rosetta’s apartment and down the small staircase leading into the boutique. As he drew closer, his eyes became wild with anger. He unlocked the door and stormed out into the smelting heat with his gun raised. There, a brick lay at his feet. Smokes bent down to pick it up, his cognac eyes following a trail of broken glass until he came upon the shattered window of his Cadillac.

Some people gathered outside to see what all the fuss was about. Smokes peered at them, eyes accusatory and rageful. He knew it had to be someone from Phonzo’s crew. A cheap shot, but still…Smokes was furious. Chest puffed out, he tossed the brick and entered the shop. Locking it up tightly, Smokes turned to find Rosetta staring up at him with a fearful glance.

“They busted out your window…”

“Ain’t nothin’ I can get that patched up…”

Smokes grabbed Rosetta by the elbow, turning her back towards the stairs.

“Daddy gotta go handle some thangs…I want you to stay put and out the way—”

“I’m coming with you, Elijah—”

“No—”

“YES! Yes the fuck I am!”

Rosetta snatched her arm from his hold and stood firm as she glared down at him on the steps.

“I’m tagging along whether ya like it or not.”

Smokes clenched his jaw. Their eyes danced between each other before Rosetta turned her back at him, climbing up.

——

“Scotch…”

Smokes accepted his glass, adjusting Rosetta in his lap. He sat across from his twin, Stacks, the gold in his mouth gleaming. They were sitting in a bar, the sound of distant chatter and glass in the background. The smoke from the cigars they were smoking billowed out like a thick fog. Rosetta wore a chocolate–brown Blondell dress with pantyhose and embroidered T–Straps on her feet in gold. A cloche hat that had covered most of her hair and much of her face was a last minute accessory since she didn’t have time to fix her hair after sweating it all out fucking.

Smokes’ 8-panel hat sat over his own messy hair and he wore his button down shirt untidy with his white beater on display. Stacks looked dapper in his double-breasted mahogany suit with shiny silver buttons and matching cufflinks. Copper silk tie, and black and brown woven Oxford shoes complete the look. His fedora sat on the table next to him.

The Big Cheese took a sip of his own scotch.

“How was your night with that snow bunny?”

Stacks chuckled, “As good as yours was I’m sure, brother. Lay it on me…Phonzo askin’ to go war? Does he not know who he fuckin’ wit?”

“You know dat nigga stupid, Stacks,” He checks his dominoes, “I got word that he’ll want to meet up tonight. I’m not much for talkin’…”

“Hm,” Smokes puffed on his cigar before speaking, “You thinkin’ the corn field?”

“Dig a ditch or two,” Smokes threw out.

“I’ll get Monty on it.”

Rosetta listened to the twins discuss killing and burying Phonzo and whoever else in a corn field. She shivered within Smokes’ lap.

“How ya been, Rosey? Still singing?”

“Of course,” Rosetta smirked at Stacks, “Still gettin’ into trouble I see.”

“You mean your man here,” Stacks pointed towards Smokes, “He’s the trouble.”

“How so?”

“Go on and tell her how you was in Texas.”

Rosetta quirked an arched brow. Smokes shook his head.

“Takin’ his word over mine ain’t the way to go, baby.”

“Uh-huh.” Rosetta wasn’t fully convinced.

She grabbed Smokes’ glass and took a sip. Rosetta watched the twins play another round of dominoes and catch up before Stacks made his leave. He had to make sure things were in order before tonight. A jazz ballad played and Rosetta swayed her hips in Smokes’ lap. She could feel him poking and the thought of sliding up and down on that pole sent chills down her spine.

“Careful there, Tiger,” Rosetta lifted his chin with her finger, “I still gotta cook you dinner.”

“A meal before I bump off? My kinda lady…”

Josephine Baker–I Love My Baby started playing, her voice projecting in a way that emphasized a higher frequency, leading to a brighter, more nasal tone. Rosetta caressed Smokes’ handsome face while staring deeply into his eyes. She sang along to the words, husky breathy tone drawing him in.

Sometimes we quarrel and maybe we fight

But then we make up the following night

When we're together we're great company

I love my baby, my baby loves me

The spell she had on Smokes brought him to his knees before her. He stared at her with those bedroom eyes and a half smirk while she sang to him in his lap. That smoking hot chassis was enough to make him fuck her right there. Smoke tapped his foot and rocked his head while she serenaded him. Others in the bar watched with wonder while balancing liquor and ciggs.

When the song faded out, Rosetta gave Smokes a slow kiss. A wolf whistle echoed and Smokes removed his hat to shield them from view so he could tongue his woman down.

“If it’s a girl, I wanna name her Ella, after my mama…”

“That’s a beautiful name, Elijah.” Rosetta smiled against his lips.

“If it’s a boy,” Smokes took a sip of his scotch, “Emmett.”

Rosetta swatted his bicep with her dainty hand.

“What was that fa’?!” Smokes protested with a dimpled grin.

“I was thinkin’ the same thing!”

“That’s why you my woman…”

Smokes kissed on Rosetta’s neck causing her to giggle. They were both pleasantly faded.

“Is that Smokes?”

“Ida Mae…”

The curvy dame settled in front of them, dolled up and doused in perfume. The smell of Bergamot, Orange Blossom and Lemon burning Rosetta’s nose. Her back stiffened as she surveyed the woman with her sultry eyes and chandelier earrings. Her dark red lips quirked up into a flirty smile.

“When did you high tail back into Nola?”

“A day ago. Why’s you askin’?”

Ida Mae locked eyes with Rosetta for a second.

“Just missed ya’ that’s all. Stacks back too?”

“Ya’ know it.” Smokes replied, caressing Rosetta’s waist, “This is my woman, Rosetta. Rosey, this here is Ida Mae…”

“Pleasantries,” Ida Mae tilted her head in greeting.

Rosetta’s lips remained sealed.

“She owns that whore house in Storyville.”

“Is that so?”

Rosetta cut her eyes at Smokes.

“Yes, a good business if ya’ ask me. Selling pussy is on the up and up, especially these days. Got too much shit to stress about.”

Was he dipping in pussy she didn’t know about? Why the fuck would Ida do some disrespectful shit and flirt with her man in front of her? Smokes had some explaining to do.

“Well, just wanted to say hello. Good seeing ya’ Smokes…tell Stacks I said don’t be a stranger…”

“Will do, Ida.”

She walked away with a tantalizing sway of her hips.

“You wanna tell me what that was?” Rosetta cut to the quick.

“I ain’t fuck nobody else if that’s what ya’ asking.”

“You fuck Ida? Don’t lie to me Smokes…”

“Rosey, cut it out. Ida and Stacks used to fuck ‘round. Probably still do.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m no sappy bird I can tell. Prolly made a stop to that whore house before coming to me. Been writing Ida to keep that pussy ready—”

“Rosey, shut up.” Smokes said through gritted teeth.

“Shut up?” Rosetta kissed her teeth before pushing off of Smokes’ lap, “Go after her!”

Smokes narrowed his eyes at her.

“I ain’t lying to you, Rosetta.”

Rosetta stomped away towards the exit. Smokes followed after her, catching her before she could open the door. He walked with her in his grasp outside, the afternoon heat unbearable. Already he was sweating profusely. Smokes turned her around to face him. Rosetta pointed her gaze over his shoulder, refusing to look at him.

She could be so damn stubborn sometimes.

“I love you. Only you. You need to understand that and quick,” Smokes spoke angrily so close to Rosetta’s face his breath laced with liquor and a hint of chocolate and black pepper from his cigar wafted her nose.

Rosetta pouted. Smokes gripped her chin tight to make her look him in the eye. He needed her to know he was serious.

“Stop it, hear me?”

“Okay…”

She looked from his eyes to his lips.

“So damn hard–headed…”

He kissed her lips before popping her on the ass.

“I’m a drop you off at the shop, okay? I gotta get this window fixed.”

Smokes made sure Rosetta was settled in her seat before he got in. The drive was less than ten minutes. Smokes made sure she was situated, blowing her a kiss through the glass door of the shop before driving off.

Rosetta’s doe eyes followed Smokes’ retreating car.

She wanted to believe he was loyal to her and only her. He’d always been. Maybe it was her mother’s words making her feel insecure. Her mother hated Elijah. Rosetta planned to cook up a steak dinner for Smokes. Ready to get to it, she climbed the stairs and before she opened her door, she noticed a kitchen knife sticking out of the keyhole.

Rosetta gasped, hand covering her mouth. Fear consumed her as she stood there, staring between the crack of the door and into a pitch black abyss. It was eerily silent. Rosetta took a chance and pushed open the door. The light from the stairwell flooded the room. So far, as she peeked inside, she couldn’t see anyone.

Rosetta stepped over the threshold and grabbed the handle of the knife, tugging it to release. She held the knife out in front of her, hand shaking with nerves. Her glossy eyes bounced left and right. She fully stepped inside, frantically moving her hand along the wall until she felt the string of the lamp light. A pinch of relief flooded her veins when the room brightened.

That was all stripped from her just as fast when a gloved hand slipped over her mouth and the weight of a gun pressed into her hip.

——

Hope ya’ll enjoy part two 😏😌

@hearteyes-for-killmonger @imagining-greatness @chaneajoyyy @uzumaki-rebellion @lisayourworries @ratedbadgal @bombshellbre95 @cancerianprincess @dameshaemonique @6lack-1otus @thickemadame @thickeeparker @stinkalinkkkk @ehniki @electrixt @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @bxolux @sweet2krazee @seyven89 @ispywithmylileye @geemamii @nubianbabee @adoreesun @blackpinup22 @nayaxwrites @cocoa-puffs @dersha89 @honeytoffee @thickianaaaa @modelmemoirs @queenfaithmarie @angelicniah @soulfulbeauty19 @aijha @novaniskye @callmemckenzieee @blowmymbackout @lahuttor @momobaby227 @blackerthings @kenbieee @princessxotwod @palmstreesallday @kokokonako @coolfancyone @soulsparker @richgirlaesthetics

[moongirlcleo]

Fallen

❤︎  tags and content: fallen angel, rough sex, slight?virginity(bc he's an angel ya know) ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo  

You weren’t supposed to see him. He wasn’t supposed to want you.

Yet, night after night, Caleb watched from the shadows—an angel bound by duty, tethered to a divinity that no longer felt like salvation. You were a temptation he swore he would resist, a fleeting mortal he was never meant to touch. But some choices are made long before they ever reach the tongue, and the moment you met his gaze, he knew. His fall was inevitable.

Now, stripped of his grace, wings sullied by the weight of his own desire, he is no longer bound to the heavens—only to you. And when he touches you for the first time, he is not gentle. He is starving.

The dream unfolds in silence, vast and unbroken, cradling you in a space that feels neither real nor false, but something suspended between the two. The world around you is vast yet formless, a place without sky, without ground, without anything but the sensation of being. There is no cold, no warmth, only a quiet, weightless stillness that presses against your skin like the memory of an embrace.

Golden light spills across the horizon—or what you assume to be a horizon—rolling over the distance like a tide, shifting and restless, unbound by direction or form. The glow isn’t harsh, nor is it the blinding brilliance of midday sun, but something softer, richer, as though the entire world has been wrapped in the last aching moments of twilight. It paints everything it touches in gold and fire, in something otherworldly, something beyond human understanding.

That’s when you see him.

Not as an approaching figure, not as a sudden presence disrupting the quiet, but as though he has always been there, waiting beyond the edges of your perception, unnoticed until your eyes settle on him. He stands amidst the golden glow, his body half-draped in it, his presence so seamless that for a moment, he seems carved from the light itself.

The first thing you notice is his face—sharp, striking, cut from a kind of beauty that feels almost painful to look at, as though the world itself had shaped him with too much precision, too much care. His skin is pale, a shade caught between marble and moonlight, untouched by imperfection, yet far from delicate. His expression, unreadable yet impossibly calm, carries a weight that you cannot name, something ancient and solemn resting beneath the surface.

His eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, are a deep shade of amethyst—rich and endless, shifting between dusk and violet flame. They are steady, unblinking, watching you with a focus so absolute that it feels like a tangible thing, wrapping around you, holding you in place even when nothing else does. They glow faintly in the golden haze, an unnatural, breathtaking contrast against the warm light surrounding him.

His hair, dark as tempered mahogany, falls around him in soft waves, longer than you expect, tousled as though touched by hands that never should have touched him. Strands catch the glow, kissed at the edges by something almost auburn, though the depth of its darkness remains untouched by the radiance around him.

And his wings—

They are massive, stretching far beyond what should be possible, a brilliant cascade of white and gold feathers that shimmer where the light touches them. Each one is flawless, arranged with a precision that makes them seem sculpted rather than real, yet there is no doubt that they are his, that they belong to him as much as breath belongs to lungs. They move in slow, deliberate shifts, subtle twitches that send ripples through the sea of feathers, as though even in stillness, they carry the weight of something immense.

Despite the sheer enormity of him, the way his presence seems to fill the entire space, you do not feel fear. There is no instinct screaming at you to run, no shadow of doubt curling at the edges of your thoughts, only the overwhelming certainty that you are safe here.

And yet, even as safety settles over your skin, something else lingers beneath it—something deeper, something just beyond your reach, curling at the edges of your awareness like the first stirrings of a storm. It is not danger, not exactly, but an intensity you cannot define, a pull that tugs at the center of your chest, quiet yet insistent, as if your very soul is responding to something unseen.

He does not move, not at first, only watches, gaze steady, expression unreadable. The silence between you stretches, thick and unbroken, but it is not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels purposeful, as though something unspoken is being exchanged, something vast and quiet passing between you without the need for words.

Finally, as if the weight of the moment has shifted just enough, his lips part, and his voice reaches you—not loud, not sharp, but something low and steady, woven with a softness that contradicts the sheer power of the being before you.

“You should not be here.”

The words are not spoken as a warning, nor do they carry the sharp edge of command, yet something in them settles deep in your chest, a statement of truth rather than a demand.

You should not be here.

And yet, you are.

Your lips part, a question forming on the tip of your tongue, but before you can speak, something shifts. The golden light flickers, just slightly, the glow trembling as though something unseen has disturbed it. It is the smallest change, barely perceptible, but you feel it.

His amethyst gaze flickers—just a breath, just the briefest moment of something almost uncertain—before his wings shift, folding in ever so slightly, as if shielding something unseen.

The pull at your chest deepens, sharpens, turning from a whisper into something demanding.

You take a step forward.

His eyes widen—only slightly, only just enough for you to catch it—but before you can take another breath, the dream begins to dissolve. The golden light trembles, curling at the edges of your vision, and the weightlessness around you turns unsteady, slipping away like sand between your fingers.

You try to hold onto it, to hold onto him, but the dream is already pulling apart, unraveling into nothingness—

And then you wake.

The world of the waking rushes in too fast, too sudden, the cool air of your room a stark contrast to the warmth you had just been wrapped in. Your pulse is uneven, your breath unsteady, and even as your eyes adjust to the dim glow of reality, one thing remains crystal clear—

You remember everything.

Not a hazy dream, not a fleeting image, but him. His face, his voice, the impossible weight of his presence—

And the way it felt like he had been waiting for you.

<hr>

Sleep had been deep, heavy, wrapping around you like a second skin, but something stirred at the edges of it—an awareness, quiet at first, like a whisper against the grain of your mind. A presence. It wasn’t a noise that woke you, nor a sudden jolt, but the distinct and unshakable feeling that you were being watched.

Your breath came slow as your senses adjusted, the darkness of your room still thick with the remnants of sleep. The weight of your blankets was familiar, the air still touched with the lingering warmth of your own body, and yet—

Something was wrong.

The air was heavier, thicker, as if space itself had been altered, the atmosphere laced with something unseen, something felt rather than noticed. A slow, creeping awareness prickled along your skin, a pull at the center of your chest like a silent demand to look.

So you did.

Your eyes opened, adjusting to the dim glow of the night, and for a moment, nothing seemed out of place. The room was the same—your bed, the faint sliver of moonlight cutting through the curtains, the outline of your dresser against the far wall. But there, at the edge of shadow and light, standing near the foot of your bed—

He was there.

A figure, tall and unmoving, half-shrouded in darkness but unmistakably real. He was watching you, his presence filling the space in a way that made the walls feel smaller, the air thicker, a presence too vast to be contained within something as simple as a room.

Even before your eyes adjusted fully, you knew it was him.

Not a figment of a dream. Not a lingering memory slipping between the cracks of consciousness. He was here, standing in the waking world, no longer confined to the golden haze of sleep.

Your pulse jumped, breath catching in your throat, but not in fear—not entirely. The reaction wasn’t one of panic, not the kind that sent limbs thrashing and instincts screaming. It was something else, something deeper, an understanding that hadn’t fully formed but already took root inside you.

He had been waiting.

The moonlight caught on his features as your vision sharpened, illuminating the sharp lines of his face, the way his dark waves framed his striking features. His expression was unreadable, those deep amethyst eyes steady, locked onto yours with an intensity that didn’t waver.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken.

But he was watching.

A slow exhale left your lips, barely audible against the stillness, as you forced your voice to steady.

“…Caleb.”

His name came like a breath, slipping between parted lips before you could think to question how you knew it so certainly, how it felt like it had always belonged to you, like it was something your soul had known long before your mind could catch up.

His eyes flickered—just barely, just enough for something unreadable to shift behind them. But he did not speak, did not react beyond the slight tension in his shoulders, the barely-there flex of his fingers at his sides.

Your heart pounded harder. The weight of his presence pressed against you like a force just outside of understanding, but you weren’t drowning in it—you were drawn to it, inexplicably, dangerously.

Your voice was quieter this time, softer, threaded with something you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

“…Why are you here?”

A pause, thick and weighted, stretching long between you, as though the very air had to decide whether or not it would allow him to answer.

When he did, his voice was low, steady, impossibly soft but filled with something vast beneath the surface.

“…You saw me.”

His words sent something curling in your stomach, an unspoken truth lingering between them.

You had seen him.

Not just now, not just standing at the foot of your bed like an impossibility made real, but before. In the dreams, in the golden light, in the places where reality blurred and something deeper called out from beyond the veil of knowing.

Your breath shuddered.

“Was that real?”

The question left you before you could stop it, before you could weigh the logic of it, but Caleb didn’t look surprised. If anything, there was something else in his expression now, something carefully contained, unreadable but heavy.

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, long enough for the silence to stretch until it became something alive, something breathing between you.

Then—

A single step. Not rushed, not hesitant, just deliberate. The space between you lessened, and in the dim light, you caught the way his wings moved—just slightly, just enough for the faintest shimmer of white and gold to shift behind him, confirming what you already knew. Not a dream. Not a phantom of your subconscious.

Caleb was here. Real.

And as he stood before you, as his presence filled the air in a way that made it impossible to breathe without feeling him—

The silence between you pressed down, thick and aching, the kind that didn’t just settle over the room but wound itself around your ribs, squeezing with the weight of something unspoken. Caleb stood before you, his body still, his expression unreadable, but his presence—his presence—was a storm barely held at bay.

You could feel it.

Something vast, something breaking apart beneath the surface, something he wasn’t saying but couldn’t quite contain. His amethyst eyes, impossibly deep, remained locked onto yours, but there was something different now, something frayed at the edges, as if he were only just realizing that this moment—this collision between you—had already shifted the world beneath his feet.

You swallowed, breath unsteady but refusing to look away.

“Caleb,” you murmured again, his name slipping from your lips like a tether, like if you said it enough, he would stay.

His expression flickered—just for a second, just enough for something almost pained to slip through the cracks before his gaze dropped, his shoulders shifting under an invisible weight. His wings moved behind him, feathers rustling ever so slightly, restless, unsure.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, low and strained, as if saying the words alone was an act of defiance against something greater than either of you.

“…I should not be here.”

The statement was soft, but it landed with the force of something final, something meant to sever the moment before it could take root. But there was no conviction in his voice, no certainty—only a quiet, bitter resignation, as though the words themselves were nothing more than a lie he had told himself one too many times.

You sat up further, pulse thrumming against your skin, searching his face for something—anything—that might explain what this was, what he was.

But Caleb was already taking a step back.

The movement was slow, measured, like it took effort, like something unseen was trying to hold him in place even as he forced himself to retreat. His eyes lifted to yours once more, and this time, they were unmistakably sad—a sorrow so deep, so worn, that it didn’t feel like it belonged to this moment alone, but to something far older, something that had been unraveling long before this night.

The distance between you stretched.

He turned. Your breath caught. He was leaving.

And yet—

At the threshold of your room, just as the shadows curled at the edges of his presence, he stopped. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear, and his fingers flexed at his sides, tension running through him like a barely restrained tremor. Then, in a voice softer than the sigh of wind through dying leaves, he spoke.

“…I’ll be back.”

The words came quiet but heavy, filled with something that didn’t belong to choice, something that had already been decided long before he had ever stepped into your world. His gaze flickered to yours, and for the first time, he let the truth bleed into his expression—let you see it, let it settle between you like a weight that could never be lifted.

“I have no choice anymore.”

His wings shifted, golden light flickering at the edges where they met shadow, and his voice dropped lower, something final curling at the edges of it.

“…I’ve fallen.”

The next breath he took—slow, unsteady—felt like a confession, like an acceptance of something he had been fighting against for far too long. His gaze softened, and for a single, fragile moment, it looked as though he might say something else, something that could have changed everything. Caleb stepped back, and the space where he had been was empty.

No sound, no flicker of movement. Just the quiet aftermath of something vast and terrible that had just slipped away.

You were alone.

And yet, the last thing he had said clung to the air like a ghost, curling around you, pressing into your chest like something that refused to be forgotten.

He had fallen. What did that mean? Was that why he kept appearing in your dreams night after night?

<hr>

For seven days, the room had felt empty.

No shadows stretching where they shouldn’t, no flickers of light bending against something unseen, no silent weight pressing against your skin like a presence just outside of reach. You told yourself it had only been a dream, that you had woken to nothing but the remnants of sleep clinging to your thoughts, that the warmth lingering in the air that night had been imagined—

But the truth curled at the edges of your consciousness like an echo that refused to fade. You had not imagined him. You had not imagined the way his amethyst eyes had locked onto yours, the way sorrow had laced through his voice, nor the quiet, devastating certainty in his parting words.

I’ll be back.

And so, you waited. You told yourself you weren’t, that life moved forward as it always had, that you weren’t lingering by your window late into the night, weren’t straining your senses for something just beyond the veil of knowing, weren’t reaching for a presence that should not exist.

You felt it before you saw him.

The shift in the air, the way the space around you seemed to tighten, how the night pressed in closer, thick and electric with something unseen. The hairs on the back of your neck rose, anticipation curling into something deep, something primal, something that sent heat trickling down your spine in a slow, curling ache.

Then—he was there.

Not a flicker, not a gradual materialization, but a sudden, jarring presence—a figure standing at the threshold of your room, shadowed against the dim glow of the city lights bleeding through the window, tall and unmoving, shoulders stiff, wings half-spread as though caught in the throes of hesitation.

But his eyes.

Dark lashes framed them, but they burned in the low light, deep violet streaked with something feverish, something that sent a slow pulse of heat curling low in your stomach. The moment you met his gaze, the breath in your chest stilled, the world narrowing down to nothing but the space between you, and the way the air itself shuddered under the weight of his presence.

You swallowed, fingers curling into the sheets as you pushed yourself up, words forming on your tongue but catching before they could take shape—because he looked different.

Pale skin stretched taut over sharp features, shadows lingering beneath his eyes, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths, as though every movement was something deliberate, something painful. His hair, dark waves curling messily around his face, looked unkempt, as though fingers had raked through it over and over, restless, desperate.

And then there was the way he stared at you. Like he was starving. Like he had been dying without you. Like he had spent every waking moment since he left aching for something he could not name, could not reach, could not have—until now.

"Caleb," you murmured, barely a whisper, barely a breath, but the sound of his name seemed to wreck him.

A sharp inhale, his fingers twitching at his sides, his wings giving a single, shuddering tremor before, suddenly—

He moved.

Fast. Fluid. A blur of motion that sent the air curling around you, and then his hands were on you—gripping, trembling—as he crashed into you, his mouth devouring yours in something frantic, something shattered.

Heat exploded through your body the moment his lips met yours, desperate and hungry, nothing careful about the way he kissed you, as though restraint had long since crumbled, as though seven days had left him nothing but hunger and he was breaking apart beneath it.

His hands cupped your face, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed to memorize the shape of you, like he was afraid you would slip through his grasp if he did not hold tight enough. His breath came ragged between kisses, deep, uneven, like he had spent an eternity without air and you were the only thing that could bring him back.

Your fingers twisted into the fabric of his toga, pulling him closer, because it wasn’t enough—it would never be enough. The press of his body, the sharp line of his jaw grazing against your skin, the way he groaned into your mouth when your hands moved over his chest, gripping at him, clawing at him, wanting him just as much as he wanted you.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, but his forehead remained pressed to yours, his breath hot and shaking against your lips.

"I choose this," he whispered, voice thick, raw, as though the words were tearing through him, desperate to be spoken. "I choose Earth. I choose—"

His lips brushed against yours again, barely a kiss, barely a breath, before he exhaled, voice breaking around the words that left him ruined.

"I choose you."

A sound left you—something quiet, something wrecked—because there was nothing left between you now, no veil, no barrier, no whispered uncertainty.

Caleb’s breath was ragged, uneven, the weight of his body pressing into you like he could sink into you, like he could lose himself in the warmth of your skin and finally, finally forget the eternity of restraint that had left him hollow.

His lips ghosted over yours, a whisper of heat, not quite a kiss but something worse, something unbearable, something pleading.

“Say it,” he rasped, his voice nothing but velvet and ruin, his fingers tightening at your waist, sinking into the fabric of your clothes as though he was already memorizing how you felt beneath him. “Say that you want this.”

As if you hadn’t already answered him in the way you clung to him, the way your fingers had tangled in the mess of his dark waves, the way your body arched into his as though it had been waiting for him longer than time itself.

“I want this,” you whispered, breathless, no hesitation, no doubt, no second thoughts—only the truth that had burned between you since the moment he first touched you.

Caleb exhaled sharply, a sound that was almost a groan, half pained, half something darker, something that sent fire curling low in your stomach before his mouth finally crashed against yours.

The kiss was deep, consuming, desperate, as though he had been starving for you, as though this was something he had been denying himself for far too long, and now there was no restraint left—no divinity, no rules, no god above to command him to stop.

His hands roamed your body, reverent yet claiming, his touch burning into you as though he was trying to carve himself into your very bones. His fingers curled into your hips, dragging you against him, letting you feel exactly what you had done to him, how wrecked he was from just a week away from you.

His teeth caught at your bottom lip, a low, guttural sound slipping from his throat when you gasped against his mouth, and something in him snapped.

The world tilted.

You barely had time to gasp before you were beneath him, his wings unfurled in a sudden movement, blocking out the dim light, making the entire world feel smaller, like there was nothing beyond this—beyond him.

“Mine,” he whispered against your lips, the word barely a breath, barely spoken, but thick with something dangerous, something that had no return. His mouth trailed lower, the sharp edge of his jaw grazing against your throat, the heat of his breath sending shivers racing down your spine before—

A kiss.

There. Right at the pulse point, right where your heartbeat was the strongest, where he could feel the life pulsing beneath your skin.And then another. Softer. Lingering. His teeth, scraping, testing, marking, as though the last fragments of his restraint were slipping away with every inch of you he devoured.

“Caleb,” you gasped, nails digging into his back, catching on the smooth, impossibly soft feathers of his wings, and that single, accidental touch was his undoing.

He shuddered, his entire body tensing, his breath shaking against your skin before he groaned, low and wrecked, pressing himself harder against you like he could merge you together, like the separation between your bodies was something intolerable.

“I should have stayed away,” he muttered, a confession that meant nothing when his hands were already tugging at your clothes, already sliding against bare skin with a reverence that felt nothing like regret. “I should have—”

You cut him off with a kiss, dragging him back to you, deepening it until he whimpered against your mouth. And that was it. That was the moment restraint became nothing. Caleb took. His lips, his hands, his body, all of it pressing, claiming, his mouth worshipping your skin like he had prayed to touch you and had finally been granted permission. His hands were rough, shaking slightly, fingertips pressing bruises into your hips, dragging you against him, chasing the friction, needing you the way he needed air. He kissed you like you were the first thing he had ever wanted—like this was the reason he had fallen, like this was what he had chosen.

And when his lips met your throat again, when he moaned against your skin, when his teeth grazed in warning before he sucked.

Caleb’s breath burned against your skin, each exhale ragged, uneven, pressing heat into your throat as if he could brand himself into you without even touching. His body was tense, muscles coiled with restraint that frayed at the edges, his hands gripping you with a desperation that barely masked the way he trembled, the way his control unraveled the longer he stayed pressed against you. His mouth traced along your jaw, slow but aching, as though he wanted to memorize every inch, as though this was the last prayer left to him.

Fingers twisted in his hair, dark waves curling between your knuckles, and when you tugged, he shuddered against you, a quiet groan slipping past his lips, something low and wrecked, something that made heat coil deep in your stomach. His wings trembled behind him, those impossibly soft feathers brushing against your arms, grazing your skin like a whisper of divinity still clinging to him despite his fall.

But there was nothing divine in the way his thigh pressed between yours, nothing celestial about the slow, deliberate way he rocked against you, his breath stuttering as he felt what he had done to you, what he had become for you. Every shift of his body was careful, every movement reverent but possessive, as if he had spent an eternity starving for this moment and was only just realizing he could have it.

The bed loomed behind you, close enough to reach, a silent promise wrapped in darkness, but Caleb made no move toward it. He was still here, still tracing his lips over your skin, still devouring you in slow, unhurried strokes of his hands, like he wanted to savor the suffering of restraint a little longer.

He wasn’t rushing.

He was surrendering.

His lips hovered over yours, breath warm, unsteady, the smallest space separating you as he murmured your name, voice fractured at the edges, thick with something you weren’t sure he had the strength to hold back any longer.

“The bed,” you whispered, the words barely spoken, barely a breath, but they shattered something between you, breaking the last fragile thread of distance still holding him together.

Caleb went still, his chest pressing against yours, fingers curling tighter at your waist, nails digging into fabric, knuckles taut with the unbearable need to move, to take, to claim. A slow inhale dragged through his lungs, his forehead resting against yours, his body caging you in as if trying to resist, but you knew—

He had no restraint left.

His arms tightened around you in a single, fluid motion, one curling beneath your legs, the other pressing against the small of your back, the movement effortless, strength barely contained as he lifted you from the ground. It should have felt sudden, should have caught you off guard, but the moment you felt yourself being carried, the moment your body was pressed against his, the moment his grip tightened—

It felt inevitable.

The world tilted, warmth surrounding you, the soft sheets of your bed pressing against your back as Caleb followed, never letting you go, never releasing his hold. His wings unfurled in a sweeping arc, stretching wide before folding inward, curling around the two of you as if to shield this moment, as if to keep it untouched, sacred, belonging to only you and him.

He hovered above you, breath labored, eyes dark with something unrelenting, something that made your stomach tighten as his gaze raked over you, as if he were seeing you for the first time, as if this was the moment he truly understood what he had given up, what he had chosen. His hands framed your face, reverent, shaking slightly as his thumb traced over your cheek, his weight pressing into you, every part of him demanding something he hadn’t yet put to words.

“I choose this,” he whispered, voice quiet but sure, breaking around the words like they carried too much weight for his mortal tongue to bear. His fingers slid down the length of your arm, warm, grounding, lacing between your own as he pinned your hands to the bed, his grip firm, possessive, desperate. “I choose you.”

His lips met yours again, but this time, there was no hesitation.

There was no lingering restraint, no careful exploration, only hunger—only a week of distance crashing into him all at once, the pent-up ache of denial finally breaking free. He kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, like this was what he had fallen for, like he had no regrets, no doubts, only the certainty that he had given up everything for this moment, and he would do it again.

His body pressed against yours, the heat of him sinking into your skin, the weight of his presence consuming every sense, and when his mouth moved lower, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering where your pulse pounded, his breath trembled with something wrecked.

This wasn’t just desire. This was devotion.

This was the moment he stopped being something fallen and started being something yours.

The moment restraint snapped, Caleb’s hands were on you, tearing at the fabric between you with an urgency that felt centuries old, as though he had spent lifetimes denying himself and could not bear another second of distance. The heat of his body pressed into yours, a brand, a claim, his fingers rough in their haste but reverent in the way they traced over bare skin, like each inch of you was something sacred.

His mouth was everywhere. Lips bruising against yours, breath ragged as he swallowed every sound you made, as though devouring your surrender. The drag of his teeth against your throat sent a shudder racing through you, a low sound escaping him when your fingers tangled into his hair, gripping, pulling, making him groan into your skin. His wings flexed, stretching wide, then folding around you, blocking out the world, caging you beneath him in a way that felt like both protection and possession.

The clothes between you were gone too fast, discarded with a desperation that spoke of need, of something too long denied, his hands skating over every newly exposed inch of skin as if memorizing, mapping, worshiping with each touch. When his palms slid down the curves of your waist, down your hips, fingers digging in as he pulled you flush against him, you felt him—felt the tension coiled in every muscle, the barely restrained shaking of his body as he tried to pace himself, to savor, to breathe.

But patience was a fragile thing, and Caleb had none left.

His lips crashed against yours once more, tongue teasing, demanding, his body pressing you deeper into the sheets as his hips aligned with yours, a sharp gasp slipping free when he rolled against you, slow but intentional, letting you feel every inch of what he had been holding back. His forehead pressed to yours, breath hot, uneven, his voice nothing more than a whisper laced with devotion and something darker, something possessive.

“You have no idea,” he rasped, words broken between heavy exhales, his fingers tightening on your hips, holding you steady as he ground against you again, eliciting a quiet, breathless sound from your lips that made his restraint fray even further. “How long I have wanted this. Wanted you.”

The desperation in his voice sent fire curling in your stomach, every nerve alight, the heat between you unbearable as he finally, finally moved in the way you both needed.

The first thrust stole your breath, sent a shudder through every inch of your body, his head dipping to the crook of your neck as he groaned, low and wrecked, his grip bruising as he held himself there, deep, still, feeling you, as if even a second without movement was agony. His wings trembled, his body tense, but the moment you tightened around him, gasping his name, something in him snapped.

He pulled back, then drove into you again, rougher this time, deeper, a shuddering exhale leaving him at the way you responded, the way your body welcomed him. His pace became relentless, his hands gripping at you like he was afraid to let go, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, up your throat, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he groaned your name like a prayer.

“This is why I fell,” he whispered between ragged breaths, his body moving against yours in a rhythm too perfect to be unholy, his voice shaking from the sheer need of it, from the realization that there was no going back. “For this. For you.”

The world unraveled between thrusts, between the sounds escaping both of you, between the unbearable friction and the way your nails raked down his back, his own fingers leaving marks on your hips as he buried himself in you again and again, no hesitation, no restraint, only the raw, earth-shattering truth of what he had become for you.

He wasn’t falling anymore.

He had already fallen, already lost himself to this, to you, to the way you whispered his name like you needed him just as much as he needed you. His movements grew erratic, breath hitching as he neared the edge, his grip unrelenting, his lips searching for yours, desperate, starved. And when you finally broke beneath him, when pleasure crashed through you with his name on your lips, his own release followed in a shuddering, wrecked exhale, a groan pressed against your mouth, his body trembling as he buried himself in you one last time.

Silence stretched between you in the aftermath, nothing but the sound of breathless gasps and the slow, steady flutter of his wings as they loosened, no longer caging, no longer trapping, but cradling.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move.

Instead, he stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns into your skin, his lips brushing against yours in something too soft to be hunger, too gentle to be anything but worship.

The room was silent but for the slowing cadence of breath, the steady rise and fall of Caleb’s chest against yours, the faint rustle of sheets as his wings, once so vast and powerful, stilled. The warmth of him was all-encompassing, his body tangled with yours, limbs heavy with exhaustion, muscles no longer held taut with restraint. His weight pressed against you, grounding, human in a way that felt so different from the impossible being who had once stood at the foot of your bed, too perfect, too untouchable, too divine.

But he was not divine anymore.

Your fingers trembled slightly as they traced the length of his back, over the ridges of his spine, down the curve of muscle still damp with heat, memorizing the feel of him—not light, not celestial radiance, but flesh and warmth, breath and heartbeat. Human. His skin bore no impossible glow now, only the soft golden hue left by candlelight, his wings no longer stretching with an overwhelming presence, only half-spread in something fragile, something uncertain, as though even he had yet to understand what he had become.

You swallowed, the realization curling deep in your chest, heavy, bittersweet.

This was it.

There was no grace left to return to, no god waiting to call him home. He had severed himself from the heavens, fallen, and for what? For you. For something fragile, something fleeting, something that could end. He had given up eternity for a life that would age, decay, slip through time’s grasp like grains of sand—and he had known. He had understood that before he ever touched you, before he ever kissed you, before he ever whispered your name like it was something sacred.

And yet, he had still chosen you.

A sharp inhale left you, unsteady, your fingers threading through his dark waves, still slightly damp with sweat, still tangled from where your hands had raked through them in desperation. The realization ached, curled in your ribs like something unbearably tender.

He had done this for you.

He had been waiting for you.

Long before you ever knew him.

Caleb shifted slightly at the sound of your breath catching, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his amethyst eyes softer now, the feverish hunger replaced with something deeper, something certain. His lips parted as though he meant to speak, to say something to pull you from the depth of your thoughts, but the words never came. Instead, his fingers brushed along your cheek, light, careful, reverent.

You turned into his touch, exhaling shakily, pressing a kiss to his palm, and he melted, his breath leaving him in something close to a sigh, relief and sorrow intertwined in the space between heartbeats.

“You’re human now,” you whispered, barely audible, as if saying it too loudly would shatter something between you.

A pause.

Caleb’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers still cradling your face as he nodded, slow, final. “…I know.”

It was quiet, simple, but the weight behind it was enormous.

You searched his face, studying the details that had once seemed untouchable—his sharp features, once ethereal, now softened by exhaustion; the lips that had spoken words of divinity now parted with nothing but the weight of feeling. He had been more than this once. He had been infinite. Now, he was yours. Just a man, bound to the earth, bound to time, bound to the same fragility as you.

And yet, despite everything he had lost, despite the eternity he had left behind, he smiled. Just barely. Just enough for something warm to settle in the cracks of your sorrow.

“I knew what I was doing,” he murmured, his voice like silk, like something certain, as though there had never been a moment of doubt, as though even now, with mortality pressing against his ribs, he had no regrets. “I chose this. I chose you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, but Caleb caught it with his thumb, brushing it away with infinite care, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, as if the mere thought of you grieving for him was unbearable. His lips stayed there for a long moment, warm against your skin, silent reassurance passing between you in the soft hum of candlelight and cooling sheets.

“I would fall again,” he whispered against your temple, a quiet, steady vow, his arms pulling you closer, holding you as though he could bind himself to you with touch alone. “A thousand times over. If it led me to you, I would fall every time.”

The words shattered something inside you.

Your fingers dug into his back, clutching him, holding on, because for all that he had lost, for all that he had given up—he was still here. He was still yours.

And as Caleb buried his face into the crook of your neck, as his breath warmed your skin, as his heart beat in sync with yours, you knew—

No god, no heaven, no eternity could ever take him from you again.

[batboysanonymous]

Watching, Waiting, Wanting (Extended Version)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel was never a good man, not when it came to her—his darkness, his obsession, his carefully crafted devotion was something no one, not even the Mother herself, could sever.

Y/n didn’t know he was there.

She never did.

Not really.

She moved through Velaris with a softness Azriel could never replicate. A kind of weightlessness that made him feel like he could breathe when he hadn’t even realized he’d been drowning.

She sat by her window now, curled up in an armchair with a book in her lap, one hand absentmindedly twirling a loose strand of hair. The golden glow of candlelight flickered against the glass, painting her in hues of warmth, softness—everything that was hers and hers alone.

And yet, she wasn’t alone.

She had left her window cracked. Just slightly.

An invitation. A mistake.

Azriel stood across the street, concealed by the darkness, his oldest companion. He shouldn’t be here. He told himself that every time, and yet, every night, he returned.

His little dove.

So delicate. So blissfully unaware of the wolf watching from the shadows.

He told himself it was for her safety. That he needed to ensure nothing happened to her, that Velaris was not as safe as she believed. That if he left her alone for too long, something might come along and take her from him before she even knew she belonged to him.

He was simply looking out for what was his.

She should be more careful. Should know better than to let anything in.

But he liked that she didn’t.

That she was soft in a way that let his darkness wrap around her, unseen, unheard.

That she hadn’t yet learned to fear the thing lurking just beyond her reach.

Because once she did, he would have to remind her—

Fear wasn’t necessary.

Not when it came to him.

─────

Azriel had known her for years, long before the bond snapped.

At first, she had been nothing more than a curiosity, a shift in his peripheral vision that made him look twice. He had encountered countless beautiful females in his lifetime, had trained himself not to be swayed by a pretty face or a soft smile. But her…

She was different.

It started with glances.

Fleeting moments where she felt like an anomaly, an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t quite scratch.

Then, it became more.

He memorized her routine before he even let himself admit how deeply she consumed him.

She had a habit of visiting the same café every morning, ordering tea with three sugars and just a touch of honey. She always brought a book, always tucked her hair behind her ear as she read, always tilted her head slightly when she was deep in thought.

She walked through Velaris without a care, trailing her fingers along shop windows, the rough stone walls of old buildings, the velvet-lined chairs in bookstores.

As if she needed to ground herself to the world.

She never saw his shadows.

Never flinched from them the way others did.

If anything, they curled toward her, drawn to her warmth, her light.

Like him.

And that was the moment he knew.

He wanted to be the one to keep her that way—untouched, unbothered by the horrors of reality.

But he also wanted her to see him.

Not just as the quiet male in the shadows.

But as something inevitable.

─────

It had escalated quickly.

At first, he told himself it was only coincidence.

That every time he found himself in her favorite café, in the bookstore she visited every Sunday, in the marketplace she passed through on her way home—it was chance.

But it wasn’t.

It was control.

His control.

She just didn’t know it yet.

His presence lingered in every corner of her life, woven into the spaces between her laughter and solitude. He made sure she was safe. Made sure no one got too close, no one posed a threat.

She would never have to know about the drunk male who had followed her down an alley one night, only to disappear before he ever reached her. She would never have to know about the shopkeeper who let his gaze linger too long and found his storefront mysteriously wrecked the next morning.

She would never have to know about the nightmares Azriel erased before they could ever touch her reality.

Because he would handle them all.

And he did.

─────

The bond was a mercy.

The bond was a curse.

A relief, because now he knew.

A curse, because it made his hunger insatiable.

She didn’t know yet. He hadn’t told her.

Not because he didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t ready.

She had spent years living a life without him in it, and he would not rip that away from her in one fell swoop.

No.

He would ease her into it.

Let her come to him, let her feel the pull of fate in her own time.

Because once she did, there would be no going back.

And he wanted her to accept it willingly.

To crave him the way he already craved her.

To need him.

The way he needed her.

─────

Tonight was different.

Tonight, she had made a mistake.

She had gone to dinner. With him.

Azriel knew the male wasn’t worthy.

He had watched them together, seen the way his hand had brushed over her wrist, how he had leaned too close, spoken too softly.

As if he had any right.

Azriel waited outside her townhome as the male walked her to the door, his fingers clenching as he lingered.

She was smiling.

And Azriel saw red.

His shadows writhed around him, screaming for violence, for blood, for retribution.

He let the male walk away.

For now.

It didn’t take long to find him.

The scent of her lingered on his skin. The scent of her laughter, of her soft smiles, of the warmth she had freely given.

Azriel stalked him through the empty streets, silent, patient.

When the male finally noticed him, it was already too late.

Azriel was on him in a breath, shadows wrapping around his throat, a blade pressing just below his chin.

“You will not see her again,” Azriel murmured, voice a deadly whisper.

The male stilled, his pulse hammering against the cold steel.

“I—I don’t understand—”

Azriel pressed harder, just enough to make the male’s breath hitch.

“She’s mine.”

The words sank into the silence between them, unshakable.

And then, he was gone.

But the warning was given.

If the male touched her again—looked at her again—

He wouldn’t live to regret it.

─────

Her voice was soft when she answered the phone.

“Hello?”

Azriel didn’t speak.

He just listened.

She hesitated, the silence stretching between them.

She should have hung up.

She didn’t.

She knew.

Not fully, not yet. But some small, secret part of her understood she wasn’t alone.

That something was watching.

That he was watching.

The realization made his lips curl.

He let the silence stretch, let the tension coil between them through the receiver.

Then, softly, possessively—

“I’ll see you soon, little dove.”

And he hung up.

─────

Y/n felt it before she saw it.

That unsettling prickle down her spine.

The feeling of something—someone—watching.

It wasn’t new. No, it had been there for weeks now, an ever-present ghost in the edges of her awareness. She’d tried to ignore it at first, chalking it up to paranoia, to her own mind playing tricks on her in the dead of night.

But then the signs started piling up.

The way the candle by her window flickered unnaturally some nights, as if a breeze had disturbed it—but the window was never open. The way her door, locked before she went to bed, sometimes felt…wrong when she woke. As if someone had touched the handle, pressed against the wood, lingered on the threshold.

And the phone calls.

Always silent. Always stretching long enough to make her heart pound.

She could hear it now—her heartbeat in her ears, the weight of her own breath, the pulse of something unseen tightening its grip around her world.

Still, she told herself it was nothing. That she was being ridiculous.

That she was safe.

She wanted to believe it.

And maybe she would have.

If not for the note.

──────

She found it the next morning.

A single slip of parchment, placed delicately atop the book she had left on her nightstand.

She stared at it for a long moment, her fingers hesitating before picking it up.

One sentence.

“Don’t be afraid of me. I’m what you need.”

Her breath hitched.

The ink was bold, deliberate. A declaration, not a plea.

Her first instinct was to run.

To leave, to get out of her house, to flee into the streets where she wouldn’t be alone.

But something in her made her pause.

A different kind of fear creeping up her spine.

Not of whoever had written the note.

But of what would happen if she disobeyed.

Azriel watched from the rooftop across the street, his shadows curling around him.

She had found his gift.

Her reaction was predictable—wide eyes, sharp breath, that moment of hesitation where she debated running.

But she didn’t.

His little dove was clever.

She was learning.

Good.

He had no desire to chase her.

Yet.

He had been patient. Had watched, waited, ensured she felt his presence before she ever truly saw him.

And now, the game was beginning.

Y/n carried the note with her the rest of the day.

She didn’t know why.

Perhaps some part of her wanted proof. Evidence that she wasn’t imagining things, that the slow-burning paranoia clawing its way into her bones was real.

That someone had been in her room.

And that whoever it was—

They wanted her to know it.

She almost told someone. Almost mentioned it when she ran into Feyre at the market, when Cassian joked about how exhausted she looked.

But the words stuck in her throat.

Because there was something else.

Something deeper than fear.

Something darker.

A part of her that wanted to know who it was.

Not to expose them.

But to understand why she wasn’t afraid the way she should be.

Why, when she read the note again, her skin didn’t crawl—

It burned.

──────

Azriel moved through the shadows, trailing her like a silent storm.

She was thinking about him.

He could tell by the way she bit her lip, the crease in her brow, the way she kept reaching into her pocket—fingering the note he had left.

Good girl.

She was holding onto him already.

It was only a matter of time.

Tonight, she would see him.

Not fully, not yet.

But enough.

Enough to know that running was useless.

Enough to know that she belonged to him.

──────

She felt him before she saw him.

Like always.

She had just gotten home, the door locking behind her with a quiet click. But it didn’t ease the tension in her chest, the feeling that the walls weren’t enough to keep something out.

Something had changed tonight.

The air felt heavier. Thicker.

She hesitated before pulling the curtains shut, her fingers trembling against the fabric.

And then—

A shadow moved outside her window.

Slow. Deliberate.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Not a flicker of darkness.

Not a trick of the night.

A shape.

A figure.

Standing just beyond the glass.

Watching.

Waiting.

She knew she should scream. Should run. Should do anything but what she did—

Which was step closer.

The candlelight illuminated just enough.

Just enough to catch the glint of a scarred hand pressed lightly against the windowpane.

A warning.

A promise.

She barely had time to suck in a breath before the shadows swallowed him whole, disappearing into the night as if he had never been there at all.

But he had been.

And he would be again.

Her fingers curled around the note in her pocket, heart hammering.

Not in fear.

But in anticipation.

Azriel sat in the darkness, the memory of her face burned into his mind.

She had seen him.

Not enough to run.

But enough to understand.

He was not leaving.

He was not letting go.

She would come to him soon.

Whether she meant to or not.

He smirked, whispering softly to the night.

“Don’t run, little dove. You won’t get far.”

──────

Y/n woke with a gasp.

The room was silent, but the weight pressing against her chest was suffocating, as if the air itself had thickened, filled with something unseen, something oppressive.

Her skin burned.

Not a fever. Not exhaustion.

Something deeper.

Something wrong.

She sat up, shoving the blankets away, her breath uneven, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

It was happening again.

That feeling—like she wasn’t alone, like something lurked just beyond her senses, waiting.

Her fingers clenched into the sheets, nails digging into the fabric.

This was worse than before.

Worse than the silent phone calls. Worse than the shadows shifting outside her window.

Because this time—

It was inside her.

Something inside her was fracturing, splitting open, unraveling at the seams.

And she knew.

Knew what it was.

Knew what it meant.

The bond.

It was snapping.

And she had no way to stop it.

──────

Azriel felt it the moment it happened.

The bond, taut for so long, frayed and frayed until it could stretch no more—

Finally gave.

Finally snapped.

He had been waiting for this moment.

Had anticipated it. Had prepared for it.

And yet, as it hit him like a violent storm, like a brand searing into his very soul—he almost drowned in it.

The air in his lungs vanished.

His vision blurred at the edges.

And all he could feel—

All he could taste, breathe, consume—

Was her.

Panic. Confusion. Fear.

But beneath it—beneath the terror lacing her scent—

Was the undeniable pulse of recognition.

Of need.

She was calling for him.

Whether she realized it or not.

And he was coming.

──────

Y/n stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink with trembling hands.

She could barely recognize herself in the mirror.

Her pupils were blown wide, her skin flushed, her lips parted as if she couldn’t get enough air.

She was shaking.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Mates.

Azriel.

Azriel.

His name slipped into her mind like a whisper, a call, a demand.

Her chest ached at the thought of him.

Not the normal kind of ache—the kind she had pushed down for weeks, months.

No, this was worse.

It was splitting her apart, tearing into the deepest part of her, pulling her toward something she had no hope of resisting.

Her legs nearly buckled, her grip tightening on the sink.

She needed air.

She needed out.

──────

Azriel had barely given himself time to process before he was moving.

His body acted before his mind could catch up, his shadows twisting through the night, pulling him forward, faster, to her.

She wouldn’t be able to handle it alone.

Not the bond. Not him.

She had fought it, denied it, ignored the inevitable—

But she would not ignore it now.

She couldn’t.

And neither could he.

He had played the game long enough. Had given her space, let her adjust, let her dance along the edges of something she didn’t yet understand.

That time was over.

She was his.

She had always been his.

And now—

Now, she would finally know it.

──────

Y/n barely made it to the door before it blew open.

The shadows came first—pouring into the entryway like living ink, swallowing the light, wrapping around her ankles, her wrists, her throat.

And then—

Him.

Azriel.

He stepped through the threshold like a nightmare incarnate, like he had walked straight from her fears into reality.

Tall. Dark. Eyes burning with something lethal.

Something hungry.

She stumbled back.

The bond roared.

She choked on a breath, her body betraying her, heat curling deep in her stomach, her instincts screaming at her to move toward him even as her mind screamed the opposite.

“No—” Her voice wavered, hands braced behind her against the wall, nowhere to go, no escape.

His head tilted, slow.

Predatory.

“You feel it.”

Not a question. A statement.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He took a step forward.

She pressed harder against the wall, as if it could swallow her whole, as if it could save her from what was coming.

“I—” She shook her head, her breath shallow, her body betraying her with every second that passed. “You—”

She couldn’t get the words out.

Because he was right.

She felt it.

The tether between them, pulling, strangling, refusing to be ignored.

His eyes darkened, his scars flexing as his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You ran from it,” he murmured, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. “You ran from me.”

She flinched.

His shadows curled tighter around her wrists, not touching—not yet.

“But you can’t anymore, can you?” he breathed.

Her throat closed.

The bond was suffocating.

Too much.

Too strong.

Her body was on fire, her vision blurring, her skin screaming for contact.

And he knew it.

His lips curled, his head tilting as he drank her in.

“You feel what I feel now, don’t you?”

His voice was low, deep, meant only for her.

She tried to deny it.

Tried to shake her head, tried to push down the sharp, desperate pull in her chest—

But she couldn’t.

And he saw it.

Saw the exact moment she broke.

Azriel moved—too fast, too sudden, too much.

His hands slammed into the wall on either side of her head, caging her in, his body pressed close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the strength, the ownership.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against her lips.

Lies.

She should be.

She was.

But beneath that fear—

Was something else.

Something worse.

Because her body—traitorous, weak, his—was leaning into him.

Was giving in.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking.

He let her.

Let her pretend she had a choice.

But then—

Then his lips brushed against her temple, just once, just enough to send a violent shudder through her body.

“I am what you need.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Met his.

And she knew.

There was no running.

There never had been.

Not from him.

Not from this.

The bond had snapped.

And Azriel—

Azriel was never letting her go.

Taglist: @kathren1sky_blog, @willowpains, masbt1218, @antonia002, bookishcait, fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, quiettuba,  @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff, @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[whoreforsexymen]

anything with jayce. I am a slut for jayce. this feels like a confessional.

Time Is A Thief | Jayce Talis

Pairings: Ruined!Jayce x Fem!Reader

Pronouns: She/Her, Female Anatomical Descriptions. Mainly written in 3rd person, no use of "you".

Rating: NSFW, 18+, MDNI! I am NOT responsible for your media consumption.

Word Count: 5.7k

Tags: Minor angst, desperation, reuniting with a lost love, smut, penetrative sex, impatient sex, riding. (MINIMAL DIALOGUE)

Summary: Jayce has been lost to the inevitable future. Driven mad by solitude, when he finally returns home, he's set on tracking down and killing Viktor. Although, he has a personal mission to find the love he lost along the way.

Notes: EEEEEEEEEKKKk! This isn't the greatest smut I've ever written, but I couldn't tarnish the romanticism of the reunion. The smut isn't super good, but I did my best to match the rest of the vibe. Hope yall enjoy <3!! More to come soon!

also, side note, there is a CRITICAL LACK of Ruined!Jayce fics. Okay?! (In Thanos Voice: Fine. I'll do it myself.)

Light.

That was all.

A brilliance so fierce it consumed all thought, leaving nothing to the imagination.

He saw everything, yet nothing at all— no trace of form or substance, only the infinite expanse of void surrounding him.

No shadow, no contour, no shape. Just emptiness. An emptiness that somehow felt full.

A paradox of being— broken, yet whole; whole, yet hollow; dead, yet alive.

Nothing made sense. Only the pulse of the moment, the light’s unyielding blaze. 

The pulse of time, space, and life itself thrummed through his soul, weaving their rhythm into the very essence of his being.

Until, without warning, the vast illumination crumbled, and the world, in all its painful clarity, returned.

The light had vanished, leaving him adrift in the emptiness, only to be reclaimed by the stark hues of ordinary life. Colors surged around him—muted greys, whispers of teal, and pale pinks flooding his vision. It was almost more than he could bear. 

Amidst the radiance that pierced his very essence, he was lifted—suspended in a weightless embrace, held aloft by the luminous threads of the light that had so utterly captivated him.

But reality struck like a tempest, a sudden jolt searing through him. A sharp pang tore into his senses as he plummeted, his knee barely finding time to thrust forward, instinctively breaking his fall.

He collided with the cold metal floor, the impact swift and steadfast. His knee bore the brunt of the descent, while his staff—his once-revered hammer—absorbed the weight of his shifting reality, grounding him in the unforgiving present.

The weight of the world bore down upon him, relentless and unyielding, its merciless humility a torment that carved into his flesh, stripping meat from bone. It gnawed at the core of his being, unraveling even the grey matter of his mind, piece by excruciating piece.

He could not cry out, for to do so would be in vain—a hollow echo swallowed by the abyss, silenced before it could ever bloom into sound. 

He felt fragile, yet a fire smoldered deep within, winding through the quiet valleys of life that endured, unfazed. He held fast to a personal code, a mission etched in the essence of all that is veiled and sacred, shaped by the silent will of esoteric truths, runes, and the like.

There were no gods, no masters to answer to. Only his own will, and his own duties to uphold. 

He couldn’t afford to fail.

He wouldn’t fail. 

Not when the weight of existence itself teetered on the fragile edge between destiny and the mark he left upon it, shaping the very course of life’s unfolding.

A mission of great magnitude. Yet a plague lingered within him.

A plague of thought—relentless and gnawing. Thoughts that haunted him throughout the endless stretches of time, as he wandered the desolate wastelands of mankind’s “evolution”. They had once been his salvation, a lifeline entwined with his thirst for reckoning, feeding his drive with a dark, bloodied purpose. Yet a purpose of passion—all the same.

A passion that had once burned with fierce strength. The strength he had once known now seemed but a feeble echo, a mere shadow of the deeper meaning he had since uncovered in every word, every breath, every fleeting moment.

Images of the past, which, candidly, were the present once more, often danced in his mind, tangled in the waves of anguish that blurred the boundaries of time—and the futility of man’s existence.

Images of a certain face.

The face of a woman he had once known. Once loved. Once yearned for.

A woman who may very well have faded from existence in the time he had been lost, cast adrift in realms where he had borne the hammer of atonement for his actions in this present-day "past life."

Gods, how long had he been gone? 

He had atoned for his sins enough, pleading to return to the very moment he had been torn from—plucked away from the threads of life as though he were no more than a fruiting blossom on a tree, ripe for harvest.

If he had learned anything in his time cast away, it was that mages were as unpredictable as they were dangerous—venomous, cruel, and unafraid. All-knowing, they played with the fabric of time and space, indifferent to the chaos they wrought. 

He was certain he had been atomized, deconstructed, and reconstructed within the timeline he once called his own. But how far into the present, past, or future he had been thrust into remained the looming unknown.

His mission—-to reap the soul of a man he once knew. 

A man that had unlocked a potential known only to him—an unlimited power that defied understanding. The two of them may very well have transcended the boundaries of time, simultaneously outliving all those they had once known, leaving only echoes of ghosts behind.

That was a question that could not remain unanswered: who—-or what—-remained of the life he once knew? What remained in the space between all that was known, and what was yet to be discovered?

Despite the vengeful conquest  that fueled every pulse of his lifeblood, he carried a personal objective—one that took precedence above all else, overshadowing every other need and duty.

He must find her. 

With a body and soul that ached, cried, and surged with pain at the slightest movement, Jayce clutched his faithful hammer, the staff his only anchor in this fractured moment. He grasped it with a ferocity born of desperation, driven by an insatiable need to find the one who held his heart.

He dragged himself from the earth, his bones threatening to crumble beneath the weight of every strained muscle. In the depths of his agony, he found the strength to cry out—anguish, pain, and longing intertwining in a sound that tore through the stillness.

There was no time to waste. Time was as fleeting as the many fragile faces of morality he had been shown. He pressed on, choosing to ignore the pain that gnawed at his body, for the agony in his heart burned far fiercer, driving him forward with a greater urgency.

As he forced one foot in front of the other, a faint clarity began to seep through the fog of his pain. He recognized this place—what felt like a lifetime ago, perhaps it truly was.

It was the very place he had been banished from on that fateful day, the boundaries of reality itself stripped away, peeling from his existence like old paint from a forgotten wall.

The base of the Hexgate. Miles upon miles beneath the surface, deep within the heart of the underground. So close to The Fissures that the scent of The Grey seeped through, oozing like sludge, despite the sanctity of the Hextech walls.

Yes, he knew exactly where he was—and where he had to go. Where he needed to go.

After what seemed like hours of agony, though only mere minutes in the grand scope of reality, he emerged.

The raw sunlight of the outside world felt foreign, a pale imitation of the light he’d known within the anomaly that had consumed him. It didn’t faze him in the slightest. Yet, he clung to the shadows, weighed down by the urgency of his mission, unwilling to risk crossing paths with anyone but the council he sought.

He tried to summon her face in his mind, though it danced just beyond his reach, a fading wisp of memory. The delicate details slipped like grains of sand through his fingers, leaving behind only fragments, delicate shards of a once-vivid whole. Longing was a poor name for the ache that ate away at his very being. 

It wasn’t just the endless minutes, hours, or even years spent alone, adrift in the quiet expanse of time. It was the storm within his mind, the weight of the universe’s secrets pressing upon him, unraveling his memories until her face—so familiar, so beloved—was little more than a whisper, lost to the void.

How could he ever forget her face? 

His grip on the hammer tightened, the weight of it suspended in the air, but he refused to rely on it. His impatience burned, driving him forward without its support.

This was his final reckoning. To bear the strain of his body, the pain of his journey, as penance for allowing his mind to forsake the thought of her.

He trudged through the shadows, a silent specter unnoticed by the lurking eyes around him, his resolve unwavering as he pressed forward, determined to reach the only place where he could search for her presence.

Every so often, ripples of time—glitches in the fabric of his mind—tore through him, sending his thoughts into chaos. They were like jolts of electricity, moments when his current self clashed with the future he had lived, battling with the past in a present that no longer belonged to him. It was no wonder such disruptions occurred, for he was living a time that had already become the past, thrown back into the present, where time itself seemed to be an elusive spectacle.

Deeming the horrors he endured—atrocious—barely scratched the surface of what he had encountered in his time away. Physically, he had survived—scraping by in the darkness of caverns, feeding on small creatures that crossed his path, and lighting fires from their bones to keep the cold at bay. It was a hell no mortal could comprehend. Physically surviving, yet endlessly lost in the mental labyrinth of unanswered questions, shattered dreams, and sudden epiphanies. 

Tampering with the very energy that shaped rock from stardust, and blood from matter—the vital core of life itself. He was beyond foolish to have once believed he could wield such power in the name of humankind’s technological progress. How naïve he had been, to think that a mere mortal could control forces unknown to their kind, and expect no consequence.

This was his consequence. To have forgotten the blissfully ignorant construct of time. To have forgotten what joyfulness truly was. To have forgotten love in its entirety—who to love, how to love, and who had once loved him.

To know nothing but pain. Nothing but sorrow. Nothing but the lingering ache of ignorance lost, the fleeting happiness once found in the mere desire to uncover the answers he now possessed. He sought answers, and answers were what he got. But within those answers lay a terror unlike any other—a terror born of witnessing what could have been, what did happen, and what will inevitably unfold from his actions. 

Jayce felt the weight of this burden crashing down around him, tightening around his throat like an enraged serpent. Breathing itself had become as foreign as the sunlight. He choked out, unable to cry out in pain as another ripple in the fabric of time surged through him, seemingly splitting his head in two. He screamed, yet no sound escaped him once more.

He had no time for this. No time for anything. Time was both nonexistent and forever slipping away—a paradox in its purest form.

He pressed on, driven by an iron will to reach his destination before his earthly body could endure another ounce of pain or suffering. Minutes passed, though they felt more like hours—an eternity in the spaces between each breath.

He could feel the coiled serpent around his neck loosening as the sight of a still, all-too-familiar building came into view. Jayce was breathing heavily now—panting, gasping, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of exhaustion, a feeling he had come to know too well.

Jayce gripped his trusted hammer tightly, positioning the handle and aiming it at the solid door ahead. With a swift pull of the long metal release bar, the hum of his hextech beam sliced through the air, the door offering no resistance as it imploded. 

Jayce pushed through without hesitation or abandon, stumbling through the opening he had created, breathing hard all the while. His gaze settled on the familiar surroundings. He remembered this place. Her home. His home. Their home.

He hurled his hammer aside, the hefty weapon crashing into a nearby coffee table. The sharp crack of the wood splintering beneath the weight of the metal rang through the space, a loud echo sure to stir anyone in the house—if the blast of the door hadn’t already.

Jayce didn’t pause. He doubled down, picking up speed as he raced through the lower level of the house, frantic, desperate to find her. Room to room he searched, the pain in his leg screaming in protest, but he didn’t stop.

Yet, she was nowhere to be found. Jayce cursed loudly, slamming his fist into a nearby wall, the house shaking under the force of his strike.

She wasn’t here. Where else could she be?

His anger grew as he moved, a hurricane of frustration until he reached the base of the staircase. Once more, his fist collided with the wall, a primal curse escaping his lips—anger, guilt, and confusion tumbling out in the heat of the moment.

"FUCK!" he shouted, pounding his fist repeatedly into the wall, leaving a substantial dent in its wake.

His rage was all-consuming, blinding, and relentless as he acknowledged the thick layers of dust that caked the railing of the staircase before him. 

Has he really been gone that long?

He could feel the weight of his grief, the tears gathering in his eyes, threatening to fall, tracing the sharp curve of his cheekbones.

Yet another grim reality came crashing down upon him—the unbearable truth that he had, indeed, outlived the one radiant beacon of his desires, the singular flame that had given his life meaning. The knife of guilt plunged itself deeper into his chest as he realized he could no longer even summon her name, lost amid the swarm of revelations and horrors that had become his affliction.

But then, a faint sound—something delicate, breathy, and quiet—caught his attention.

Jayce had been the loudest force in the house, but his ears were tuned to the silence that followed him, alert to anything out of place.

A gasp. A small one. Almost imperceptible. 

His head snapped up, his gaze sharp, seeking the source of the sound. His eyes scanned each step, weaving between the banisters of the staircase until they found the outline of a face—half of it, barely visible from behind the uppermost curve of the staircase. The spaces between the columns made it difficult to catch a clear view, but he could see just enough.

Jayce stood rooted to the spot, the air thick with disbelief. He couldn’t trust his eyes—not after all he’d endured, not after the nightmares that had taunted him for so long. But there she was, standing at the top of the staircase. Her outline blurred and shimmering, as if she were a mirage conjured from his aching, fragmented mind.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her fingers gripped the banister, knuckles white, as if it was the only thing keeping her tethered to this moment. Her eyes locked on his, wide and unblinking, and the emotion within them struck him like a blow. Shock. Pain. Recognition. A mirror of his own soul laid bare.

Slowly, cautiously, she began to descend, each step hesitant as though the floor beneath her might give way.

Jayce couldn’t breathe. The sight of her stole whatever remnants of air remained in his lungs. He wanted to call out to her, to say her name, but the word escaped him, lost somewhere deep in the fractures of his memory. His hands trembled at his sides, and his knees threatened to buckle.

When she reached the bottom, she paused, so close he could feel the faint warmth of her presence. Her lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. Instead, her hand rose, trembling, hovering near his face. Her fingers grazed the roughness of his beard—unfamiliar, foreign to the Jayce she had once known. Her gaze searched his, desperate for something familiar beneath the layers of torment etched into his features. Her touch was a question, a plea, a prayer.

“Is it really you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling far worse than her hand.

Her words, her cadence, the very sound of the way she construed her syllables together stirred something deep within him. 

It started faint, a flicker in the void of his memory. A flash of light in the darkness, a melody half-remembered. Her laughter, her smile, her voice—it came rushing back, filling the empty, aching spaces in his mind. He remembered the way her eyes sparkled when she teased him, the warmth of her hand in his, the softness of her lips when they whispered promises meant to last forever. He remembered late nights in their home, her humming a tune he could never place, and the way she fit perfectly against his side, as though they had been made for each other.

And then her name emerged, clear and resounding, breaking through the haze like sunlight piercing storm clouds. It struck him with staggering force, his breath hitching in his chest.

“____...” he whispered, her name trembling on his lips. It felt strange and familiar all at once, like a language he had known in another life. The syllables tasted of longing, regret, and an aching love that had never truly left him. Her name wasn’t just a word; it was an invocation, a tether to everything he had been and everything he had lost.

She gasped, her hand freezing on his face as the sound of her name from his lips shattered something inside her. Her tears fell faster, her face crumbling under the weight of his voice, the voice she had feared she might never hear again.

“It’s me,” she choked out, her voice breaking, thick with disbelief and raw emotion. “It’s me, baby. It’s me.”

Jayce said nothing more. He couldn’t. The dam within him had broken, and there was no holding back the flood of emotions that consumed him. He reached for her, his hands trembling as they gripped her shoulders, desperate to anchor himself to her presence. The sound of her name reverberated in his mind, in his heart, and in his very soul. 

Like clockwork, instinct overcame him, and he pulled her into his arms. His hand slid up, fingers weaving into the familiar softness of her hair, cradling the back of her head as though afraid she might disappear if he let go. The other wrapped firmly around her waist, his trembling grip binding her to him, locking her in place against his chest as if he could shield her from every cruel force in the universe.

They stood there, unmoving, a living sculpture of sorrow and relief intertwined. Their shared sobs filled the air, broken and uneven, their abdomens convulsing in an imperfect rhythm, a pattern dictated by the sheer weight of their emotions.

Her arms shot up, wrapping tightly around his neck, clinging to him with a fierceness that rivaled the serpent from earlier. But this was no constriction of malice—this was desperation, a refusal to let go, an embrace steeped in the agony of their time apart and the fragile hope of this reunion.

She buried her face into the curve of his shoulder, her tears soaking into the rough fabric of his battered coat. Jayce pressed his face into her hair, inhaling the faint trace of a scent he thought he’d never experience again. It was real—she was real. And so was he. Together, they formed an unyielding testament to survival, to love found again in the wreckage of time and pain.

The world around them faded into silence, the echoes of shattered furniture and crumbling walls irrelevant. There was nothing else—just the two of them, locked in a moment that transcended everything else. 

In that embrace, time ceased to exist. There was no past, no future, only the moment—the aching, beautiful reunion of two souls who had endured the unendurable, and somehow found their way back to each other.

For the first time in what didn’t merely feel like an eternity—but what, for him, truly was an eternity—Jayce allowed himself to breathe. The unrelenting grip of despair that had clung to him for so long loosened its hold, and he surrendered to the fragile, radiant possibility of solace.

He melted into her touch, the warmth of her embrace dissolving the armor of anguish he had worn for so long. The waves of hope, love, and longing coursed through him like a rising tide, washing over his battered soul, cleansing him of every hardship and sin that had clung to him. 

Each tear that fell from his eyes felt like a release, a quiet surrender to the overwhelming truth that she was here, alive, and within his grasp. For the first time in a recent lifetime of torment, Jayce felt the faint glimmer of what it meant to be whole again. In her arms, he rediscovered the segments of himself he thought had been lost forever. He pulled his face from the crook of her neck, craning up ever so slightly to meet her gaze from the step above him.

In the raw, aching silence of the eye contact, he kissed her.

It was not a kiss of restraint, not the gentle touch of lovers reunited after a brief absence. No, this was a kiss of desperate need, of a hunger so deep it could never be satisfied with mere words. His lips crashed against hers with an intensity borne of years of pain, the searing heat of their touch shattering any trace of distance that had ever existed between them. The world spun around them, time itself seemed to hesitate, unsure if it dared to move forward while these two souls collided, intertwining in a dance they had been separated from for far too long.

His hands cradled her face, as if he could memorize every curve, every contour of her like the final piece of a shattered puzzle. His thumb traced the delicate line of her jaw, brushing away tears that mingled with his own, but the salt of them only added to the kiss. Her hands clung to his shoulders, pulling him in, urging him closer, as if she, too, feared he might disappear into the ether if she didn't hold him tight enough.

Her lips were as soft as he remembered, and yet, they were so much more now. They spoke a language only the broken could understand—tender, yearning, seeking. His own lips moved over hers with an urgency that spoke of things unspoken, of years lost and never returned, of the agony of not knowing if the person before him had ever truly existed outside of memory. But here she was, warm in his arms, and the kiss deepened, no longer a question but an answer—a promise, a return to everything they had lost, and everything they could still become.

His hands roamed over her back, as if trying to remember every inch of her, as if the very touch of her skin reminded him more of everything he had witnessed than the sheer fact that it was something he had only just been through. It reminded him of everything he had suffered—just to be here, in this moment. He kissed her with the weight of all that and more, as if their love had never left him, even in the darkest hours. He kissed her like she was the last obstacle in the way of sanity in a world that had spun too far out of control. And when they finally pulled apart, breathless and trembling, the air between them was thick with the unspoken realization that the past—no matter how broken—was never truly lost.

And for the first time in forever, Jayce allowed himself to believe in miracles.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, his voice raw and shaky against her lips, his fingers tightening in her hair, though never enough to hurt.

“I thought you’d never come back,” she replied, her voice trembling with an aching yearning. She pulled her arms from around his neck, her hands grabbing the collar of his shirt, pulling him even closer, as if their bodies could merge into one.

Jayce huffed against her lips, their breaths tangled together, hearts racing. Their lips met again, moving together with an urgency, a desperate rhythm of grinding, sliding—like they were both trying to consume the other, as if time itself could be stolen through every kiss.

There were no more words to be spoken, no explanations needed at this time. Everything that needed to be said would happen outside of this moment, beyond the confines of the here and now. In this space, within the familiar walls of their home, the only thing left to do was to cherish, savor, and surrender to the love that had been lost and now found.

They moved as if guided by an unspoken understanding, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as his hands rose to cradle the curve of her body. His fingers traced the soft, bare skin of her thighs, caressing gently before gripping her firmly, as if to reassure himself she was truly there.

With a quiet, unrelenting need, he pressed her back into the wall—the same one he had pummeled with his fist mere moments ago. The contrast of his previous rage and the tender, consuming embrace was stark, as the heat between them grew, their bodies aligning in need.

Neither of them had the patience for anything more than the raw, burning need to be together again. Clothes were discarded in hurried motions, a belt undone with an urgency that mirrored the storm raging between them.

As if their bodies had always been the missing pieces of a puzzle, they came together without thought, fitting perfectly in a way only years of passion and love could understand. It was a reunion, not just of flesh, but of something deeper—an unspoken connection that had always waited beneath the surface, now finally able to breach it. 

Jayce groaned out, sinking his cock down to the hilt inside her. His belt hung loosely, the buckle clinking faintly, like a soft chime in the quiet chaos of their reunion. His hips shifted with a subtle sway, his body still aching, but driven by the shared overwhelming need. 

One hand braced against the wall, fingers tracing the jagged divot he had created earlier, finding an oddly fitting purchase there. The other hand cupped the side of her face, pulling her closer, his lips leaving a trail of fiery kisses across her cheek, down the curve of her neck, and grazing the exposed sliver of skin on her collarbone just beneath the neckline of her shirt. Every touch was a silent gospel, a desperate reaffirmation that she was truly there.

He grunted, huffing out as his cock twitched amongst the walls of her cunt, her slick coating every shred of skin he buried between them. 

She cried out, the tears of her passion and devastation still streaming down her face as she moaned against his shoulder, hands still gripping for dear life at his shirt. 

Jayce couldn’t do anything but move—move against her, move within her, as if each shift and press was an unspoken promise. He needed her to feel the weight of everything that had passed between them, the years apart, the torment, the longing. His body spoke in the language of devotion, an unyielding motion that expressed what words could not. He wanted her to feel everything—the regret, the pain, the aching desire to make her understand that he had never meant to leave her. Every movement was a plea for redemption, an effort to show her that his absence had never been by choice, and that now, with her in his arms, he would never leave again.

Not until every moment with her had been relived in full, paid in full—a debt he had accumulated, whether or not it had ever been his intention. 

Furthermore, not until the day he was laid to rest. 

With the very weight of his intended unspoken purpose, he did as he needed. He began moving against her, driving his cock further into her before pulling his hips back with great resistance. Oh, how he had dreamed of staying there, deep within her, until their bodies became one. A dream he could fulfill one day, but not this day. No.

He had to do what he must. The new mission that called to him. Repentance for his guilt.

He bore down, removing the hand from her face, exchanging a greeting with her hip as he used both it and the anchor on the wall to aid the snapping of his hips into hers. Her legs coiled ever stronger around his waist as he moved, hazy spots clouding her vision as he drove the head of his cock deep into a spot she knew he remembered just where to find. 

He continued, the duet of their sounds merging into a symphony that reverberated through the hollow structure of the house.

He knew he couldn’t stop, couldn't dare break his stride, but the weight of his earthly injury proved too great a challenge. His knee, the very one that had borne the brunt of the fall into the caverns that had held him captive for so long, began to give way.

A hiss escaped him as his knee buckled, sending him crashing into the wall, taking her down with him. He fumbled in frustration, angry that this obstacle had to arise now. She cupped his face gently, pulling him out of the haze of passion for a moment. Her eyes were full of forgiveness, understanding, and love.

With a soft kiss—chaste yet filled with tenderness—she slowly pushed him away. Breathless, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with his, she guided him gently toward the staircase. She eased him down to the step she had just occupied, his rear meeting the step with an awkward thud as he struggled to use his knee. She almost laughed at the flustered look on his face.

There he sat, cock out, needy as ever, glistening with the physical proof of her desires, gazing up at her like a man who had been lost in a storm for years—and in her presence, found the calm, the shelter, the promise of everything he had ever longed for.

She was never able, in all the years spent with him, to deny the way he looked at her—with nothing more than pure adoration, as if his gaze alone could encompass the depth of every sweltering emotion he had ever felt, each one overflowing like a tide too vast to hold back. 

It sent lightning bolting through her veins as she lifted the hem of her dress by the waistline, clearing it from her shins as she moved them on either side of his thighs. In a quick movement, she descended into his lap, sinking back down onto his cock like a glass slipper to a foot–the kind you read about in fairytales. 

Jayce’s eyes refused to close, despite the overwhelming pleasure that urged them to surrender. He couldn’t bear to look away—not when he had once forgotten her face, a face he could never fathom losing from his memory again. He would spend an eternity gazing at it, tracing every curve, every expression, if it meant he’d never risk forgetting again.

She cooed softly, a hum deep in her chest as she stilled atop him. Without warning, she braced herself with her hands on his shoulders and began to move. Her knees ground harshly against the wooden step beneath them, the sting sharp but dismissed as something fleeting, unworthy of attention in this sacred moment.

Jayce’s hands found their way to her hips, guiding and assisting her as she moved, his good knee pressing up into her, adding to the rhythm as she rolled her hips down into his lap.

He stared up at her, almost in awe, desperate to say something—anything—that might amplify the intensity of the moment. She could see the storm of thoughts behind his eyes, and with a gentle shake of her head, she silenced him, her gesture a tender "not now."

Jayce nodded, his mouth sealing shut once more as he pulled her down, their lips reconnecting in a fierce kiss. Their tongues danced together, reacquainting themselves, as the tension they both craved began to stir deep within them, rising like a wave that would soon crash.

She could tell by the way his breath quickened, and the way he gripped at her hips—attempting to pull her harder and faster against him, that he was close. 

She could feel her own impending orgasm approaching faster than she cared to admit. After several more seconds, she came undone, the walls of her cunt spasming and twitching against his cock as they tightened around him. 

Jayce groaned out with the unholiest of moans as he could no longer stifle his own orgasm. He came hard, slamming her hips into his lap one final time as the streams and strokes of his cum lathered her internal walls. 

And just like that, as if the very fabric of time were being stitched back together, the rift felt whole again. The weight of everything that had been forced upon him, every choice he had made, and the heavy burden of his mission’s fate, all dissipated into nothingness. In that fleeting moment, the past and future aligned, and the crushing pressure of it all faded into serenity. 

The two people, united by more than sweat and tears, felt a deep harmony between them, as if everything in the world had realigned. In that moment, it was as though the universe itself had whispered that all was right. Together, they could face the trials of the new day, conquer every obstacle that came their way, and overcome every hardship as one. 

With the shifting weight of time that had passed, and the uncertain future that lay ahead—yet one that felt equally decided—there remained an essence of calm, unburdened by fear. In that moment, both past and future were held in a quiet certainty, as if all things had already been set in motion, and nothing could sway them from their course.

There was no challenge too great, no burden too heavy, for they were stronger together than they could ever be apart.

[captain-hawks]

I have a need of Osamu having you ride his thigh through your first orgasm of the night before he flips you over to eat you out for round two

miya osamu x f!reader — 18+

your nerves have yet to cease singing with the aftershocks of your climax when osamu suddenly squeezes your hips, and you inhale sharply at the friction of your damp panties dragging against his pants once more as he slides you out of his lap.

a fresh prickle of heat crawls down your spine at the sight of the damp spot you left behind, arousal that soaked right through your thin cotton panties as he rocked you on the firm surface of his muscled thigh.

hat lost somewhere between the front door and the living room, osamu's dark locks stick out at wayward angles from the desperate work of your fingers. his tongue darts out over lips left slick and swollen from the reverberations of your needy, whimpering moans.

he looks as fucked out as you feel just from riding his thigh, but there's a glint in his eyes as he places you where he was sitting on the couch. coming to kneel on the floor in front of you, osamu groans under his breath at the way your soaked panties are molded tightly against the curve of your mound.

"want these off?" he asks, the slight twitch of his mouth betraying his otherwise innocent expression.

you nod, and he slowly traces the outline of your still-swollen clit before hooking his fingers in the waistband to pull them off of you. a soft moan escapes your lips at the feeling of the sticky material beginning to peel away from your slit. osamu pauses as he watches your chest rise on a deep inhale, using two fingers to push the fabric back against your pussy.

"oh," you whimper, hips twitching as he slowly rubs a firm, slippery circle into your folds.

"so fuckin' wet," osamu murmurs before he resumes peeling your panties off once more, stickier now than the first try, and you gasp at the sharp, heady prickle of pleasure that flutters down your cunt.

he glances up at you while he presses his thumb to your now-bare pussy, fingers splayed flat against your pelvis, and you bite your lip at the direct contact. using both hands to caress your thighs, he pushes your legs further apart before reaching around your waist to pull you closer to the edge of the couch cushion.

"think ya can come for me again?" he asks, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, nose bumping against your aching bundle of nerves.

you swallow, toes curling, and you hear him huff in amusement at the way your legs spread for him just a little bit more of their own accord.

"what about you?" you ask.

he smiles, pressing another kiss right to your clit, groaning softly as he begins to tenderly suck on it. you choke out a needy, keening sound, head falling against the back of the couch, hips bucking upward.

starting from the bottom of your slit, osamu slowly licks a firm, broad stroke up through your soaked folds, and weightless pleasure floods your chest like honeyed smoke.

his eyes meet yours as he sinks one thick finger into your tight hole. "can't let all this go to waste."

(when you come for him again, it's with your slick arousal smeared all over osamu's face, one of his own hands wrapped around his leaking cock as he tongue fucks you—filthy, deep, and sloppy—to the point of tears.)

[robinvomit]

†  date night : various.

♦ request: yes; domestic fluffy things ♦ beta’d: edited & posted by Tellie ♦ a/n: oh and you can pry the tim drake glasses thing out of my cold dead hands. co written.

𝑫𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏 – "𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔, 𝑳𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆."

⇝ Date Night Headcanons:

spontaneous & playful – dick loves to keep you on your toes. you’ll get a text hours before: "wear something comfortable, trust me. 💙" and then suddenly, you’re on a rooftop picnic, at a carnival, or taking impromptu salsa lessons. no two dates are ever the same.

he lives for shared laughs – whatever the date is, laughter is guaranteed. he’ll tell ridiculous stories, crack jokes, pull you into dances when there’s no music—anything to hear your laugh in the night air.

big on physical affection – he cannot keep his hands off you. he’ll hold your hand at all times, spin you in the middle of the street, kiss you like you’re the only thing keeping him standing. the world disappears when he’s with you.

nostalgic heart – sometimes, he takes you places that mean something to him. old blüdhaven diners, childhood circus memories, a ferris wheel overlooking the city. he lets you into pieces of his past without hesitation.

sunset or midnight dates – if it’s evening, it’s vibrant and full of life - city lights, live music, neon glow. if it’s late-night, it’s something quiet, sacred, where it’s just you and him against the sleeping world.

the prince of rooftop dates – some nights, it’s just blankets, takeout, and city lights from above. there’s something poetic about gotham stretching beneath your feet while he holds you close.

always ends the night right – whether it’s stumbling home tipsy from laughter, slow-dancing in the kitchen, or falling asleep with you in his arms, dick makes sure the night never ends without making you feel like the most loved person in the world.

the carnival hums around you, a whirlwind of neon and laughter, the scent of popcorn and sweet, warm summer air wrapping around you like a dream. the world is alive tonight; lights flickering against the skyline, people moving like currents through the fairground - but all you can focus on is the man beside you.

dick’s hand is laced with yours, fingers threading together effortlessly, like they were always meant to fit. his smile is wide, eyes glowing in the golden light of the carousel before him. there’s something soft in his expression, something unguarded, like he’s letting the moment settle deep into his bones.

"i told you this was a good idea," he teases, nudging his shoulder against yours.

you laugh, rolling your eyes, but you can’t deny it. it’s one of those nights that feel eternal, weightless, something worth remembering forever. the ferris wheel looms ahead, the final piece of your evening, and dick pulls you toward it with an excited grin that makes him look younger, freer.

the ride lifts you above the carnival, the noise fading into a distant hum. the city stretches out before you - blüdhaven’s skyline blinking in the distance, gotham’s shadow beyond it. and in the middle of it all, dick grayson is looking at you like you hung the stars specifically for him.

"you know," he murmurs, arm draped over the back of your seat, body angled toward you, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing that matters. "i think this is my favorite date yet."

you raise an eyebrow. "you've said that for every date."

"and every time, i mean it." his smile softens, something quieter, something deeper. the wind ruffles his dark hair, and he looks at you like this; like home, like warmth, like love.

the ride slows to a stop at the very top, the city breathing beneath you, the carnival lights flickering like fireflies below. dick shifts closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath a warm whisper in the cool night air.

"stay with me here," he says softly, his fingers curling around your wrist, anchoring himself to you. "just a little longer."

and as the world spins on below, you do.

𝑻𝒊𝒎 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒌𝒆 – "𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑻𝒐 𝑼𝒔."

⇝ Date Night Headcanons:

drives to nowhere – when the city feels too heavy, he picks you up in his car and just drives. no destination, no rush, just empty highways and quiet music playing through the speakers.

library dates at midnight – not public libraries. his personal one. he lets you curl up with books in his apartment, old texts and mystery novels spread out between you. there’s no pressure to talk—just existing together in the glow of dim, warm lamplight.

cooking something together – tim is terrible at cooking. but if you suggest it, he’ll suffer through it for you. and if it goes wrong? you’ll end up sitting on the kitchen counter, eating takeout, laughing at the disaster you made.

hidden lookout spots – there are places in gotham only tim knows. rooftops with the best view of the skyline, secret corners of the city where the stars are still visible. if he shares them with you, you’re one of the few people he trusts completely.

long games of chess or cards – it’s not competitive—it’s intimate. he doesn’t just play with anyone, but with you, it’s different. it’s slow, full of teasing and quiet moments where he watches you more than the board.

movie nights done right – tim is notoriously bad at actually watching movies. you’ll start one, but half an hour in, he’s leaning against you, mumbling half-asleep observations until he eventually dozes off on your shoulder.

letting the city sleep without him – some nights, he decides gotham doesn’t need him. some nights, he just needs you. those are the nights he lets himself stay. lets himself be yours, fully and without hesitation.

the streets of gotham stretch endlessly ahead, neon lights flickering in the distance, but none of it matters - not when the road belongs to the two of you.

tim’s hands rest easy on the steering wheel, his fingers drumming against the leather in time with the low hum of the radio. it’s late; the kind of late that makes the city feel like it exists just for you, where the world is quiet enough to breathe. the engine purrs beneath you as he takes another turn down an empty road, the streetlights flashing in intervals through the windshield, painting his face in gold and shadow.

he’s not in a hurry. there’s nowhere to be.

one of your legs is tucked beneath you in the passenger seat, your body angled toward him, watching the way his shoulders relax, the way exhaustion lingers in the shape of his mouth. it’s rare for tim to look at ease. even now, you can tell his mind is still too full, always turning, always running.

and yet, here he is.

"you okay?" you murmur, breaking the comfortable silence.

tim hums softly, his eyes flicking toward you for half a second before returning to the road. "yeah. better now."

the night air filters in through the cracked window, cool against your skin. tim’s jacket is tossed over the center console - he had shrugged it off earlier, mumbling something about you needing it more than he did. you glance at the dashboard clock. nearly 2 am.

"we should probably head back soon," you say, but there’s no real insistence in your voice.

tim smiles, small but real. "five more minutes."

you don’t argue.

you lean your head against the seat, letting the city blur past, the hum of the car and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling you into something warm, something peaceful. five more minutes becomes ten. ten becomes twenty. but neither of you say anything about it.

eventually, tim pulls the car into a quiet overlook, one of the secret places he never shares with anyone else. a place where the city looks almost peaceful, where gotham is just a sea of blinking lights instead of a battlefield. he shifts the car into park, exhales, then leans back in his seat, tilting his head to look at you.

"you ever think about just leaving?" he asks, voice soft. "just… disappearing for a night. no responsibilities. no alarms blaring at three in the morning."

you tilt your head, watching him. "you mean like we’re doing right now?"

his lips twitch. "exactly like we’re doing right now."

there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it—like this is the only time he truly feels weightless. not red robin, not wayne enterprises’ heir, not gotham’s sleepless protector. just tim.

you reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. he lets you.

"you could’ve been out there tonight," you murmur. "but you’re here."

his thumb brushes absently over your skin, a quiet affirmation.

"yeah," he says, and there’s something in his voice that sounds like relief. "i think i needed to be."

and as the city flickers below, as the clock creeps further into the night, tim lets himself stay.

𝑪𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒂 𝑪𝒂𝒊𝒏 – "𝑨 𝑫𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑩𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒀𝒐𝒖."

⇝ Date Night Headcanons:

cass struggles with words, but she understands gestures. she notices effort more than anything. when you plan something specifically with her in mind, she understands it means ‘i love you’ without you ever saying a word.

she enjoys sensory experiences more than standard dates. things she can feel - the wind rushing past her on a rooftop, the vibration of music through her chest, the quiet warmth of your hand in hers.

action over words - always. cass doesn’t always know how to talk about her feelings, but she knows how to show them. and when you take the time to show her love in return, she glows in a way that few people ever get to see.

she enjoys movement, but not always in a high-energy way. something like a nighttime roller-skating date, dancing in an empty parking lot, or even just a quiet walk where she can exist in the world without worrying about danger.

she has never been pampered before. she’s used to people training her, using her, expecting something from her. but when you set up a date where it’s just about her - where she can breathe, where she can just be - it leaves her speechless.

she loves closeness, but in subtle ways. leaning against you, pressing her forehead to yours, fingers brushing against your wrist - it’s her way of asking for more.

cass doesn’t need grand gestures. she just needs to feel safe. and when you give her that, she holds onto it like it’s the most precious

thing in the world.

the city hums in the distance, but here, everything is quiet.

a rooftop, high above gotham’s restless streets, bathed in the soft glow of string lights you set up just for her. a picnic blanket is spread out beneath you, the food simple, the effort everything.

cass sits cross-legged beside you, her body relaxed in a way that she rarely allows in the field. the wind tugs at her dark hair, and for a long moment, she just looks around. at the view. at the small setup you arranged. at the details - the things that show you did this for her.

"you planned," she says simply, her voice soft but full.

you smile, nudging your knee against hers. "of course i did."

cass tilts her head, her eyes studying you with that same keen intensity she always carries. but tonight, there’s no wariness behind it. just something warm, something grateful.

she reaches for your hand, running her fingers along the back of it—tracing, memorizing, appreciating.

"i like when you plan," she murmurs.

you squeeze her hand in return. "i like doing things for you."

she doesn’t reply right away, but she doesn’t need to. instead, she shifts closer, resting her head against your shoulder, her fingers still laced with yours. the city may be alive with noise below, but here, in this small, quiet moment, cass is finally at peace.

𝑱𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑻𝒐𝒅𝒅 – "𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝑶𝒖𝒕 𝑶𝒇 𝑺𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕."

⇝ Date Night Headcanons:

jason isn’t a ‘traditional’ date night kind of guy. he won’t take you to five-star restaurants, but he will take you to a hidden, hole-in-the-wall diner at 2 am, where the food is messy and the coffee is burnt, but it’s just you and him.

he loves quiet places - where the world doesn’t demand anything from him. abandoned libraries, late-night parks, the fire escape outside his apartment. anywhere he can just exist with you.

he does not like being around rich socialites. a high-end gala date? hell no. but a cozy, dimly lit bar with live blues music? a drive down backroads with nothing but the sound of the radio? perfect.

jason reads to you. not in a romanticized, ‘let me recite shakespeare’ way - but in a, ‘i found this used bookstore and grabbed some old poetry books. want me to read you something?’ way.

he’s a natural at late-night drives. he doesn’t rush. he just lets the road stretch on, windows cracked open, your legs kicked up on the dashboard as the stars blur past.

he cooks, but never follows recipes. if you let him make you dinner, prepare for something incredible - if not entirely chaotic. he makes the best comfort food, and he’ll playfully swat your hands away if you try to help, saying, "hey, this is my thing. you just sit there and look pretty."

he does things for you without announcing them. there’s no ‘look at what i did’ moment - he just fixes the leaking sink in your apartment, keeps extra sweatshirts around because he knows you’ll steal them, and quietly makes sure you’re always safe, even when he’s not around.

the small, tucked-away restaurant is nearly empty by now, the last customers drifting out, the flickering neon ‘open late’ sign humming above the door. the place is nothing special—a hole-in-the-wall joint that doesn’t even show up on google, where the food is greasy, the coffee is strong, and nobody asks questions.

and yet, jason loves it here.

he leans back in the worn-out booth, one arm draped along the backrest, the other loosely curled around a half-empty mug of black coffee. his leather jacket is slung over the seat beside him, his sleeves pushed up, exposing the scars along his forearms.

the soft glow of the tabletop lamp casts golden light across your face, and he watches you like that’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"you’re staring," you murmur, poking at the last few fries on your plate.

jason smirks, unabashed. "yeah? sue me."

you roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. just warmth. just the comfort of knowing that this—him, here, like this—is something rare.

he tilts his head, exhaling slow, as if he’s memorizing the moment. the distant hum of an old jukebox, the rain tapping against the windows, the low murmur of the staff closing up for the night. the way you’re just here, across from him, existing in his space like you belong there.

like you’re something he gets to keep.

"this is nice," you say softly, breaking the silence.

jason snorts, tilting his coffee mug at you. "what, eating at a place that probably fails every health inspection?"

you huff a laugh. "no. this. you. the quiet." you tilt your head, watching him the way he watches you. "i like being here with you."

jason stares at you for half a second too long before clearing his throat, shifting slightly. you do that to him—say things so casually, so effortlessly, like it’s not some kind of miracle that he’s still here, still breathing, still being loved.

he taps a slow rhythm against the mug, considering, then shrugs. "yeah," he murmurs, voice softer than before. "me too."

and as the city breathes outside, as the streetlights cast lazy shadows through the windows, jason todd lets himself have this.

𝑫𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆 – "𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆. 𝑬𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖."

⇝ Date Night Headcanons:

damian is precise with his time. if he sets aside a night for you, it is intentional, carved out of a schedule that few people are allowed to touch.

he doesn’t enjoy crowds or noise. most of your dates are quiet, exclusive, just the two of you. private gardens, late-night museum access, hidden places where the world cannot interrupt.

art dates are his favorite. he takes you to galleries after hours, pointing out hidden techniques in brushstrokes, low-voiced explanations that turn into long discussions.

he is highly competitive, but he lets you win (sometimes). chess matches, fencing lessons, horseback riding- if it’s a skill, he will teach you. and if you struggle? he’ll hover behind you, hands guiding yours, murmuring corrections close to your ear.

damian remembers everything you like. if you offhandedly mention an author you enjoy? a signed edition of their book appears in your hands a week later. favorite dessert? it’s on the menu, no matter where he takes you.

he rarely says ‘i love you,’ but he says it constantly in other ways. he walks on the street-side of the sidewalk, adjusts the temperature of the room for your comfort, makes sure your favorite tea is always stocked.

at the end of the night, he doesn’t let you go easily. whether it’s a long drive home in his car, his hand resting over yours, or a lingering moment at your door, he makes every second last.

the museum is empty.

at least, it is for everyone except you and damian.

a private arrangement, locked doors, the city outside reduced to nothing more than a distant hum. the grand halls stretch around you in perfect silence, the air thick with the weight of history, the dim lighting casting soft, golden glows against priceless art.

but damian is not looking at the paintings.

he is watching you.

you stand before a renaissance-era canvas, eyes scanning the fine, intricate strokes of oil paint that have survived for centuries. damian steps closer, the sound of his dress shoes against the marble floor barely audible, but you feel him before you see him.

his voice is quiet, low and smooth in the hush of the museum.

"do you see the brushwork?" his fingers barely lift, gesturing toward the curve of a painted figure’s face. "the layering? it creates depth. almost imperceptible, unless you know what you’re looking for."

you tilt your head, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. "like how you see people?"

damian pauses, then huffs a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, but close. he steps beside you, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture effortless and composed. "observation is a necessary skill."

you hum, shifting your weight slightly. "and yet, you brought me here instead of going to a gala tonight."

his lips twitch at the corners. "a necessary skill also includes knowing what is a waste of time." his gaze flicks toward yours, something unreadable, something softer than his usual sharpness. "they bore me. you do not."

there it is.

the way damian does not share his time lightly.

you glance back at the painting, but his presence at your side is far more distracting. his cologne lingers in the air—clean, sharp, the scent of warm leather and something deeper, something uniquely him. his fingers twitch slightly where they rest at his side, like he is considering reaching for you. considering, but not yet acting.

you make the decision for him.

your fingers brush against his, slow, deliberate, barely there. and yet, the response is immediate. his hand closes around yours—not urgent, not possessive, but solid. real.

his grip does not falter.

the weight of it lingers, the warmth of his palm against yours, the simple, uncomplicated act of holding you here with him.

you let the silence stretch, comfortable, familiar. then—

"i don't want the rest of them," damian murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. "i want you."

and in the quiet hush of the museum, you squeeze his hand in return.

𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒆 𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 – "𝑨 𝑫𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑮𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑰𝒏 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒆."

⇝ Date Night Headcanons:

steph is all about fun. if your date doesn’t include something spontaneous, something ridiculous, something that will absolutely make you laugh until you cry=then what’s the point?

she loves arcade nights. not just casual arcade nights - fierce, competitive, ‘we are not leaving until i beat you at skee-ball’ arcade nights.

most of your dates involve food. late-night waffle houses, gas station snack runs, making a complete mess of her kitchen at 3 am because she swears she can make pancakes better than you.

she gets you into trouble on purpose. climbing fences to sneak onto rooftops for a better view, making you run from security after getting caught somewhere you shouldn’t be - it’s all part of the fun.

steph is an absolute menace when it comes to dares. if you say “you won’t do it,” she’s already doing it. and if she gets in trouble? she’s dragging you down with her.

she is outrageously flirty when she wants to be. she’ll wink, bite her lip, lean in like she’s going to kiss you - and then steal your fries instead.

at the end of every date, she looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her. because, in her eyes, you are.

it wasn’t supposed to end like this.

your date had started with waffles and milkshakes at a 24-hour diner. then, a casual late-night stroll through gotham’s quieter streets—until steph spotted a ‘do not enter’ sign on a construction site and immediately decided to ignore it.

which is why, twenty minutes later, the two of you are standing on the unfinished beams of what will eventually be gotham’s newest skyscraper, looking out at the city like you own it.

steph’s grin is wide, wild, her blonde ponytail swaying in the night breeze as she spreads her arms out. "see? best view in gotham. you just have to break a few rules to get it."

you shake your head, but you’re smiling. "one day, this is going to get us arrested."

she smirks, stepping closer, arms looping around your waist. "yeah, but imagine the mugshots. we’d look hot."

before you can respond, the blaring wail of a security alarm cuts through the night.

you both freeze. steph’s head whips toward the source of the noise, then back to you, eyes wide, lips twitching like she’s trying not to laugh.

"we should run, right?"

you don’t have time to answer—because she’s already grabbing your hand and pulling you along with her, laughing breathlessly as the two of you take off across the beams, adrenaline singing in your veins.

and somehow, despite the chaos, despite the fact that this is absolutely a terrible idea—

you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

𝑩𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆 – "𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒅𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒇-𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔."

⇝ Date Night Headcanons:

bruce isn’t extravagant just to show off. if he goes all out for a date, it’s not because he wants to impress you - it’s because he genuinely wants to give you something special, something worthy of you.

privacy is everything to him. whether it’s a reserved table at a restaurant, a late-night rooftop dinner at wayne tower, or a weekend getaway to a secluded house outside the city, bruce values moments where it’s just you and him.

he is observant to a fault. if you mention wanting to try a certain food? he makes sure it’s on the menu. if you casually mention a book you love? he gets a first edition. if he knows you’ve been stressed? the entire date is built around giving you relief.

he does not rush time with you. bruce is constantly on a tight schedule, always balancing his responsibilities - but when he’s with you? the world can wait.

he loves jazz lounges, candlelit dinners, slow-dancing in empty rooms. it’s the quiet elegance of old-fashioned romance that makes him feel like a man, not a myth.

he doesn’t say “i love you” often, but when he does, it’s a moment that stays with you. low, quiet, something meant only for you to hear. something true.

at the end of the night, he always walks you to your door. even if you live in the manor. even if he’s coming inside with you. it’s an old habit - one that reminds him that he has something worth coming home to.

the city stretches far below, a blanket of flickering lights and restless motion, but up here, the world is quiet.

bruce sits across from you at an open-air rooftop restaurant, the exclusive kind that no one steps into unless their name carries weight. tonight, yours does.

the table is lit with the glow of a single candle, silverware catching the light, the soft hum of live music drifting through the space. but none of it holds your attention the way he does.

bruce wayne, in an all-black suit, the top button undone, his gaze fixed solely on you.

his hand rests near his glass, fingers curled loosely against the stem, but you know the posture—always controlled, always measured, even when he relaxes.

"you’re quiet tonight," you murmur, studying him over the rim of your glass.

bruce’s lips twitch slightly. not quite a smile, but close. "i’m enjoying myself."

the response is simple, but it holds so much more.

you tilt your head, watching the way the candlelight flickers against the sharp planes of his face. "you know, you didn’t have to go all out like this."

bruce exhales, slow and deliberate, before reaching for your hand across the table. his fingers are warm when they lace through yours, his grip solid, unwavering.

"i don’t do half-measures," he says, voice low, meant only for you. "not with this. not with you."

your chest tightens, warmth unfurling slow and deep. this is how bruce loves. without hesitation, without reservation.

with everything he has.

and as the city hums below, as the night stretches on, he makes sure you know it.

[w1w2]

Over the Handlebars

Jennie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 6k

Synopsis: Y/N has always been the type to fall hard and fast, diving headfirst into love without hesitation. Jennie, on the other hand, is more guarded, careful, precise, the kind of person who weighs every decision.

JENNIE - Handlebars (Feat. DUA LIPA) "Why is it love is never kind to me? I heard that fools rush in and, yeah, that's me"

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The bass thrummed against Y/N’s skin, the kind of deep, pulsing rhythm that settled in her bones and made her feel weightless. The club was alive with energy, flashing neon lights casting streaks of pink and blue across the sea of moving bodies, the scent of liquor and expensive perfume mixing in the humid air. Laughter and conversations blended into a messy, intoxicating symphony, but none of it mattered.

She wasn’t drunk, not completely, but there was a pleasant buzz in her veins, turning everything sharper, more vivid. Every sound, every color.

And especially her.

Jennie Kim stood near the bar, effortlessly composed in a way that made her seem untouchable. While the rest of the world blurred and swayed under the weight of music and alcohol, Jennie remained still, a contrast so striking it made Y/N’s chest tighten. Dark, silky hair framed her face perfectly, her lips painted a deep shade of red that was almost too inviting. A half-empty glass of champagne dangled loosely between her fingers, the golden liquid catching the light as she lazily swirled it. She wasn’t trying to stand out, but somehow, in a room full of chaos, she was the only thing Y/N could focus on.

Their eyes met, and something flickered in Jennie’s gaze. Curiosity, amusement. An unspoken challenge.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She never did.

She weaved her way through the crowd, her heart thrumming in time with the bass, every step fueled by adrenaline and that reckless, insatiable pull toward the girl who looked like trouble wrapped in silk.

Jennie watched her approach, one perfectly shaped brow arching slightly, her expression unreadable yet completely consuming.

“Are you always this mysterious,” Y/N drawled as she reached Jennie’s side, her fingers grazing the edge of the bar. “Or is it just for show?”

Jennie’s lips quirked upward, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Up close, she smelled like vanilla and something expensive, something dangerously alluring. Y/N leaned in, her lips curling into a smirk. “Oh, I’m an open book, baby. You just have to turn the right page.”

Jennie hummed, lifting her glass to her lips. She took a slow, deliberate sip, her dark eyes never leaving Y/N’s. “And what page are we on now?”

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to think. “Somewhere between curious glances and flirtatious banter.” She lowered her voice, just enough to make Jennie lean in slightly. “But I think we can skip ahead.”

The tension between them was electric, crackling like static in the air.

Jennie studied her, like she was weighing the consequences, like she was trying to decide if she should let herself fall.

Y/N didn’t wait for permission.

She moved forward, closing the space between them in one fluid motion, her lips capturing Jennie’s before she had time to think.

The kiss tasted like champagne and recklessness, like bad decisions and the kind of adrenaline Y/N never knew how to resist.

Jennie froze for a split second. Y/N felt it. The hesitation, the war happening behind those dark eyes. But then Jennie exhaled softly, and her lips parted just enough for Y/N to take it as an invitation.

Jennie kissed her back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was heat and tension and all the things left unsaid.

Jennie’s fingers brushed against Y/N’s wrist, featherlight, but the touch sent a sharp jolt through her body. She deepened the kiss, just for a moment, just enough to taste the way Y/N sighed into her mouth, before pulling away.

By the time they separated, Y/N’s heart was a riot in her chest. Jennie’s eyes were darker now, unreadable, her breath just a little unsteady.

“Impulsive,” Jennie murmured, her voice like velvet.

Y/N smirked, licking her lips. “You liked it.”

Jennie didn’t deny it. But she didn’t confirm it either. Instead, she took another sip of champagne, gaze never leaving Y/N’s.

For the first time that night, Jennie looked a little bit undone.

Y/N leaned in, close enough that their noses almost brushed. “Come dance with me.” It wasn’t a question.

Jennie hesitated for a fraction of a second. Y/N thought she might say no.

But then Jennie placed her glass down, and without another word, she reached for Y/N’s hand.

Her fingers were warm, steady. Dangerous.

Y/N felt it instantly, that rush, that unmistakable pull in her chest. It wasn’t just about the way Jennie’s hand fit into hers or the way the air around them seemed to hum with something electric. It was the way Jennie looked at her then, eyes dark and unreadable, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew exactly what Y/N was about to do.

And just like that, Y/N knew.

She was already falling.

Falling the way she always did, fast, without hesitation, without caution.

Because Y/N loved the feeling of free-falling.

The rush of it, the thrill, the way the world blurred around her when she let go and let gravity take control. It didn’t scare her, to lose herself in something reckless, something consuming. It made her feel alive.

She was the type to run headfirst into things, to dive in without checking how deep the water was. And Jennie? Jennie was like an ocean. Beautiful, vast, and completely unpredictable.

And Y/N had never been good at resisting the pull of the tide.

Their nights blurred into something hazy and golden, a collection of stolen kisses under city lights and whispered secrets between tangled sheets. It wasn’t just about the physical, the way Jennie’s lips felt against hers, the warmth of her hands on Y/N’s skin, it was everything in between. The way Jennie looked at her when she thought Y/N wasn’t watching, the way her laughter melted into the air when Y/N said something ridiculous, the way she always pulled Y/N closer when she thought she might slip away.

Like now.

They were driving with the windows down, the wind whipping through Y/N’s hair as the car sped down empty streets. The city stretched out around them, glowing in the soft haze of midnight neon. Streetlights flickered as they passed, casting moving shadows across Jennie’s face.

It had rained earlier, just enough to leave the scent of it lingering in the air, fresh and clean, mixing with the faint traces of Jennie’s vanilla perfume.

Y/N turned her head, taking Jennie in.

She wasn’t doing anything particularly remarkable, just driving, fingers wrapped loosely around the steering wheel, her other hand resting lazily on the gear shift. But there was something about her in this moment, the way the light caught in her dark eyes, the easy way she moved, the quiet focus she always had when she was lost in thought.

She was mesmerizing. And she didn’t even realize it.

"You look good like this," Y/N murmured, voice lazy from the warmth of the night and the way Jennie made everything feel infinite.

Jennie’s lips curled at the edges, a barely-there smile, but she kept her gaze on the road. "Like what?"

"Like you belong here," Y/N said, softer than she meant for it to be. "With me."

Jennie didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she reached over, fingers ghosting over Y/N’s thigh before settling there, warm and grounding. The touch was light, barely there, but enough.

Y/N’s breath caught, just a little. She swore Jennie could feel it, could sense the way her heartbeat stumbled under her palm.

"Where are we going?" Y/N asked, her voice quieter now.

Jennie finally glanced at her, just for a moment. And in that moment, she looked almost reckless, like she was on the verge of throwing caution to the wind.

"I don’t know," Jennie admitted. "I just like driving with you."

Something about the way she said it made Y/N’s chest tighten.

There was a tenderness to it, a raw honesty that Jennie didn’t usually give away so easily. Y/N let the words settle between them, turning them over in her mind, wondering if Jennie even realized what they meant.

She smiled, tilting her head back against the seat, letting the cool night air kiss her face. "You make everything feel different," she said after a beat.

Jennie hummed, fingers tracing slow circles against Y/N’s skin. "Different how?"

"Like..." Y/N hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Real."

It was true. Everything about this, about Jennie, felt real in a way nothing else ever had. It was intoxicating. Terrifying.

Jennie didn’t respond, but Y/N felt the way her fingers twitched slightly against her thigh, the way her grip tightened just for a second before relaxing again.

And that was the thing about Jennie.

She was here, right now, driving through the city with Y/N at her side, touching her like she never wanted to let go.

But there was always something else, something lingering behind her eyes, something that made Y/N wonder if she was holding on just tight enough to keep Y/N close, but not tight enough to stay.

The thought should have scared Y/N.

But instead, she leaned into the feeling, let herself drown in the warmth of the moment, in the way Jennie’s thumb brushed against her skin absentmindedly.

Maybe she was falling too fast.

But for now, she didn’t care.

They spent nights like this, chasing time as if they could outrun reality.

There was something about being with Jennie that made everything feel like a dream, like the world outside of them didn’t exist. Maybe that’s why Y/N kept falling, faster and faster, clinging to every stolen second like it might slip through her fingers.

They danced in dimly lit rooms, music thrumming beneath their feet, bodies pressed together in ways that blurred the line between comfort and desire. Jennie’s laughter against Y/N’s ear was a melody all on its own, low and breathless, the kind that made Y/N’s stomach flip.

Some nights, they stayed out too late, drinking expensive wine that left them giddy and warm, fingers intertwined beneath tables in candle-lit corners. Other nights, they didn’t bother with the world at all, wrapped in sheets and whispered confessions, tangled limbs and soft sighs.

Jennie tasted like late-night wine and stolen moments, like something Y/N wanted to keep forever.

And for a while, Y/N let herself believe she could.

But there was always something, something just beneath the surface. A hesitation in the way Jennie kissed her sometimes, like she was holding back, like she was afraid to let herself want too much.

The first time Y/N noticed it, she brushed it off.

The way Jennie would pull away first, even when Y/N wanted more. The way her fingers would hover for a second too long before touching Y/N, like she was caught between staying and running.

It was small, barely noticeable.

But Y/N felt it.

And once she noticed it, she couldn’t stop noticing it.

Like the way Jennie went quiet whenever Y/N whispered, “I think about you all the time.” The way she would smile, but never say it back.

Or the way Jennie’s fingers would tighten in Y/N’s grip when they walked side by side, but she never held on too tightly, as if she needed to be able to let go.

Y/N ignored it. At first.

Because maybe, if she pretended not to see the cracks forming beneath the surface, they wouldn’t be real. Maybe, if she kissed Jennie hard enough, held her close enough, she could fix whatever was keeping Jennie from falling all the way.

Because love, for Y/N, had never been something she could do in half-measures.

And Jennie? Jennie had never been the kind of person to crash.

One night, they lay in bed, the city humming outside the window. The air was thick with the scent of rain and something unmistakably them, faint traces of perfume on Jennie’s skin, the lingering warmth of wine on Y/N’s breath, the shared heat between them beneath the sheets.

Jennie’s fingers traced lazy circles over Y/N’s hip, her touch featherlight, absentminded. It was the kind of touch that made Y/N feel cherished, but also the kind that made her wonder if Jennie was afraid of holding on too tight.

Y/N closed her eyes, pressing a soft kiss to Jennie’s collarbone, letting herself sink into the quiet of the moment. But there was something restless in her chest, a question she couldn’t quite shake.

"Tell me something real," Y/N murmured, her lips barely brushing against Jennie’s skin.

Jennie’s fingers paused.

The silence stretched between them, just long enough for Y/N to wonder if Jennie had heard her or if she was choosing not to answer.

Then, finally, a whisper.

"I hate goodbyes."

It was so quiet Y/N almost didn’t catch it, but when she did, something in her chest tightened.

She lifted her head, blinking sleepily. "What do you mean?"

Jennie didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned her gaze toward the ceiling, her dark eyes distant, unreadable.

Y/N watched the way Jennie’s chest rose and fell, slow, measured, as if she were weighing the words before she let them slip.

"I don’t like things that don’t last," Jennie said finally, her voice steady but soft. "That’s why I don’t…" She stopped abruptly, exhaling sharply, as if catching herself before saying too much. "Never mind."

Y/N frowned. Propping herself up on her elbow, she studied Jennie’s face, searching for something, anything, that might tell her what Jennie was too afraid to say.

"That’s why you don’t what?" she pressed gently.

Jennie sighed, shifting slightly beneath the sheets. Her fingers resumed their soft, absentminded tracing along Y/N’s arm, like she needed something to keep her grounded.

"That’s why I don’t let myself fall too easily."

The words were a whisper, but they struck something deep in Y/N’s chest.

Because she knew.

She knew Jennie felt something, something big, something dangerous. She knew it in the way Jennie looked at her when she thought Y/N wasn’t watching. In the way she lingered just a second longer after every kiss. In the way she reached for Y/N’s hand but never quite held it as tightly as Y/N wished she would.

It was there. Real.

But Jennie was still holding back.

Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

"But you have fallen," she whispered, her fingers tracing over the delicate skin of Jennie’s wrist. "Haven’t you?"

Jennie’s breath hitched.

For a moment, just a moment, Y/N thought she might finally get the answer she was waiting for.

The one that would make everything feel safe. Certain.

But Jennie only closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the pillow.

"Go to sleep, Y/N," she murmured.

Y/N should have pushed. Should have made her say the words, should have asked why Jennie was so scared of something that already had them both in its grasp.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she curled closer, pressing her forehead against Jennie’s shoulder, trying to pretend that Jennie’s silence didn’t say everything she already knew.

That night, she dreamt of falling.

And when she woke up, she wasn’t sure Jennie would be there to catch her.

The beginning of the end wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t screaming or slamming doors. There were no shattered glasses, no accusations hurled like weapons.

It was quiet. Soft in a way that made it worse, like the slow unraveling of a thread, like an ember burning out in the palm of her hand.

Like drowning in an ocean so gently, she hadn’t realized she was sinking until it was too late.

And it started at a party.

A rooftop stretched high above the city, the air thick with summer heat and the faint scent of rain lingering from earlier in the evening. Golden fairy lights were strung overhead, flickering against the inky sky, casting warm halos against the glasses in people’s hands. Music hummed low beneath the chatter, background noise, almost distant, like a heartbeat fading away.

Y/N had been standing at the edge of the crowd, Jennie beside her, the two of them tucked away from the center of attention but never fully unnoticed.

Jennie looked stunning, in that effortless way she always did, dark hair cascading in soft waves, red lips curled in a knowing, unreadable smile. She wasn’t even trying, but Y/N couldn’t stop looking at her. Couldn’t stop reaching for her.

Fingers brushing. A touch against the small of her back. Their laughter tangling in the thick air between them, warm and easy.

Y/N had felt light that night. Weightless in the way you feel when you know someone is yours.

She could still taste the remnants of wine on her tongue, could still feel the ghost of Jennie’s lips against her cheek from earlier, just a whisper of a kiss, fleeting but felt.

She had been happy.

And then it happened.

A casual conversation, the kind you don’t expect to change anything, the kind that should’ve been nothing more than passing words.

But sometimes, words were enough to ruin everything.

"So, are you two together?"

The question had been lighthearted, teasing. The kind of thing people asked when they already knew the answer.

Y/N had smiled without hesitation, already feeling the response settle into her bones, already hearing Jennie’s voice in her head, saying, Yeah, she’s mine. We’re together.

But Jennie hesitated.

It was barely a second. But Y/N felt it.

Like a shift in gravity, like the ground slipping out from under her feet.

Then, Jennie laughed, smooth, effortless, but the answer came too late.

"We’re just… having fun."

Just. Having. Fun.

The words lodged in Y/N’s chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving.

She didn’t know what hurt more, that Jennie had said it, or that she hadn’t even looked at Y/N when she did.

Her stomach twisted. She forced out a small laugh, nodding along, pretending like it didn’t feel like the floor had disappeared beneath her.

Jennie must have noticed something in the way Y/N tensed beside her, but she didn’t say anything. Just kept sipping her drink, like nothing had changed.

But for Y/N, everything had.

The rest of the night passed in a blur.

Laughter, conversation, the steady hum of music, none of it registered. The fairy lights were too bright, the room too loud, the air too thick, pressing against her chest.

Jennie stayed by her side, fingers grazing hers, lips brushing the shell of her ear when she whispered something Y/N didn’t quite catch. But it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered after those words.

"We’re just having fun."

The words replayed in her head, over and over, like a cruel joke.

Maybe she had been stupid, maybe she had assumed too much, maybe, somewhere deep down, she had known all along.

Because Jennie had never given her the words she wanted. Had never said them first. Had never held on as tightly as Y/N had.

She had felt it.

She had known.

And still, she had let herself fall.

Later, when the party had faded into nothing but a lingering scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke clinging to her clothes, when the city was quieter, emptier, Y/N sat on Jennie’s bed, watching the other girl move around the room.

Jennie was quiet, her back to Y/N as she undid the clasp of her necklace, letting it fall onto the nightstand with a faint clink.

The air between them felt fragile, like one wrong move would shatter it completely.

Jennie must have felt it too, because she turned, stepping closer, reaching for Y/N’s hand.

"Hey," Jennie murmured, voice softer now, thumb tracing circles against Y/N’s skin. "Are you okay?"

Y/N let out a small laugh, but it was hollow. Empty.

"Am I okay?"

Jennie frowned, brows knitting together in concern. "Y/N…"

"We’re just having fun."

The words came out quieter than Y/N expected, but they still carried weight. She lifted her gaze, searching Jennie’s face, trying to see something, anything, that would tell her that Jennie hadn’t meant it.

That maybe, just maybe, it had been a lie.

But Jennie’s face was unreadable, and that hurt the most.

"That’s what this is to you?" Y/N whispered.

Jennie exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "You’re twisting my words."

Y/N’s jaw clenched. "No, I’m hearing your words. For the first time, maybe."

Jennie’s gaze flickered away.

Y/N felt something sharp dig into her ribs. That same feeling, that same hesitation that had been there all along, lingering in Jennie’s kisses, in her touches, in the way she always almost held on.

She had ignored it before. Had convinced herself it wasn’t real.

But it was.

"Do you even love me?"

The question escaped before she could stop it.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jennie’s breath hitched.

And for a moment, just a moment, Y/N swore she saw it. The answer, trembling behind Jennie’s lips.

But Jennie didn’t say it. Didn’t move. Didn’t fight.

And suddenly, Y/N knew.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She shook her head, standing, grabbing her jacket.

"Wait,"

"No." Y/N turned, her voice breaking. "I can’t do this anymore."

Jennie’s brows furrowed, something desperate flickering in her gaze. "Y/N, please,"

"Please what?" Y/N’s voice cracked. "Please stay and pretend like this is enough for me? Like I can just be someone you kiss in the dark, someone you almost love?"

Jennie sucked in a breath, but she still didn’t say the words Y/N needed to hear.

And Y/N? She was so tired of waiting.

She stepped back, the distance between them stretching wider than the room itself.

"I’ve been falling for you since the moment I met you." Her voice was quieter now, exhausted. Defeated. "And you’ve been standing still."

Jennie flinched.

But she still didn’t move.

She didn’t reach for her, didn’t close the distance between them, didn’t even try to fix what was already unraveling between her fingers. She just stood there, silent and still, like a statue carved from hesitation and fear. And Y/N could feel her heart breaking in real time, cracking open under the weight of all the words Jennie refused to say.

She took a slow, shaky breath, blinking hard against the sting behind her eyes, and turned toward the door. Her footsteps felt heavy, like her body was protesting, like some desperate part of her still wanted to stay, to wait just a little longer, to hope.

But hope had never been kind to fools like her.

Behind her, Jennie inhaled sharply, the kind of breath that sounded like the beginning of a confession or maybe a plea, but Y/N had learned better than to hold on to things that never came.

So she waited.

One last time.

She waited for Jennie to stop her, to reach for her, to fight for something, anything.

She wanted to hear her name spoken like it mattered. She wanted Jennie to say stay, to give her a reason not to walk away, to choose her in the way Y/N had always, always chosen Jennie.

But the silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until it became the only answer she would ever get.

Jennie hesitated.

And in that hesitation, Y/N slipped through her fingers, one step, then another, until the door clicked shut behind her.

She didn’t look back.

And Jennie let her go.

The first few days passed in a blur.

Y/N had always thought heartbreak would feel like something sharp, something immediate, like ripping off a bandage or stepping on shattered glass. But this… this was different.

It was slow, creeping, the kind of pain that settled into the spaces between her ribs and refused to leave.

She went through the motions of living, pretending she was fine, pretending she wasn’t waiting for something. A knock at the door, a name flashing across her screen, a reason to turn around and fix what had been broken between them.

But there was nothing.

Only silence.

The city hadn’t changed.

It still pulsed with life, still hummed with the same restless energy that had once made Y/N feel alive. The streets still buzzed with movement, neon lights flickering against the wet pavement, a kaleidoscope of colors stretching into the night. Taxis honked, music spilled from open windows, laughter drifted from bars where people gathered, unaware that the world, her world, felt unbearably still.

Everything looked the same.

But somehow, nothing felt the same.

Everywhere she turned, there was a ghost of something she wasn’t ready to face.

The small café on the corner, the one with the lopsided chairs and terrible coffee, she used to love it, used to claim it was so bad it was good. That was where Jennie had first reached across the table, absentmindedly tracing lazy patterns against Y/N’s wrist while talking about nothing and everything. She had done it so often that Y/N had started expecting it, had started needing it, the warmth of Jennie’s fingertips on her skin, the unspoken comfort of it.

Now, she couldn’t bring herself to go back.

Then there was the bookstore by the subway, the one that always smelled like old paper and fresh rain, where the aisles were too narrow and the owner always played soft jazz from an old record player. That was where Jennie had once pulled her between the shelves, away from prying eyes, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Y/N’s jaw before murmuring, “Shhh, we’re gonna get caught.” Y/N had laughed, breathless, pushing at Jennie’s shoulder even as she tilted her head to give her better access.

They never did get caught.

Now, Y/N couldn’t step onto that platform without hearing the echo of Jennie’s laughter, without feeling the ghost of her lips brushing against her skin.

Even her own apartment felt wrong.

The sheets had been washed, twice, maybe three times, but they still carried traces of Jennie’s perfume, that soft, expensive scent that clung to the air like a whisper. Her presence lingered in every room, in the half-empty bottle of wine on the counter from the last night Jennie had stayed over, in the sweatshirt she had borrowed and forgotten to take back.

Y/N had thought about throwing it away, about erasing every last remnant of her.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

And maybe that was the worst part, because the memories weren’t bad.

They weren’t sharp-edged or painful, weren’t laced with regret or anger. They were warm, golden, flashes of happiness that should have been comforting.

But instead, they felt like tiny betrayals.

How could something that had once felt so safe now feel so distant?

How could Jennie have loved her in every way except the one that mattered most?

Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing her fingertips to her temple, willing the ache away.

She should stop thinking about her. She should let it go. She should move on.

But her heart was still somewhere else.

Still standing in that room, waiting for Jennie to say something. Still hoping.

And god, wasn’t that the cruelest part of it all?

Jennie hadn’t slept much. Not since that night.

Not since she had watched Y/N walk away without looking back, disappearing through the door like she had never been there at all.

The hours blurred together, long and sleepless, stretching endlessly between dusk and dawn. Night after night, Jennie lay awake, staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible shapes against the sheets that still smelled like Y/N. It was a cruel trick of the senses, the way scent could linger long after someone was gone. No matter how many times she buried her face into her pillow, no matter how many times she told herself to forget, it was always there.

She told herself this was for the best. That it had always been inevitable. That Y/N was better off without someone who hesitated when it mattered most.

But the lie unraveled at the edges, thin and fragile, unable to hold under the weight of her thoughts.

Because Jennie couldn’t stop thinking.

Couldn’t stop replaying the moment Y/N had stood in front of her, eyes searching, heart wide open, waiting for Jennie to meet her halfway. Couldn’t stop hearing the way her voice had cracked, the way her breath had hitched just before she had stepped back, just before she had given up.

Please, just say something.

She had said nothing. She had let her go.

Jennie had never been good at falling.

Not the way Y/N was.

Y/N had always loved like it was second nature, like she didn’t know how to hold back. She threw herself into things completely, fearlessly, unafraid of the impact waiting at the bottom. Jennie had always admired that about her, had envied it, even.

But she couldn’t match it.

She had spent so much time guarding herself, convincing herself that love like that, love so reckless, so all-consuming, was dangerous. That it was safer to keep her distance, safer to stand on the edge rather than risk the fall.

But now? Now, she was paying the price for it.

The apartment was too quiet.

She still reached for Y/N in the middle of the night, only to be met with nothing but cold sheets. She still expected to hear her voice in the kitchen in the morning, still thought she’d turn a corner and find Y/N standing there, wrapped in one of Jennie’s hoodies, flashing her that easy, radiant smile.

But the space beside her remained empty. The apartment stayed silent. The walls no longer echoed with laughter, only the weight of everything Jennie hadn’t said.

And maybe Y/N was never coming back.

Jennie clenched her jaw, running a hand through her hair, frustration curling tight in her chest.

She had thought about calling. About texting. About something.

She had picked up her phone a hundred times, fingers hovering over the screen, trying to find the right words.

“I’m sorry.” “Come back.” “I should have said it when you needed me to.”

But none of it felt like enough.

Because what did apologies matter when they came too late?

So she did nothing, and the silence stretched, suffocating and endless.

Y/N sat by the window, knees pulled up to her chest, watching the city move without her.

Beyond the glass, the streets pulsed with life, headlights slicing through the darkness, neon signs flickering in a language she no longer felt fluent in. People wandered in and out of bars, laughter spilling into the night, taxi doors slamming shut, conversations buzzing through the air like static. The world was still spinning, untouched by the ache sitting heavy in her chest.

She should be fine by now.

She should be over it.

That’s what everyone kept telling her. That she would wake up one morning and the weight of Jennie would feel a little lighter, that her name wouldn’t taste quite so bitter, that the memories would start fading like ink washed away by time.

But heartbreak had its own timeline, its own cruel way of making you think you were okay, only to hit you like a wave when you least expected it.

And god, did it hit her now.

It crashed over her in the quiet moments, in the spaces Jennie used to fill. It settled into her bones, curled up inside her chest like something waiting to be felt, refusing to be ignored.

The worst part? She didn’t even want to let it go.

Her phone buzzed against the wooden table beside her.

She ignored it at first, assuming it was another well-meaning message from a friend checking in, asking if she wanted to talk about it, if she had been sleeping, eating, breathing properly.

Y/N didn’t have the heart to tell them that breathing wasn’t the problem. It was that every inhale still carried traces of Jennie, and every exhale felt like she was losing her all over again.

But then she felt a shift in the air, an instinct she couldn’t name.

She reached for her phone, fingers curling around it before flipping it over.

And suddenly, she couldn’t breathe at all.

Jennie [2:14 AM]: “Can we talk?”

Y/N’s heart stopped.

The city outside blurred at the edges, the neon lights smearing into streaks of color, the sounds fading into nothing but white noise. Everything else disappeared, because in this moment, it was just her and that message.

She stared at the screen, fingers trembling slightly, waiting, hoping, for more.

But nothing came.

No follow-up. No explanation.

Just those three words, sitting there like a half-finished sentence, like Jennie had almost said something before stopping herself.

And wasn’t that the story of them?

Jennie, almost loving her. Jennie, almost choosing her. Jennie, almost saying the words.

Her breath came in uneven pulls, her chest tight, her thumb hovering over the keyboard as a thousand thoughts collided all at once.

She could respond or she could ignore it. She could call Jennie right now, demand to know what she was trying to say, demand to know why it had taken this long for her to finally reach out.

Part of her wanted to. God, did she want to.

But another part, one that was still nursing the wounds Jennie had left behind, was afraid.

Because what if this was just another hesitation? What if Jennie had typed it out with every intention of fixing what had broken between them, only to realize, at the last second, that she still didn’t know how? What if this wasn’t hope at all? What if it was just another goodbye, disguised as something else?

Y/N swallowed hard, her grip tightening around the phone.

Her mind screamed at her to do something, to make a choice, to stop lingering in this purgatory of almosts.

And then another buzz came.

Jennie [2:26 AM]: “Please.”

Y/N inhaled sharply, the single word settling heavy in her chest.

Jennie had hesitated before.

But maybe this time, she wasn’t pulling away, and for the first time in weeks, Y/N truly didn’t know what to do.

[robin-evry]

Hey can I have twst of yuu mystic flour(from crk) please.

My favourite cookie, I'm so glad I managed to get her by far my favorite support

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🌾🌕

Mystic Flour Cookie is one of the five overarching antagonists of Cookie Run: Kingdom. Mystic Flour Cookie is one of the Five Beast Cookies and wields the power of Apathy, a corrupted side of the Virtue of Volition she once held. She was the original owner of the Soul Jam currently held by Dark Cacao Cookie.

An enigma amongst the students, they rarely interact with students only ace,deuce and grim are by far the only ones that they talk to.

Mystic Flour!Yuu moves with an eerie, almost weightless grace, as if they might dissolve into dust at any moment. They always have their eyes close and the weirdest part they can read and see even tho they are close.

Even without sight, they can sense people’s emotions with eerie accuracy. They often respond to unspoken thoughts as if they had read them from someone’s face.

No one has ever seen them open their eyes. When asked why, they simply respond, “There is nothing worth seeing.” originally the school thought that they were blind but they soon got proven wrong.

Many students describe them as soft spoken and elegant but yet mysterious and detached, preferring not to interact with anyone. People describe them as nihilistic believing everything is futile.

But despite their mindset, they still have deep care over grim, ace and deuce seeing them as family and will protect them from danger. One time a senior was messing with grim and he reported back towards mystic flour!yuu and the next the senior was struck with a deadly unknown illness and was sent home.

As well when they walk a cloud of mist would form out of nowhere and follow them. Not to mention they don't make noise at all when they walk, they did it with deadly silence to the point no one will notice them grim would compare them with a ghost and they will smile a little.

Once whispered, "I see you," to floyd who snuck up on them. They weren’t even facing him, this creeped him out when he returned back towards jade and Azul he felt shaken up which is a rare thing for him to feel, Jade questioned him and Floyd answered that there's something unnatural about mystic flour!yuu.

They can levitate or fly, this is usually shown when they meditate on the rooftop. In this state they cannot be bothered clouds would appear and gather around them.

The student population heard about mystic flour!yuu ability to grant wishes thru grim, and when they demand it from them mystic flour!yuu would just stare at them creeping the students out.

During the scarabia chapter, they put themselves into a cocoon made out of silk, during this period of time the ghost on ramshackle would avoid the room that held their cocoon for unknown reason grim ask why and the ghost seems to prefer avoid the question out of fear, grim would nonchalantly went in and talk to their cocoon as if they are there. If someone sneaks into their room, it always feels slightly colder than the rest of the dorm. Not unpleasant, just different.

Crowley is afraid of them, willing to obey and avoid their presence all together because he once caught a glimpse of their eyes and immediately was traumatized.

Many believe that they were not human, that maybe they were a ghost or something more terrifying and when asked about this they always answer "why does it matter" and return back into business.

During an overblot they will just simply observe but if grim was in danger the area would form cloud like mist that is hard to see through and sound eerie many students reported when they're in the mist they hear their love ones whispering towards them or screaming.

Jamil would advise kalim not to get close because of the eerie feeling he gets from them, which kalim of course doesn't understand and would try to make contact with them believing both of them find some sort of misunderstanding.

The ghost would avoid them, not to mention professor Vargas is literally terrified of them since they always appear still and move at incredible speed one time he sees them at the corner of the room and when look back they are near him it's not even a second HOW DID THEY MANAGE TO MOVE THAT FAST.

As well when they were watching a horror movie they never once flinch or scream even when theres a jumpscares they always act indifferent.